Ch. 3 Genevieve
Trying to get to sleep that night was like fighting with dinosaurs. Memories of his past kept flitting through his brain as if they were the last moment of his life. He started sweating, but it couldn't be a fever because he often sweat when his nerves started to flare up like this. He went over to the window to let in some air, and an unseasonable cold rushed in, leaving him in shivers. He stood looking out the window for a bit, wondering about whether Clark would really send him to an institution if he thought he was a nutjob. He wondered if Clark already thought he was a nutjob. He leaned against the windowsill and breathed in the fresh night air. Strangely, his mother's perfume wafted in on the breeze. It was the same thing he smelled every time she came in the room, every time she came close to him to tuck him in bed when he was young, every time he talked to her, every time she scolded him for making a mistake, for slipping up and getting noticed.
He decided he should try and get some sleep, but when he turned around, he could not deny the image of his mother standing in the center of his bedroom, as real-looking as if she really were there.
She looked exactly the same as she did when he last saw her, still sick-looking, but better, brighter. Wearied, hollow eyes suspended beneath the scarf on her bald head, which she had called her 'fighting trophy.' But she was standing, and hadn't been able to stand looking so strong like that in a long time, though she still looked like she'd been wandering through the desert starved and dehydrated for a week.
Hello Jameson.
"Mother, is that you?"
Yes honey. But I can't stay for long. I just need to send you a message before I am resigned to my suffering.
At this she waved her arm towards the door, presumably to indicate her imminent departure.
"Suffering? Where? Tell me and I will end it. Is it Clark?"
She looked at him with that same sad expression she used when she knew he wasn't getting it right, or when he expressed frustration at having to play at such an awkward game of pretend.
My life didn't end peacefully, Jameson, and that lack of peace continues into the eternity of my existence. The only thing that can bring comfort in my state is retribution. Balance must be brought to the universe, and the wrong must be set right. And Jameson, you are the only one who can do it. Brett is too weak, he could never stomach it. But you, you have a gift. Use your gift for the benefit of us both.
At this Jameson's heart began to race, and he knew that his dreams were all real, his wishes fulfilled, and his suspicions confirmed.
"What is it? Did Clark kill you?"
Yes.
"How?"
He must have slipped me too much medicine while measuring my doses. The doctor said they got it all, Jameson. I think he never expected me to live.
"I KNEW it. It was all about the money."
I want to say I'm sorry Jameson.
"Sorry for what? You didn't do anything wrong."
I thought I was going to be there for you for longer, to protect you, help you fit in. I thought I could keep you away from the darkness that lives inside of you, but it seems that God has a purpose for it...
He watched her attempt to cry, but it ended in a fit of coughing.
"I have a purpose for it, nevermind God. But what is it you need me to do?"
Kill him.
At that she was gone, as if she'd never been there, and Jameson was left to wonder if he was really capable of taking Clark's life. He wondered if he really could take his revenge.