Author's notes: Thank you for your reviews, very much appreciated, and for follows and favs. Be warned, lots of Jane pain in this chapter.
Jane blinks away the sweat that's dripping in to his eyes despite his shivering. It stings and he closes them tight trying to clear them. The effort it's taking to fight against the pain in his shoulders, they feel like they're on fire, is causing the sweat and he would love to give in to it, but he doesn't want to add to the pleasure his captor is already deriving from his situation. He opens his eyes to see him sat on his chair staring at him with the same stupid smirk on his face. He's come to hate that smirk. Somehow he manages to make himself talk evenly.
"I know where we met, I just don't understand why you're doing this to me. We didn't talk to one another. I don't even know your name."
Jane barely has time to register it's coming before the burly fist hits him in the face, knocking his head violently back. He's literally seeing stars flashing before his eyes as his head absorbs the power. It takes a full minute before he's able to concentrate on the man before him once more.
"You know exactly who I am. You're a liar! We may not have spoken, but you know who I am. I am the husband of the woman you murdered."
There's not a lot that can shock Jane but this does and without thinking he replies:
"I've never killed a woman in my life."
This time the momentum of the punch knocks his chair over, as it's lifted back up his head is swimming, he can feel blood pouring from his nose. He's aware of the man sitting back down and he manages to open his eyes, there's that smirk once more. The blood is running over his lips, on to his chin and he feels it drop on to his chest. He lifts his head back to try and stem the bleeding. His face hurts, he suspects the second punch also damaged a cheek bone. He's aware of movement and he stomach tightens as he braces himself for more, but it doesn't come and he relaxes when he recognizes the sound of the fridge door opening and closing. It's followed by the sound of a bottle lid hitting the floor, not the first time he's heard it today. The beer may gain him some breathing space but in the long run, he suspects that it's not good news for him. As he hears his captor settle back down in his chair, he sets himself the task of freeing his mind of every pain and discomfort that's assaulting his body and maybe he can figure out why this brute thinks he killed his wife.
He concentrates on his pain, holding it before him, as though it's a sheet taken off his bed. He takes it by the corners and folds one corner to the other, holding part of it with his teeth to keep control, so the fold is neat and accurate. His pain is now half the size. He breathes in slowly, he ignores the gurgling of his blood as some air passes through his nose. As he breathes out, he folds the sheet again, he feels a slight relaxing in his body as his pain's cut in half again. Another deep breath and another fold and he can put it away into a case and throw the case under his trailer. He dusts his hands off and strolls off in the direction of his past that he hoped never to visit again.
He hesitates as he stands before the door, he knows there's no choice and there's no time. His reaches out a trembling hand and turns the knob. A blinding brightness and a soul crushing darkness fight for supremacy in this room. He stands against the wall, staying out of the fray, looking at the images swirling around. Images of Angela, Charlotte, walking and talking while their bodies bear the attacks of Red John's knife. They turns towards him and each points a finger, a look of betrayal on their faces. He looks away quickly towards a man screaming, crying and throwing himself against a padded wall. He knows the man will exhaust himself into an unresponsive stupor. He sees the hated painted face, drawn by his own hand, his own blood.
There is his Saviour, the gentle hand, the firm voice telling him to that it's his choice, he can live again, he can feel again, he can rise above his tragedy. She will help him, guide him along the path, under her guidance he can step out of the padded room. At first he doesn't want to know, he doesn't want to try. He's doesn't deserve it. She comes day after day, touching him, helping him to learn that not everyone hates him, only himself. Helping him find a reason to try, and he does, but he never shares it with her. He starts to eat, to clean himself, to interact.
There's something beyond the padded room, he blinks as he sees other faces, other colours. And there he is, sitting in the chair, as he always was, every morning. Looking out the window, never talking to anyone, never catching anyone's eye.
A burst of pain and a scream dissolves his memory palace, he lurches forward, panting, trying to gain control, he looks at the source of his new pain and finds a nail embedded in his thigh. He looks at his captor, who's leaning forward in his chair, with the nail gun poised for more action, in his hand.
"Do I have your attention Mr. Jane, or do I need to do it again, it'll be my pleasure."
Jane's shaking his head vigorously.
"No, no, you have my attention."
It's taking a mighty effort from Jane to keep his eyes open, looking at his captor, he wants to close his eyes against the pain. It's strange how that helps. He needs to open a dialogue or he's not going to make it out of here.
"What's your name? Arrggghhhh."
Jane's gasping as his captor stands up and grabs him by the hair, pulling his head back, he feels the metal of the gun against his thigh.
"That's the wrong question Mr. Jane, this is not about me. Think carefully you've learnt the price you will pay."
"What…what…was your wife's name?"
His captor smiles.
"That's better Mr. Jane."
He gives a hard tug of Jane's hair before releasing his hold and sitting back down. He leaves the gun in place on Jane's thigh.
"Her name was Angela."
"How did she die? Aaaarrggghhh."
His captor is standing over him once more, Jane's staring at the nails in his thighs, gasping and fighting back tears.
"Look at me Mr. Jane."
Jane raises his head, leaning it back to look at him.
"You know very well how she died. You cut her open, watched her bleed to death and then painted her blood on the wall."
For the second time Jane's shocked but he barely has time to register it as the nail gun's smashed into his face and he's blessed with the peace of oblivion.