Half Jack

Cosette

I exhaled slowly, but it didn't stop the ruined beating of my heart, the relentess rage in my veins, the broken glass in my head--rattling and shifting it. I was too far gone already, this was the turning point.

(you uh, wanna go back?

no.

good. cause there's no going back)

I stared into the mirror, listening closely to the footsteps drawing near. My face was stone covered in perspiration, my eyes darkened. My mouth was moving on its own accord, and my hand was reaching for the charcoal-colored eyeliner pencil, one thought pressuring through my skull.

(kill)

The door wasn't closed, and I had no thought of barricading myself in.

The door swung open slow, the mouth of the grim reaper laughing at me.

Who was the mystery man going to be? Why was he here? What did he want? These thoughts hardly crossed my mind, considering the frame of it. I could only grip the eyeliner pencil in my hand, relishing the thought of it peircing someone's eye.

(kill)

A snorting sort of giggling escaped between the cracks in my lips.

(ki-)

I recognized the man in seconds.

"Jay..." I heard myself whisper. I hid my hands behind my back. I didn't find the fact that he was covering half of his face in a bloody t-shirt unnerving. Not even the sneaky way he was standing, the fact that he hadn't just knocked, made me blink twice. Instead, I smiled. He was surprised by that, but then I could see something click in him, and he rushed, grabbing my shoulders.

"You need to go." He spat unexpectedly.

I cocked my head at him. In the old days I might've asked a question, but now I was sinking further into the comfort of a character my father had made.

"Go! Do you understand stupid? People are after you. You're going to get killed!"

"I'm already dead..." I said softly, and then laughed again, "I'm already dead! HA! HAHAHAHAHA!"

He gulped beneath his half mask, and somehow I knew he was running out of time. His brow furrowed as he stared at my face, and then he straightened oddly. And what he said next, I'll admit, did surprise me.

"Yes, you are, aren't you?"

"...You're my friend." I replied simply. It was probably more of a question at the time, because he was my friend and he was supposed to help me, not enable this sickness.

"No, Cosette. Your friends are gone. You have no friends. You can't trust them or anybody else. You have to run."

I knew this, deep down, somewhere. So I nodded. He nodded. My best friend, he understood. I revealed the hands behind my back, and put the eyeliner pencil gently back in the black bag. He stared at it suspiciously for a minute, until the sounds of more feet outside of my door flared up.

"I need your dress."

Then everything moved very fast.

Angel

I shouldn't have stopped by The Tree.

But I demanded Bruce to stop there, I had to "check if she was around."

I knew she wouldn't be, why did I stop?

It didn't matter. I stayed too long.

Cosette

I'd changed. Jay was going through my closet.

"Is there anything you want to take with you? No clothes or anything, that would look off. You'll have to start new somewhere, and you have to take this... bag... with you." He pointed a brown hand over at the make up bag on the bed, next to my dress.

"There's a book on top of the dresser. I want my book. I want it." I said numbly.

(and the knife, get the knife and the "scarf" out of your purse before you go)

Jay picked the book up gently, cradling it in his hands. I don't know how old it was, but I'd had it since I was sixteen. I was now twenty-six.

"I wouldn't dream of keeping this from you. It was his, wasn't it?"

I said nothing, let him hand it over. He picked up the black, tattered bag sitting lopsided against my expensive sheets of egyptian cotton. Jay was different now, very different. He seemed to have much more on his mind, an alterior motive to all he was doing. He wasn't as warm or funny. And he had a special apathy about him now. I could see it in his deep brown eyes as he handed me the bag--my bag--and took up my black dress, looking at it with a tortured brow, feeling the prickles and the sequins between two fingers.

"You have cash?" He spat, putting the dress down and arranging things around my room quickly, making them look more innocent.

"I always carry cash." Something I'd learned young.

He recited his reason for the hurry and the visit like it was his grocery list:

"I had them chase after a different girl. They're setting her up in the living room. The dress will make it convincing. I can get rid of fingerprints and convince the police of the rest. I have ways. ...But you have to leave. Understand?"

"Yes."

It was confusing. I didn't care anymore. Neither did he. He grabbed my shoulder desperately before I turned from my bedroom for the last time,

"Cosette Jean is dead. Do you hear me? She can never come back."

I smiled widely, "I know."

He looked down at the floor, ashamed. His long lashes were masculine but pretty, his eyebrows perfect. He was still taking very good care of his appearance. Me, I was just glad they still looked like eyes--human eyes.

I left, passing two goons in red masks, unzipping a black bag in the middle of my living room. They didn't even look up. I laughed. Once a goon always a goon.

I took the alleyways out of the city. I knew them well, and that was a sad thing. There's no denying I felt a little sad--sad for my mother, who wouldn't have wanted this. Sad for Angel....

I almost stopped there. I was even ready to turn around.

(you have no friends you can't trust anyone you have to run)

One final turn into madness was realizing I was completely and utterly alone. That no one was like me and no one could ever understand me, cure me. Fix the scar upon my face.

Angel

The Tree held me for so long I couldn't tear away, not until Bruce began honking the horn of his expensive car.

"Angel? Angel?" He ran up beside me, touching my bare shoulder and shocking me, making me jump out of my trance.

"We've got to hurry," He looked concerned, "she's probably home, but we have to talk to her. Come on..."

That's right. Cosette was probably home, probably watching a movie. One of those awful movies with blood everywhere, like usual. She was fine, just went through another attack. That's all.

But that assumption was wrong, as assumptions usually are.

Why did I keep quiet? Why did I stop? Why didn't I do enough?

(Because that's how you killed Harvey Two-Face

didn't shut your mouth, couldn't shut your mouth on that DAMN bridge)

"Stop." I said it aloud, frowning. Bruce stopped the car, but didn't seem surprised. We were outside her apartment building now, it wasn't far. He was kind enough to open the front passenger door for me, but I waved him away stubbornly when he offered a hand, pushing him away and rushing for the elevator.

Standing alone in an elevator with a rich man is usually awkward, but when you're worried about whether or not your best friend is cutting her own mouth up, it is usually not a big deal.

The mundane but highly essential ding of the doors sounded and I swept out, down the hall. I almost lost one of my silver sandal shoes in the process of reaching her door. I could hear sirens, even from this high up in the monster of a building. The sound left a bad taste in my mouth. I didn't even bother pounding on her door then, I just opened it, eyes shut desperately with effort--because, in the end, I didn't want to see. I didn't want to know.

Jay

She burst in like a shaft of light, so fast it shocked me, and I barely had enough time to pocket the rag hiding my face. Everything was set up to perfection, my cronies were waiting outside, the dress on the mystery woman had been difficult enough to accomplish but that was alright, it was done now, this show--this charade..

(At what cost Jay, at what cost?)

I stared at Angel then, and broke down, kneeled down, cradling my head in my hands and dropping the cell phone I'd used to call the cops--my cops.

Angel

I was so shocked to see Jay in the living room, I didn't even glance at the floor.

I could hear Bruce behind me, "Angel, don't... move."

But I did move. I had to move. I was so tired of standing still.

It was very rare that we saw Jay cry. I stepped forward to comfort him, hand outstretched and dress trailing carelessly across the floor.

He stammered, pointing at my feet.

It wasn't the image of the woman laying face down on the floor that struck me. It wasn't the strawberry blonde hair, it wasn't her gruesomely mangled face and hands. Her awkwardly positioned legs.

It wasn't even the cold warmth of the blood seeping into one of my sandals, touching my skin. Kissing it, like my mother did the night before she was carted off to the hospital.

It was the way the blood soaked into the small section of my dress--blooming like a sickly flower, spreading like a thick plague. Dripping as the bird did in the snow, all those years ago.

(the birds the blood drip drip DRIP PLINK PLINK PLIIINK

love is watching someone die)

Jay

The scream she emitted was unlike anything sane, anything human. The ultimate abortion of pent up emotion. It was the scream of a dying goddess, and I'm betting it could be heard through the entire building. Maybe the whole city.

Cosette

I heard something like a bird cry out when the car pulled up. A dying bird. I shook my head. It must've been my own mind, seeing and hearing things others could not.

I'd noticed the car's liscense plate. It was almost fate, that this stranger was driving so late. I was grateful when I flagged him down, not caring who he was or whether or not he was dangerous. I was the one with The Joker's old switchblade hidden in her pocket, after all.

I chuckled gleefully when he rolled down the window with a whiiiiir, then I turned serious.

I asked, "Could you take me wherever you're going?"

"Hop in."

I did so.

"Weird, seeing hitchhikers in this city at night." He said softly.

"Ho hum." I sighed, staring at my hands. There was a spot of white face paint above the tiny knuckle of my pinky.

He looked at me strangely, nervously, "You okay with Bloodhaven? It's not much of a better city than this."

I didn't respond.

"This music is pretty loud..." He claimed awkwardly, "Here, I'll change it."

"Not if you want to keep your spleen."

He shut up, and drove.