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prompt ft. ' butterfly effect. '
PROMPT //
" i want to heal. "
"nurse, eh?" "that's right.""''least i got a connect if i'm ever dyin' on somebodies floor."it was a joke, wasn't it? the interaction was never meant to become an unfortunate foreshadowing. ( though, how fortunate for you if she complies. ) her debit card read: Victoria Deschaine. the liquor fed him the rest - fairly new to the Los Angeles area, looking to the law for protection from a former partner( though you can see it in her eyes, she welcomes the dynamic. perhaps even longs for it. ) and even got herself a gun for protection. perhaps the whiskey had been to blame, but you oughta be more careful when you're running away.
it is a new level of desperation when Jameson makes a phone call, has a colleague from the east coast look up her name. they say that he is crazy to have strayed this far, and he does not respond. only takes the information and runs. his presence is left behind in a crimson stain that may never leave the phone booth, will she forgive him for the DNA that bleeds on her door mat just the same? there is no answer, no movement through the window. he does not want to scream, he does not want to draw any more attention to the scene than he already has, but fuck. . .what else can he do? "Vic!" finally leaves, a firmness between his teeth a he attempts to control the volume, to keep from spreading the pain or the blood from the door frame. gatta hand it to ya, LA, didn't think y'all had it in ya. the terrain is foreign to him, mundane. the people all want the same thing. to run from something, or to make a name for them self. they drink and they sing and they drink again and they scoff when their drink is even the slightest bit off from their expectations. who knew they carried knives on 'em? or that they'd have the balls to use them when you've spat an insult through a Texan twang and ruined their date on the train? ( they ran after, though. pussies couldn't even finish the damn job. )"please!" is louder when a shadow moves behind the door, when the sound of the lock turning nearly has him falling to his knees - and when he does fall after it's been opened. Jameson is on all fours, half across the threshold and groaning at the fiery pain that plagues his abdomen. his ribs? had he been kicked once he fell to the ground? it's all a blur after the knife had sunken deep into the pit of his gut. "Jameson. . .? how did you find where i live?"
"tell ya later, can you please—"
"you're bleeding!"
"i know, please help me just—"
"we need to get you to the hospital, now!
"no, no! ya don't understand, i—"
"i'll grab my keys, you need to be—"
this wasn't supposed to happen. he doesn't mean it, when he's retrieved the pistol from the waist of his jeans and pointed it directly at her. even from his knees, he can see the panic that widens her eyes when the mouth of the gun threatens to release. ( it's unloaded. please, i'm begging you to forgive me. )
"we can't go the fuckin' hospital, Vic. i don't wanna be arrested, i wanna heal."
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