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the end. | drabble.
this wasn't supposed to happen.
none of this was.
you shouldn't have come here to begin with, don't you know that? that is what Olivia said, wasn't it? among other slurs and curses that were meant to scare you off. . .but had enough time passed for her to forget? for you to simply sneak back into the city, just for a moment?
when one thinks of home, they often think of where their family raised them. the structure and neighborhood in which they scraped their knees and learned how to ride a bike. for Jameson, that place in Texas is dead. it does not hold any relevance to who he is, who he has come to be. that place is like a ghost, a skeleton tucked deep in his closet that will never see the light of day.
New Orleans is where he began, the first place he finally felt some sense of belonging in. the place where he first learned what his niche might be, and how easily he could get away with it.
"a gat damn natural." that's what his mentor had told him, when the boy astonished an entire troupe of criminals by clearing a room of their watches and belongings in under thirty minutes. confirmed when he'd managed to talk his way out of suspicion from the law, from the locals. "ya always did 'ave a silva' tongue, kid." were Virgil's last words after Jameson spewed all of the cliche it'll be okay's and we're gunna find you help's as the man's life force left before him.
it wasn't long after that, when Olivia took over and they found comfort in one another's destruction. now look at where that got them? it has Jameson taking the back roads to travel between bars and begging to avoid another blow to the head or a pill in his drink - all on a whim of feeling homesick and needed a dose of nostalgia, which makes his heart stop all of the same when:
"told'ja to stay outta my town, Parker."
Jameson freezes in place. is this a dream? when he turns, he expects to see her in the distance. a shadow, a figment of his imagination as she has been for the entirety of the last year. . .but she is close. she is close enough that he can make out the wrinkles between her eyebrows when they pinch together, that he can see the twitch in her upper lip as she scowls. something glistens near her hip—a knife.
"Oli—"
"don't fuckin' call me that."
"Olivia, i'm not here to step on business, aight?"
"so what? jus' here 'ta make me miss ya?"
miss him? is that what she does when he is away? is that why she had a random girl drug his drink, zip tie his wrists behind his back, and send a man to kill him? Jameson shakes his head, tells her to put down the knife to which she refuses. so he let's out a slow breath, reaches beneath the band of dark denim for the pistol tucked beneath.
"hah! y'gunna shoot me, Parker? make my brains splatter 'cross the streets?"
his head shakes, the gun drawn and held between them, free hand raised so that it's at the same level as his head when he's squatting to set the weapon onto the ground. when he stands, both hands are turned so that his palms face her. a pleading in his eyes.
"no, Oli. i don't wanna hurt ya, don't want either of us to hurt the other."
"yer a damn liar, Jameson."
"i'm tired of fightin', of being afraid to come back home."
"this ain't your home!" the words echo in the alley, threaten to crack every brick of the buildings surrounding them when she says it. Olivia steps closer, too close. the knife is pointed in his direction when she speaks, but there is at least three feet of distance between them. "that why you were shackin' up with'ah swamp witch? why ya brought some other bitch in my town? ya wanted a fight, Jamie. ya jus' had ta come back an' hurt me!"
a moment like this brings on a strange sense of sadness, a weight that presses on the back of his neck. spreads through his shoulders when he's really looking into her eyes for the first time in nearly five years. ( she really believes this . . . doesn't she? she's sick. that is why she is so persistent on ending you, on being the ruler of your demise. she's really sick. ) so he must believe her, too. if there is any hope for making it out of this confrontation alive.
"i loved you, Oli."
"shut up."
"shouldn't have left without sayin' goodbye, i'm sorry for that but—"
"shut up!"
"it's been so fuckin' long, we've grown. just. . .put the knife down."
"i said SHUT UP!"
the space between them closes, she's lunging for him and the blade skates across his ribs before he's able to dodge her entirely. she's yelling at him, names and curses through blood curdling screams that mimic sobs of a broken heart.
this can't end this way, can it? how long can she keep going? they've pirouetted, aimed for the heart, yelled and screamed, and it takes longer than he'd prefer before he's got her back to his chest and her wrists locked across the other, the handle of the knife slowly taken in his own grasp while he pleads with her to "jus' fuckin' calm down!"
for a moment, there is peace. there is heavy breathing, her hair in his face and sobs racking through her frame as it settles against him. ( frankly, you shouldn't miss this. she ruined you, but there is something nostalgic when she whispers your name. ) Jameson does not let up his guard, but he relaxes, even just for a moment. . .then she's flailing and kicking his knees until the space between them opens and she must not realize that the weapon is in his grasp when she turns to lunge at him again and then—
silence.
not even a scream, only widened eyes staring in to his and the sound of hitched breathing. no, no, no. he knows what has happened before her hand falls between them, almost gentle when it's rising and the blood comes into the light. her blood. when Jameson finally looks down, he's met with the blade submerged entirely into her. only the handle can be seen, the remainder striking her lung and every layer in between.
"Oli. . ." their knees are buckling, giving out, and he's practically falling to the ground when he's attempting to catch her head and she's coughing up a violent noise. "no, no! i'm sorry, i—you—i didn't mean. . .someone fuckin' do something!
the silence is deafening, the absence of people lurking causing him to scream out for help another three times before she's lifting her palm to his shoulder. the blood seeps through his shirt, leaving a crimson stain on his clothing as it pours out from her body. her lips part to speak, but close. a jolt in her breath when she says "ya really got me." and moves her hand to his cheek.
it's so cliche, these endings. when a helpless boy is pleading for medical attention, a woman limp across his lap as she bleeds out and is silent among his screams. her touch spreads rubies along his jaw, his throat. yet it's gentle, reminiscent of the calm that would take over after they've fought and she's fallen asleep. he can't leave here to die alone, he won't.
this wasn't supposed to happen. he was never meant to come back there, now how is he supposed to leave?
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