The Reaper (Eastward Prison)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER

FIVE

JACK

“It’s strange, I feel like I’ve got to know, like it will make me… it is who I am, what I’ve done.”

“Do you?” she countered. She was still wearing her uniform. She’d finished her shift and was now sitting beside him. Fuck knows why or how she was still allowed to work in the prison infirmary with him there, her boyfriend. But he wasn’t going to probe or argue, he loved having her nearby all the time. He felt safe.

“Yes, I want to know what kind of choices I made, what I value, what my interests are, can you see where I’m coming from, why who I was feels important? I...” He reached up to stroke her face. He’d slept into the next day, and woken up to find her there, waiting by his bedside, in the otherwise empty section of the infirmary at Eastward Prison.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “But what you were, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s who you are… you don’t have to just stick to who you were, you know, if you actually fancy changing how things were, you could do that, too, couldn’t you?”

He tilted his head, considering that. “What, like take up squash when I’ve always been a tennis man?” He smiled. He was joking. It did ease some of the tension he saw in her face, the way she held herself, a little stiff, a little uncertain still.

“Yes exactly, or if you always fancied working for a charity, or going to Brazil, or you know, anything, it might not be so important to fall back into who you were, your old life...”

He raised his eyebrows. “Are these things we talked about doing? Did we have grand plans for this year?” He was intrigued. Were they planning on going travelling together? Backpacking like a couple of hippies wasn’t something that had even crossed his mind, he’d assumed they were a normal couple. Living together, both working nine to five jobs... He had a vague feeling that he had been to Brazil anyway.

And he suddenly got the feeling that them being a normal nine to five couple didn’t feel right, somehow. An office job? Something didn’t fit. He flashed a glance down at his hands. Tattoos. He blinked and kept his face unreadable, blank, listening to her. He knew how to keep his face blank, unreadable. Why he knew this was a whole other question. Luckily for him, she was distracted in her own thoughts, looking at his hands, trying to explain something. Fuck it, she was so fucking cute, the questions and the darkness within melted like butter in a hot pan.

Sat so close together, her beside him, her on top of the bedsheets, him underneath, looking at each other, it happened in an instant. A blink of his eye. They moved towards each other, pulled like gravity.

He couldn’t say who moved first. It was both of them, leaning forward, leaning into each other. It was quick, she opened her mouth and found his. He devoured her. She devoured back.

Yes. This was where they would find each other, really, they could talk and talk and he could analyse each smile and laugh and look of hers, but this would be where the battle was to be fought. This was where he’d find her, and where he’d find himself, too.

Somehow, he felt pulled towards her. Yes he was confused, he was aching all over physically and couldn’t remember anything, nothing about himself, or her, except a few snippets that were really quite useless, in terms of the practical facts. Yes, he had a strange sense that he didn’t belong, that all of this around him wasn’t quite right. But he did know he wanted more of her. He wanted more of her company, more of her presence. If he was honest with himself, he wanted her body, he wanted that orgasm that was flickering like a broken video clip behind his eyes on repeat.

And so far, it felt right to him. He wildly let herself hope that yes, this was right. He raised a hand and held her head, his fingers gently in her hair. He felt her hair, stroked it, let it run through his fingers as if he were handling fine arabian silk, as if she belonged to him and they had done this a thousand times before. She pulled him closer with her arm on his shoulder blade. He pulled away for a moment, looked at her, his eyes flicking between her eyes, over her lips.

All this caught him off guard. He couldn’t remember what they had been like together, he had just assumed it would be a normal physical interaction between a boyfriend and a girlfriend, a kiss was a kiss, but he was surprised by what he felt. He closed his eyes and came towards her again, almost wanting to test again if it felt like more than just a kiss. His tongue flicked into her mouth, his lips, caressing hers. Like her mouth was his source of life, he breathed and breathed her in. There was that passion, that heat, yes. His hand in her hair tightened, and she made a little begging noise in her throat.

She was raising the stakes, and he’d match them. His hand fisted up, pulling her hair, pulling her head, it was no longer gentle. He could pull her with that grasp, pull her around, shake her, force himself on her. With that grasp, he could put his hand around her throat. That danger, that strength within him. Yes, there it was, he was aware he was a potentially very dangerous man. That he was different. He wasn’t a nine to five office worker caught up in a mysterious mugging incident. He shifted to pull her closer.

But his battered body said no. He pulled away with a sharp hiss of breath, his other hand came to his ribs, he swore.

“Oh, sorry, did I hurt you?” she said suddenly.

“No, fuck, it wasn’t your fault-”

She shuffled back a bit, giving him more space, more air. He adjusted himself, pulling the blanket up higher, moving his head on the pillow. The shooting pain in his ribs eased, and he could take a breath. She looked dazed, her hair rucked up, her pupils big and black, and looking at him like she would give him the world. She had enjoyed it, he thought cockily, and couldn’t help the half-smirk that spread on his lips.

“Fuck, I hadn’t realised we were that hot for each other,” he said quietly, trying to breathe. “Tell me… can you tell me about what you’ve been up to over the last few days.” He laid back in the bed, he had it in a gently reclined seat position, so he was half upright still. He needed to back the fuck up and slow things down.

He stroked her forehead once, brushing a strand of hair away. She was his little bird, something precious, something surprising and unexpected, to be cherished. He felt her pounding heart calm and she settled into a more comfortable position, as he had.

“Alright, let me tell you,” she said.

He rubbed his hand along his stubble-covered jawline, around the cuts, as she chatted away. Hannah Wells. She was sweet. She was good-looking, blonde shoulder length hair, a cute little face, clever, green eyes. She was slim, wiry almost, a neat little body. He couldn’t believe his luck. His girlfriend, Hannah Wells. He was left scratching his head. He had a sense he didn’t usually do sweet, neat, cute, clever. He couldn’t figure out why though. He had a sense he didn’t usually have any female in his life. It felt foreign. So fucking exciting but so new. A welcome change of track from the cold dark place he had been when he had first come round. She distracted him from thinking about how he was going to run and hide. He didn’t know why he felt that, but he had a strong urge to fight his way out of wherever he was and lay low. To hit and punch and push his way out of this. To use force. Violence. He knew he was capable of it. He felt it simmering just below the surface. But when she was in his room, she took that feeling away. He now wanted to stay and find out more. More about her, more about them. He wanted to watch her talk and hear her laugh. He felt like it wasn’t familiar to him, any of these feelings.

And yet he had meant what he said, when he had apologised, when he had said he was glad she was here, with him. He had felt a rush of it, whatever it was, in his veins. He was thankful that he had her there. He had asked if she was okay, he wanted to imagine her pottering about in a kitchen, cooking herself eggs. He wanted to imagine their kitchen, that they shared together, he wanted to hang onto this thread of warmth and normality and life that she offered him. He had a nagging doubt that he wasn’t meant to take it, it wasn’t for him to grab. But he wanted it, he was going to grab onto her as a lifeline and hang tough.

Despite the nagging sensation he had that she was hiding something from him, for now, she offered him what he needed. He would seize it with both hands.