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06/29/2020 12:54 PM  fin. ( 2018 - 2020 ) i never fell for the existential dread that came with the interim of life, but those last few moments felt like heaven. will it finally come to an end? the incessant running, the journey into the unknown? his knee bounces on the train. on the second. on the connecting flight. it's a wonder, how this may very well be the only instance in which he's felt nervousness. leaving the country had never dawned on him, never truly crossed his mind. he felt too comfortable - until now. what has he to lose, now that he's given up everything? ( mostly everything. . .they didn't think he'd leave high and dry, did they? a few keys had been left behind, one with a broken girl and turquoise staining her nails. another with a brunette detective that had to have a bounty on his head after he'd gone rogue. perhaps one will cherish the belongings within the corresponding storage unit, whilst the other returns them to their rightful owners or sends them off to their final resting place in museums across the country. ) the alternative passports and identification cards weigh him down with the cash and checks that will tide him over well into the indefinite future. a hotel will come first, then a home with a new identity. a final resting place with a shell of a man who's clipped down every last signature curl until the trademark is unrecognizable and for once, he might blend in with the crowd unintentionally. and blend in, he does. there are no looks cast his way when he's taking down his hood, when the worn soles of boots cross an uneven terrain. it is historic, aged. cobblestone and brick depending on the area. the people are quiet and appear to move in routine. the local shops have their doors propped open, glass stained and aged between cracked wood that has been painted over time and time again. men and women chatter inside, giggles and laughter that says everyone within has lived their entire life in this town. no one stares, they only smile when they acknowledge him and continue with their conversation. even the concierge at the motel hardly bat an eye as the local accent left Jameson's tongue. the old man merely wished a "Mr. Hale" to rest well, completed with a brass key to one of their mediocre rooms that nearly broke after being crammed and twisted into the rusted lock. it smells faintly of clean linen, something else aged in the authentic wooden walls. there are rural areas in central England, country side homes and wheat fields seldom with neighbors or noise. the calm reminds him of his childhood on the farm, at least before Claudia brought them into the suburban area of Corpus Christi. there are no echoes of sirens, of fighting four stories down or the buzz of the New York streets when he's left his belongings in the room and stands just at the edge of the field behind the building. the breeze whistles between the tall grass, and he wonders if this is the meaning peace. the spaces between his fingers are empty, tingling when his mind drifts to think of a counterpart and how she might be the only thing left that keeps his life from being complete. it's better this way. now there is no more running, there is no more worry. there is no more wiping of tears when he tells her he has to leave. there is no regret nor debt nor empty promise or need to look over his shoulder. perhaps he should have. "hey, buddy." an american accent. Jameson turns, opens his mouth to speak just as he catches the reflection of the evening sun against drawn metal - and then there is nothing. the locals heard a bang, saw the doves scatter across the sky in response to the noise. they said they hadn't a clue who this man must have been, that he'd lost his life in the town just as soon as he entered. there was no true identification on him. there had been no connection to a missing person. just a John Doe with a single gunshot wound to the head and left bleeding among the bittercress weeds. ( they don't know. they couldn't know that at one point, you considered yourself a king. that you figured if you were going to go, it would be in a blaze of glory. clinging, like a dragon to your gold. ) there was no pain, no hurting. that's the thing with a shot to the brain - you're quick to meet death. they say there is a white light, a flash of images and then you fade into nothingness. but that flush of chemicals and dopamine that expel as you fade feels as though it lasts a lifetime, as though you never truly die. it's something evolutionary, that your brain has created to protect you even in the worst moment of your life - no matter how sorry or anti-climactic. ( and this is better than you deserve, you know. in an alternate universe, you opened your mouth one too many times. you got tough with the wrong guy. the bullet holes varied in location and size, and you were left in a ditch for the buzzards. in that universe, you might not have given away those keys in time. then you truly would be left to die in memory and in life before you even got to say goodbye. at least this way, they don't have to wonder if you will return. there are no children learning your name. they can assume you've died long before the news will ever make its way to them, and it will be as though you ceased to exist. ) fin. 0 Comments

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01/12/2020 06:16 PM  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? 0 Comments

01/11/2020 09:49 PM  Olivia. | NPC. name: Olivia Johnson. age: 26 location: New Orleans, Louisianna. relationship: ex-girlfriend. face claim: Krysten Ritter ( via Jessica Jones. )   * un-medicated, the definition of a Cluster A personality disorder. roughly labeled as Schizotypical, characterized by severe anxiety, paranoid ideation, derealization, and transient psychosis. * taken from her parents and put into the system around ten years old after being found performing a drug run for them when they were too high to move. this happened frequently, and if not performed in what they deemed a timely manner, she would be beaten black and blue in front of her younger siblings. the abandonment and separation of her family has influenced very obsessive and abusive behavior to those close to her, be it her colleagues, friends, or partners. * within a year of foster care, she ran and has lived on the streets ever since. growing up in the heart of NOLA, she quickly learned to survive with the help of pick pockets and con artists until she became one of the very best. after Jameson broke up with her, she's developed her very own gang of thieves - though they wreak a bit more havoc and violence than any other hoard of con artists in the city. * though a few years younger than Jameson, she took him under her wing when he first left home and entered NOLA. the two worked alongside one another and managed to surpass sleeping in abandoned buildings and streets, instead kick starting what became Jameson's current life style: conning every last bastard in the room, and hotel hopping every night.  * as his skills developed, he began to take home more than her. despite their earnings always coming together at the end of the day, the competition angered and threatened her - thus resulting in countless fights and bursts of anger that left hotel rooms trashed and permanent scars along his body. the entirety of their relationship became a piece of furniture thrown at him or her fists flying, and crocodile tears if he ever pushed her off in a desperate attempt to make it stop. * being his first ( and only real ) relationship, he excused the behavior and let it last for just short of four years. their last argument resulted in a knife to his chest, leaving a permanent scar beneath his sternum tattoo. he left immediately after with only the clothes on his back, never to return or speak to her again and of course, led to the incident at the corner store.  * lingering effects - Jameson maintains a straight face when in a confrontation with any man. they can throw a fist in his teeth, hold a gun in his face, anything. but the moment a woman lifts her hand too quickly, he flinches. far too many apologies are given for no reason at all, or he's dodging them entirely the moment they've finished what they sought out to do. he's not had any sort of relationship since nor does he plan to. CANON LAST INTERACTION: earlier this year, when Jameson stepped foot into the city for the first time in nearly five years. an unrecognizable female in her newly established gang offered to buy him a drink, which she drugged per Olivia's request. Jameson woke up in the abandoned church him and Olivia had first slept together in, hands bound with zip ties and surrounded by the entirety of the gang. there were multiple beatings shared by each member, and threats that if he were to ever enter her territory again she would make sure that he wouldn't come out of it alive. PARANORMAL AU LAST INTERACTION: after the DRABBLE where Jameson mistakingly kills Olivia in the canon timeline, bump it back to when he initially leaves NOLA. her spirit attached itself to him and often taunts him, lingers as a voice in the back of his head that can hardly let him sleep at night. this has resulted in an even more recluse personality and multiple suicide attempts that she somehow always gets him out of. 0 Comments

01/07/2020 10:38 PM  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."  0 Comments

12/09/2019 10:39 PM  a deal's a deal. | drabble. (circa 2018 - an introduction of Jameson and Stella.)  New York City: what can he say about it? it's crowded, it's loud - and it's made him two grand richer in only twenty four hours.  Jameson has only been here once before, otherwise trapped on a blondes couch somewhere in Long island. until now, New York held a darkness that he avoided unless it involved his son. there has never been a desire to float in this direction, never been a compulsion to roam the streets until he's wandered into a dive bar in Brooklyn and managed to make friends with the regulars. ( at least until they realize he's left with all of their money. ) "ready ta hand ova' the $250, kid?" taunts an opponent over the pool table, his nod an acknowledgement of the one striped ball remaining opposed to his own four solid's. he has been swindling the crew of three men for at least thirty minutes. convinced them that he has never played a game in his life, that he tends to have awful and rotten luck - but hey, what are the odds of him winning now? put a hundred bucks on it, make me richer kid-  two hundred.  two fifty. deal. "shoot," Jameson breathes as his lips shift to the side, a quick examination from two different ends of the table. "whadya say 'bout $300 if i make it now?" the men rooting for their companion can't hide their laughter. even say, can ya believe this guy? before the opponent is laughing, too. he agrees, says: "give it yer best shot, bud."  you're gunna wish ya hadn't said that, he thinks as he puts on an expression of doubt. puffs out his cheeks on a breath, even leans unsteadily overly the table to line up the shot.  from a bystanders point of view, he might look awkward - uncoordinated - but Jameson has been planning this move from the start. it was a mistake, letting him have the first break. this has all been mapped out in his head. a small crowd has formed, a couple of women and their dates. perhaps more regulars who know his opponents, standing behind them with amused grins. "how 'bout ya buy me a drink, too?" that encourages another round of laughter, as though to say sure kid, and then he's made his move and there is an audible crack! as the cue ball smacks into another, and another, and another, and. . .a final thud! of the fourth solid is potted. "what!"  "you've gatta be f***in' kiddin' me!"  "you cheated!" "beginners luck, i guess." Jameson says cooly as he straightens on the opposite end of the table, tosses a swig of his beer back until there is nothing but the droplets of an empty bottle to hit his tongue. "i ain't givin' him my money!" one of the men says, the others seem to question it as well. Jameson shrugs, swirls around the empty bottle. "deal's a deal - if it makes ya feel any better, give the drink to. . .her-" he gestures vaguely to a bystander, turquoise hair making her a focal point among the lackluster crowd. "an' i'll be waitin' on my money." 0 Comments

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11/06/2019 02:23 PM  prompt ft. ' angel eyes ' PROMPT: " do you have somewhere safe to stay? "  and it's just so typical, isn't it? the way ankles cross and weight shuffles among his feet, how he's nearly stumbling with every step against the pavement.  is it somewhere in Nevada that is supposed to be a vortex of good energy? no, no - that's Arizona. of course it could not be where his feet have taken him. there is no sunshine, the warmth of a positive air. there are only clouds that hang over his head, illuminated with the cracking of thunder and lightning. a deep shade of gray that threatens to pour over him.  but how can he think about that, when whiskey is buzzing in his veins? that, and something else - but he won't admit it out loud. the last six months without the use of any substance ( give or take . . . alcohol doesn't count. " ain't a substance, s'a liquid. ". ) has been incredible, rejuvenating. so shouldn't he celebrate such a momentous occasion? it makes sense, in his head. just one bump to forget the rest, only one more to honor all of the nights he could have partaken, but chose not to.  it can't be that bad, can it? look at how colorful the world around them is. even in the darkness, the glow cast by neon lights saturates the concrete and brick of the alleyways. of the streets. of himself. black leather reflects a shade of pink, of green when the signs alternate through the rainbow and he's only able to focus on the hues of color covering his hands when -- "watch it!" and "dude, what the fuck?" pull him out from a euphoric coma of thoughts. has he run into somebody? oh, two people. both of their drinks spilled on the ground beneath them. Jameson parts his lips to say he's sorry, but can't help but let a snicker pass through crooked teeth when he's lifting his hands in a truce. some of the drinks spilled onto his shirt, drip down leather sleeves and he's not bothered when he's spinning around on his heels. ( if he faces the other way, maybe they'll leave. ) but then he's met with a vague sense of familiarity. ". . .Jameson?" "huh?" rebel, that's what she said her name was? no, no. she did not like that comment. it was Rebelle, though she'd told him to just call her Belle after an excess use of the former.  "what are you. . .doing here?" "ain't doin' shit." easy. ". . .what are you?"  they'd only met once before, perhaps the day prior - or was it earlier tonight? hell, it could have been a week ago, for all he knows. tongue twists between his cheek, an attempt to collect composure. to present himself as sober - or attempt to when she asks: "do you have somewhere safe to stay?" when is the last time somebody asked him that? has anyone ever? fuck, he must look horrendous. his reflection is warped in the gloss of an adjacent window, rippled and stained with age, but he can't miss the bags and how boldly they hang in the sockets of heavy eyes. how the ringlets on top of his head have tangled and knotted into themselves. at least everything looks a bit more flattering when under the glow of a " BAR " sign, right?  "i, uh. . ." the answer is no, i can't even remember where i'm staying or how far i've walked. he knows that it was a shitty hotel room, the bed as stiff as a rock and the ceiling coated in an array of crimson splatters from the junkie before him.  so his head shakes, pads of fingers pressing into his eyes as though he could rub the high away. "no, i don't."  0 Comments

11/06/2019 02:22 PM  prompt ft. ' i'm the wolf- ' PROMPT: " do you ever think about her? " ACTION: cheers.  there's something comforting in making a confidant out of a stranger. they had only met twice before, and how cliche is it that they only share conversations when perched at the darkest corner of a bar? Jameson presumes that the other is not lying when he introduces himself as Allan, but he does not take any risks - tells the other that his name is Michael. that he's wandering through smaller towns through out the country. that he needs to start over, after the death of his child's mother. now, that isn't entirely a lie. when is the last time that he had crossed path's with Gemma? it had to have been a year, at this point. she offered him nothing more than a phone call on fathers day, but their son does not remember him. at least he won't, if they continue on this away. the entirety of their last Christmas together had been spent earning the trust of a three year old who identified Jameson as nothing more than a stranger, of somebody whom he should not trust. ( i'll hand it to ya, Gem. 'least ya taught him not to talk ta'strangers. ) "do you ever think about her?"  perhaps there is no harm, confiding in someone who can not tell what is a lie versus what is your truth. none of it will matter come the morning, when he's skipping this town and onto the next.  what can he say about Gemma? she's one of the coldest women that he's ever met. one of the most irritable, the most self righteous, the most manipulative and cruel - but she helped to create something so beautiful. something so pure, so full of joy and raw happiness that he's never seen in anyone or anything before. so why is it hard to lie about generous feelings toward her? "i try not to," he says simply, tosses back a swig of his beer. the bottle is empty, only gives him a drop or two before it's being pushed across the bar and it's swiftly replaced. a nod of acknowledgement to the bartender. he's picked up on Jameson's habit of getting drunk and leaving a fifty behind. "i think. . .dwelling over it ain't what she would'a wanted." that lingers between the two for a beat. really settles on his tongue before he swallows down the vile taste of a bitter lie. hell, the bile that rises in his throat has brows pinching together, and for a moment he may even look distraught - but then Allan raises his bottle. did the nauseating feeling that came with faux sympathy for her convey what sadness may look like on another man? Jameson does not question this, only presses lips in a line to really sell it, and clinks the neck of their bottles together in a cheers.  0 Comments

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