Live or Let Die

Jack felt as though someone had taken a spoon and scraped it along the walls of her body, gutting her like a pumkin, leaving her a hollow, thick-skinned shell. Solid and organic, fragile but with nothing to actually harm. That was what gave her the audacity to say the things she said to the immovable force that, as she knew, had a terrible power that no one else had over her. If she really coveted the control she had over herself, she should have not so flippantly fanned it out for Vito to attack.

The blood was still. And so was the nightclub. The last of the fleeing customers tore out of the nightclub, the door swinging shut with a thunk. Jack sat up a little more, looked one way, looked the other. There was no other noise but her heavy breathing. The music was gone. The screams and shouts had faded. It was all silent, but she knew silence did not ensure safety.

Something pierced her soul and her mouth opened, an unearthly gasp-like cry forcing the air out of her mouth, and her heart felt as though fingers wrapped around it. She would surely die from this, for the grip was not gentle, was not kind, had no mercy, merely self-preserving restraint. Her arms sprung from their trapped state and she scrabbled at the table, head tipped up and eyes fully open. Her body bucked once, twice.

Her eyes rolled downwards, understanding that she had to see Vito's message, that her life might depend on her response. She shook her head wildly, telling him she obviously felt it. How could she not feel the blows that would kill her. He said she had forgotten her place.. but his last sentence reminded her... She had power over him. A power she had never understood nor attempted to consciously use.

Hatred and anger fuelled him. Jack closed her eyes- if it didn't work, it would give her hope and reason to survive. She thought of Riley, running around with him when she was young, eating ice cream and pretending to be pirates. She thought of Elliot, taking her on wilderness walks and teaching her about the magical world; she thought of Chip, spoiling her rotten while she stayed at his house; she thought of plunging into the depths of Loch Ness with Andrew and Chase; she thought of being named Champion, of being promoted to Quidditch captain; she thought of being recruited professionally, of owning Weasley's, of being promoted to Head of Department. She thought of letting Ariel approach her and place his lips against hers, and the unfamiliar completely welcome feeling of warmth and sense of belonging that had filled her.

If this was all her life would mean, she could die happy. Because in that moment, she found that unfamiliar, elusive feeling. And she gripped it and held onto it the best she could. It could accompany her to death.

The familiar pull-tug of a change being made to the nature of his existence remained far too fresh in Vito’s mind (a healing wound) for him to have responded to its sudden reappearance with any more controlled a reaction. A core-deep sensation of anxiety and a reluctance to be thrown to the depths of the darkness once more took firm hold of him, rendering him incapable of keeping his own grip tightened around Jack.

Simultaneous to flood of fear that had broken through the dam that was his skull, a confusingly contradictory feeling of joy fluttered throughout him. The abrupt confliction was unbearable; it was as though he had torn himself apart, rather than the bartender who remained in pieces beneath the table like a poorly concealed, dirty little secret. It was this discomfort that fueled Vito’s accusative thoughts, as he searched throughout his knowledge for the catalyst that had elicited said emotions from him. Only Jack had ever been capable of inflicting sensations so mortal in nature upon him. And it seemed fair, had he cared for such a tedious thing as justice, to assume that Jack was once more the force that was driving him further and further in on himself, until once more the black was visible; like a permanent cigarette burn that would forever remain a part of Vito’s being.

Be that the case (that Jack had taken it upon herself to exercise Vito in the heart of his kingdom) why hadn’t she succeeded? What had changed to render what had once been an effective method of ridding the world of the poltergeist? Vito allowed these questions to sink so deeply into his consciousness that he could nearly, physically feel them there – until, alas an epiphany struck him. It had not been Jack whom he had pulled and scratched himself towards when he had returned, but Satan’s. Was it truly possible that he had formed so strong a bond with Satan’s that he could have split that which he’d shared with Jack?

Nay, Jack’s influence had not diminished entirely; their connection remained intact, despite the fact that it had been severely frayed. And what exciting news this was! For, even the drunkards who frequented Satan’s Nightclub were less temperamental than Jack Dylan. They held promise of stability, due to the nature of their habits and addictions, whereas the redheaded female who sat before him had never been particularly skilled at remaining in one state of mind in any other instance than when she pulled that bothersome knapsack over her shoulders every morning. While Jack’s emotions may have continued to creep across the border, she could no longer rid of him. And, perhaps more notably, the injuries which Vito inflicted upon her would never again be a fatal risk to him, despite the pain that they would hold over him. Or so he assumed.

With his recreation, Vito had been made a purer form of violence and power. It had never been more pleasurable to be back on Earth. But said pleasure was limited in the absence of a vessel.

As he proceeded with a sense of detachment to watch Jack grasp for an end to her goal, it became quite clear to him that there was something of more importance to be done about his present situation. He longed to be seen, and to be heard without having to rely on scribbled words in blood. A decision was made, and Vito removed himself from his shared booth with Jack, leaving her to ponder over just what had happened to her favorite imaginary friend. Off to the ‘fitting room’ it was.

A hotel in Dublin, Ireland
Vito Dee Symons & Mr. Meatsuit
(thirty - forty minutes)

There had been no need to murder Mr. Meatsuit. The possession of the man alone had been far more effective a method of obtaining him than it would have been to, say, put to use one of the blades that hung on a rack in kitchen to the left of the room in which Vito had located him. Vito’s desire to prevent the possibility of scarring or otherwise permanently damaging his vessel did not allow for much creativity in the act of taking the man’s life, so long as he intended to wear the mortal afterword. Thus, there was an absence of the blood that generally pooled at Vito’s feet when he searched for a suitable skin. And it was before several mirrors that he stood, in the bedroom where his stolen body had once prepared for a day at the office, and he observed himself.

With such relief did he gaze upon his ricocheting reflections, that the smile that began to tickle his lips could not have been prevented – and he allowed it; he permitted in the solitude of that hotel suite an expression of delight to glare back at him upon reflective glass. “The eyes are lighter than the last, but they hold gold within them – a suiting fit.” He raked a hand through his hair, which felt airy in texture beneath his fingertips, “The hair is the same tone of brown.” His curious digits continued to wander across the plains of new flesh as he noted the similarities between his present vessel, and that which he missed dearly, but had no means of returning to. “All that is missing is my favorite suit and tie. And once I have changed from this unfortunate clothing, and into my own, it’s show time.”

OCC: Vito would have left Satan's for, as I mentioned above, anywhere from thirty to forty minutes. Would Jack mind sticking around for his return in my next post? =P

OOC: Great minds think alike.

There was no more communication, leaving Jack completely ignorant as to what her fate might be. As far as she knew, this was her end, this was her death. She could not think any otherwise, for Vito had always hated her so deeply, despite the fact that she could not bring herself to meet his challenge and hate him back- the only challenge she routinely failed to rise to. She wondered where she would have been if she had just found a way, taken the Hate potions, done something. Who would be alive? Would Vito even exist to her? Or would she have a life, finally?

Jack could only hope for some of that emotion that had repulsed Vito to think of her as dead. She remembered, however, that he was only repulsed by her death because it meant her own. She had been foolish to think that there had been any sort of reciprocation of emotion between the two. She could not return his hate; he could not (or would not) return her care. Her mind flashed her broken visions; Vito collapsing against her, Vito carrying her upstairs, Vito killing the men who had attacked her, Vito stepping in to assist her in the battle. And Jack did something she had never tried.

She prayed.

Please, she begged. I just want it to stop. I want to be free from the wounds in my soul. If it means death, then relieve me. If not, if this would follow me, then help me. Free me. Let me live. I just want one more taste of air. One more look. I want to hear something, see something, feel something beyond the desperation and hopelessness that I’m destined for. Please, Universe or God or whatever is watching me die, please end it now.

And she felt the finger slip from her heart. She gasped, and the air stung her bruised heart as blood pumped back into it and it began to move. She felt tears spill out of her eyes, the pain beyond any other she had ever felt, the terror finally processing, the heartbreak that she had tried her best and it had not been enough. Vito would not return grateful she had saved Satan’s. He would not return grateful that it was here, making more money, that she had searched for him at first and then waited- since she had figured he had left because it had been he who wanted space.

They would never be okay. They would never be alright. Chase had made it sound like they might one day reach a twisted understanding, maybe almost be friends, maybe get along, watch out for each other, protect the way that Jack wished they could do for her creation. Hell, Frankenstein’s monster had wanted to be kind to the doctor. Jack’s life was not a novel though. Jack’s life would go undocumented, would go unknown, and when she inevitably died at her creation’s hands, it would continue on.

Spots swam in front of her. She sucked for air and breathing began to slow and return to a sort of normal. And without trying, without meaning to, without control, she exhaled the words, “How could you do this to me?” But he was gone. She felt it. Satan’s was still as her entire body shook. She wanted to get up, to leave, to escape. But her heart told her it would not be supporting her other systems for awhile. She slumped over and blacked out, right there, on their favorite booth seat.

Smaller than ever.

OOC: There's like ten references to Hate Me by Blue October. It inspired me for this post.

With more vigor than that which had ever been enforced upon the nightclub's entrance, due to the slightly weighted nature of the pure silver plating of the wood, which wound and twisted in the manner of a serpent by means of an enchantment, the door was thrown open. From out of the breezy, shadow-infested streets of Knockturn Alley, Vito moved. The familiar click-clacking of his infamous, black Giorgio Brutini shoes rattled throughout the recently emptied room, a chill following Vito over the threshold. Not a word fell from the poltergeist's lips as he made a show of joining Jack in his temple; the loud crash of the door through which Vito had passed colliding with the adjacent wall had been far too loud to ignore as it was. His outstretched arms at his sides and the smirk that accompanied the gesture, too spoke loudly enough. As to what was being said could be interpreted with great ease:
As he grew nearer to where Jack lay, slumped in an unnaturally lethargic manner against the back of their booth, however, the knowledge that his grand show had gone unseen struck him with all the bite of a bolt of lightning. His arching fingers dug with ferocity into the padding that remained just above Jack's head, as his frustration, in turn, burrowed just as deep within himself. He could not have predicted that Jack may lose consciousness at any point that evening - hell, had he predicted such an occurrence, he certainly would not have spared it a moment's thought. Jack Dylan had never simply allowed herself to be taken over by the mercy of a deep slumber while he waltzed about, doing as he pleased. It was not in her nature to forfeit, and it was this truth that lead to Vito's assumption that she had believed that he had been rid of once more. And it occurred to Vito, who was feeling particularly lustful of all things mortal with the recreation of a bond between himself and the physical world, that he had been handed an opportunity to seize the revenge that he so desperately craved.

Without so much as paying the young redhead a glance, Vito lifted his right hand towards Jack and made a fluent motion of his wrist. With all of the influence that a spell would have had upon Jack, had Vito decided it a fine evening to give the ways of Wizards a try, her body was thrown heavily upon the table of their booth. Vito flattened his palm, and Jack was bound in place. There was only the matter of obtaining a weapon for him to attend to; an act which Vito had convinced himself would better suit the circumstances after he had roused his victim. "Wakie, wakie, lover," Vito chimed smoothly.

OOC: As always, if you oppose the godmodding that I did in this post, just ignore whatever you feel I should have left out. I feel like we are at the point where this kind of thing is simple enough to take care of.

This was no sleep that Jack had become ensnared in. Had it been some sort of sleep, Jack surely would have dreamed, would have had some sort of nightmare that plagued her. It was just emptiness, darkness, nothingness, blankness- if those things even truly existed, for how did nothing exist?- and yet one she was aware of all of these things that surrounded her in her unconscious state. She felt the patterns of darkness around her, a sort of darkness that was heavier or lighter than the mass of nothingness that fully enveloped her and encircled her. She could feel this darkness that pressed on her so gently, flashes of lightness tripping around the edges of her peripheral vision, just out of sight. But nothing actually existed in this state, it was all darkness and lighter darkness that almost resembled a sort of light. This was the realm Jack belonged to in the time she was out, her body trying to heal itself.

She was content to stay here. There was no complications here. Ariel was not here to make her heart pound and to ultimately make it break. Riley was not here to stare down his nose in disdain at her. Her parents were not here to shove her aside. Chase was not here to tell her that she could not bring herself to part ways, even if that was what Jack truly wanted for her friend. And, of all the presences Jack knew to be the most impressionable on her mind, Vito was not there. Jack was at peace and she realized why. She was alone. She did not have to protect anyone. But this terrified her and she reached her hands forward, blindly reaching out. She swallowed and suddenly, her hands grasped something ahead of her. She squeezed and a pressure returned to her hand. She reached out and shape of darkness collapsed against her, and there she held it. Her eyes closed. Surely, this was bliss.

“Wakie, wakie, lover.”

Her eyelids fluttered but there was no chance to respond. She was lifted and slammed onto a table- her already ruined back ached out in pain. Surely, she would be nearly crippled when she returned home- if she ever returned home, that was. She cringed and felt her ankles and wrists pin to the table. She flailed her shoulders wildly before realizing she was screwed. She sighed and turned her head to look at Vito. “Okay,” she said, breathing heavily. “Okay. Where are we now?”

For the sake of dramatics, Vito feigned an expression of confusion as his eyes flicked across the bloodied nightclub, as though in search of something that may have allowed him to identify their surroundings. “Hmmm, I don’t know,” he cooed with sarcastic enthusiasm. But his mask did not hold; the expression that had once suited his words had been eagerly replaced by one which betrayed his rage – an occurrence which he paid very little mind. “But how about I tell you where I’ve been?” He suggested bitterly.

“I’ll give you a few hints,” Vito began, and with fluency he did spin in the direction of the bar in the center of the room. He strode with purpose towards his private collection of fine vintage wines – as red in color, each, as the blood with which he had painted the evening. And from across the distance that he had created between himself and his once-companion, Vito spoke, “The pain” – he dusted his fingertips across the neck of one, particularly dazzling bottle, his tone that with which one might deliver news of the weather, “was unceasing…” He plucked the bottle from its place amongst several others, and held it aloft to gaze through the tinted glass at its contents beneath the dim ceiling lights, “…and ethereal.”

The corners of his mouth flicked upward for the briefest of moments, as he appeared to come to a conclusion. “Yes, this will do perfectly.”

He doubled back towards their booth, holding loosely in his grip the weapon of his choosing. “No true physical contact was made, due to the nature of the pit that you threw me to.” His words were laced with malice as he spat them forth. It was as though, as his tone wavered from one of calm to that with which he presently spoke, he had been divided down his center; split in two by a pair of entirely different beings - the likes of which were content to drown one another in a pool of contradictions.

“Black. Infinite. Pitch.” He loomed over her. The space that had remained between them rapidly diminished, until he had settled directly above her with his chest rested firmly atop hers, and his arms at either side of her torso. “I writhed and I fought against my binds, only to find that I was not bound to anything. To see,” He inhaled sharply, and for the time in which it took Vito to compose himself, his brown irises melted with the desperation that he recalled – only to steel once more in the chill that radiated outward from his core. “nothing but darkness. To feel the flesh being torn from my body – nonexistent -, and then to taste the salt of it between teeth that weren’t there.”

His breath erupted in clouds of frost against the tip of Jack’s nose, and his lips trembled softly. “For years. No one could see me, Jack,” He whispered, his own voice too heavy to bear as his memories weighed down upon him. “At your hand, I suffered Hell.”

Jack could not muster an irritable or sarcastic response, not in this condition. Vito had already killed once tonight, and there was a horrible deadness in his eyes. This new face put her on edge; she did not know any of its tells. She could not see anything beyond the grey cement wall that Vito had blocked up right before his brown irises.

He moved away and she exhaled ever so slightly. She looked around for her, looking for something, anything. A broken glass lay on its side in the booth next to her and she reached her hand over, scooping the glass dust into her hand and dropping the hand into her lap. She glanced at Vito. She didn’t think he had notice- she had been quick and deliberate In her mission, drawing almost no attention in the stillness of the club. And he was focused on getting to his wine.

Again, she exhaled. Her mouth was dry and she could feel everything about her body. Her knee quivered; her knuckles throbbed; a bead of sweat was slowly travelling down the left side of her head, hidden in her hair; her organs were trembling. However, Jack looked as still as the remains of the massacre around her.

She realized she was being addressed and looked back to him, her eyes watching him. She looked like a ghost; drained of color, the deep color of her frazzled hair accenting this, dark circles under her eyes from overwork. Her eyes stayed trained on his moving figure, unable to look away. She found she was drawn in by his words, his tone, and this unfamiliar figure. She was curious. She had to know more. She was confused and she needed answers.

He approached and she shook her head. How did any of this make sense? Hadn’t she been on lookout for him, waiting for him, taking care of everything in his absence? He got closer and she leaned back, wanting to draw away from his overwhelming presence but too curious to draw away from a challenge and the truth. Her hand seized and the glass particles cut into her hand. Holding back a flinch, she said softly, “How? I didn’t send you anywhere. I have been looking for you. I even took care of Satan’s, waiting for you.”

Vito gave a mighty sniff of the freckled skin he had nested himself against, and with a flick of his brow did expose his intrigue, which had overthrown his previous train of thought. His vanity would forever remain the perfect distraction from all else.

“My, my Mrs. Monster. You” – pause “are” – smirk – “evil.” He withdrew his head from the crook of Jack’s neck, and laid himself along her form in an intentionally lethargic manner: heels kicked upward; hips parallel to Jack’s; spine dipping downward; eyelids deliberately made heavy, his expression something feline. “You are positively filthy” he seductively purred the word aloud before proceeding with his sentence, “with the blood of Mr. Broken-faced Bartender, and you are…” His smirk widened with pride, and he sang: “sss-ta-ar-ing!”

With a muted rattle, Vito set his bottle of wine aside upon the table and hooked his ankle around the limb of a near chair. “Well, what do you think, lover?” He briskly inquired. And with the curl of his toes he threw the chair towards himself and elegantly fell atop it. In a gesture intended to allow Jack to thoroughly examine his modified appearance, Vito then swept his legs upward and dropped his shoes heavily beside Jack’s bound knees upon the table’s edge. Simultaneously, he retrieved his bottle. “Does this body excite you? You sure look currrrious!” Vito added, rolling his tongue smoothly in a flourish across his spoken ‘r’s.

He had further reclined against the back of his chair, and in his lap he had rested his weapon – when his alluring drawl was abruptly exchanged for a fierce snarl and he leapt to his feet to join himself to Jack once more. “You got comfortable!” He shouted with the passion of a beating heart. As muscles coiled and teeth mashed, Vito struck. To the wall against which Jack’s head lay, he swung the bottle that remained in his crumpled fist, and the pair connected in a storm of glass that rained down upon Jack’s exposed face. “You KILLED ME!” His words followed swiftly behind his first attack, and with the severed bottle’s neck he proceeded. Vito drove its cruel edges into the flesh of the redhead’s gut, before slowly releasing it from his grip and retreating to his chair, where he sat, disgruntled and perplexed.

There was a moment’s silence amongst blood, glass, and a pondering poltergeist before he next spoke, “Interesting,” He whispered aloud. “There are so many in me this time.” He shifted, righting his position where he sat, seemingly calm with his legs crossed. “Now this…” A devilish grin stretched across Vito’s face - one which he was quite unaware he had allowed to blossom, and therefore made no effort to extinguish, “should be fun.”

Jack sat stock-still, her spine so straight and rigid that she swore she could feel the cartilage between the vertabrae were trembling, quivering. He seemed content to louse againt her, drawing his nose close to her neck, causing flickers and dancing of her goosebumps to swell in waves around the area he was close to. She stared straight ahead, at the blood of her friend, a much easier sight to behold than that of the one man she had tried to protect, looking at her with disdain.

Why couldn't she get it right?

He moved away and spoke, his voice dripping with insult. Jack stared forward, intent on refusing to draw out what Vito thought to be his inevitable, desired confrontation. Jack would not do it. She had spent months, waiting for him. She had expected him to be unbearable, but not... but not this. That all of her effort had seemingly caused him more suffering, and hence more of his unstoppable hatred; it was more than the broken down, beaten down redhead could handle without snapping.

He began to try and show off his new form, and Jack had to admit she had been staring. She was not sure if she liked this new body. Somehow it was more fitting, but not in a way she liked. It was foreign. It was sharper. It was colder. It was less welcoming. And, correct her if she was wrong, but she was fairly sure that the hairline had just begun to recede.

However, Jack did not say this. No, tonight, Jack wanted to live.

"It's new," she said levelly. She had to skirt this. She could get out of this- EXPLOSION. That was how it felt as he suddenly went ape on her. Jack shrunk and dove down, her face just missing the shour of glass shard- the drink covered her, the glass ripped at her shoulders, neck, and scalp, tangling into her mess of a mane. She sat up, turning. She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him she had not tried- which was true. But, when she opened her mouth, an apology formed on her lips. "I'm sor-"

She looked down as pain exploded in her. Blood seeped from her stomach to his hand. Her hand fluttered down and disconnected the weapon from her flesh. She let out a shuddery breath, swallowing the pain. After a few moments of bracing herself, she said in a quiet voice, "And what if I just didn't heal it? What then?"