#heather handing him a fucking scalpel even though the reason he was alone for so long was him trying to kill her

[brutal-nemesis]

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Spiderwebs #27: Proof

Masterlist

content: immortal whumpee, captivity, starvation, gore, organ stuff, self-injury

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Heather dreaded the end of the three months, and it was not entirely an irrational fear. Jackie was capable of killing her. She had chainsaws and scalpels, but what were blades in the face of an immortal? What were weapons in the shadow of an undying rage? Maybe that was a ridiculous thought, but it seemed a very real threat to her. He probably hated her even more now. Heather would too, if she was in his place.

The days passed. The final week arrived. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. She became so anxious at work that she threw up in the bathroom. Thursday. Friday. She considered leaving him locked in there forever, just so she never had to confront him. Saturday. And finally, Sunday.

Sunday morning was too cheery for such heavy work, so she waited until Sunday evening. Sunday was the Lord’s day. That didn’t mean anything to her anymore, but it was a memory that kept running in her mind. In any case, she had made her decision. She was going down there. Heather wasn’t that cruel, as to completely abandon him, and she wasn’t a monster. She had to check up on him eventually. 

She wasn’t going unarmed, that was for sure. The scalpel and the pistol were secured in her bookbag, and then she set off. She found the basement door across the hallway. Right where it always was. She moved the table from where it stood guard, pushed it aside. But she hesitated before turning the lock.

One, two, three heartbeats. Then her hand darted out to the doorknob. She twisted the lock until it clicked open.

Nothing happened. There was nothing but silence. She was still alive, still breathing. Her colleagues never saw the bruise on her neck—she covered it over with makeup—and it faded away over the months. But the memory was still there, the pressure on her throat.

Heather swallowed her tension, then entered the doorway. The lights were off. This wasn’t helping things, but she persevered. She closed the door behind her, then turned on the lights. She walked down the stairs.

She reached the last step. The room was a mess. Furniture toppled everywhere, items strewn about in furious abandon, the smell of dust clouding over them. The light was so dim as to cast the room into a yellowish, dull tint. A place more fit for slaughtering pigs than living in.

She looked up, let her sight adjust. She almost flinched. 

Jackie was staring straight at her. He was sitting on the bed, across the room. 

He looked different. Different in a bad way. He’d gotten much thinner, first of all, hollowed at the edges like a stray dog. His hair was matted and longer than it had been before. His eyes seemed strained, and the shadows underneath them were heavy.

He blinked, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was real. He did not say anything.

Three months. Heather was starting to realize what she had done. They reserved solitary confinement for the worst of the worst. Even then, they fed their prisoners. Three months was a long time. 

“Jackie?” she called out. “It’s me.”

He blinked again.

She stepped forward, cautiously, treading slowly so as not to startle him. He watched her all the while, with that feral sort of stare. There was an insubstantial aura to him, like he’d flicker or fade away if she wasn’t careful, if she wasn’t watching closely enough. She held her hand out, aiming to put it on his shoulder.

To her great bewilderment, he stood up to face her. “You win.”

She froze. “What?”

“You win, I said. I give up. You can do whatever you want with me. You—” His calm voice began to crack, took on a tilt. “I can’t live like this. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll never do anything like that ever again. I missed you, I—”

“You… missed me?” Surely, she’d heard him wrong. Or he really had lost his marbles.

He continued to speak, eyes wet and shining all the while. “I missed you so much. I—I love you, Heather. Don’t ever leave me again. Please.”

Well, this was certainly… new. This was different. All the way from murderous hatred to… love. But that was ridiculous. That was…

“What do you mean, you love me?” She furrowed her brows. “Are you being serious?”

“Yes, completely.” He nodded, desperately, like his life depended on her believing him. Perhaps it did. “I love you.”

It was the way he kept repeating it, the strain in his voice. This wasn't right, but she didn't want him to stop. It overflowed from his mouth like honey. And he sounded so eager, so fervent.

He grabbed her sleeve, tightly. “Don’t go.”

“I won’t.” This was quite a pleasant surprise to walk in on. Even if he was lying, she couldn’t bring herself to look away.

His expression was earnest, in any case. He was staring into her eyes like she was an angel. Her fear was gone entirely. She had nothing to be afraid of. Everything had worked out perfectly. It was too good.

He stared at her, waiting. 

She slapped him, hard. Hard enough that his head was pushed back. Hard enough to make him flinch. He cowered under her gaze. But he didn’t move, didn’t say anything. 

She leaned in closer. Her lips almost brushed the shell of his ear. “You’re pathetic.”

He didn’t reply, still didn’t move, although his breathing had become shallow and hitching. His gaze had gone somewhere else, somewhere distant.

“You’re not going to hit me back, are you?” she asked softly. 

He shook his head.

“Good. Do you still love me?”

He nodded. It was disgusting, the look on his face. He would roll over and fetch if she asked him to.

“Prove it.”

“What do you want?” He fixed on her, again, that earnest expression. “I’ll do anything.”

Silently, she handed him the scalpel from her book bag. She pushed his hand forward, pressing the blade gently to his sweater, just slightly to the left. Still guiding his movements, she helped him trace two curves over the fabric, perfectly mirrored, creating a single shape—the lover’s symbol, sweet in its simplicity. She let go and waited for his reply.

He understood. He knew her well enough. Jackie steadied the scalpel, grasping it until his knuckles were straining under the skin. He aimed it above his chest. 

With a sharp jerk, he plunged it into himself. He began to dig out his own heart. 

It took an uncomfortably long time—that is, uncomfortable for anyone else. Heather was loving every second of this. The blade went in, dragging through flesh and cotton, then ripped out, over and over. He was not as precise as Heather. Didn’t have a surgeon’s careful hand. The surrounding skin and flesh was torn and rendered into jagged edges. His ribs cracked, his blade squelched. Blood dripped down onto the concrete, onto his lovely checkerboard sweater. His eyes went unfocused. Even with his sallowed skin and hollowed bones, he was very pretty. He winced, but he never stopped. Jackie coughed, and more blood trickled out his mouth. 

By the time he’d severed an artery, his motions grew lethargic. His blood dripped thick, nearly the consistency of jam. His heart wasn’t healing as quickly as it usually did. The wound was dark, festering in his chest.

Heather took his hand and, with gentle motions, helped him cut out the rest of the organ. The arteries, the veins, the remaining tissues. She snapped ribs away where necessary, letting them drop to the floor. His bones were surprisingly brittle. They cracked like twigs, while his pulse slowed and smeared on her skin. 

It was a marvel of muscle and nerves, even though she had seen it many times before. Light broke apart and glittered on its surface. It lay heavy in his hands, warm and still weakly beating. 

He handed it to her with another rasping cough. Blood slicked both of their palms. His eyes fluttered, but snapped open before they could close.

She took it, felt the warm flesh press against her hand, felt it convulse in erratic rhythms. “Oh, good boy. Thank you. It’s perfect.”

Jackie was completely out of it. He may not have heard her praise at all. He blinked at her once more, then placed a steadying hand on her arm, swaying on his feet all the while. Before Heather could react, he fainted. 

She did not catch him in time. He lay there, sprawled on the ground. All bones and blood. There was a gaping hole in his sweater, and dark red was splattered all over his cracked lips. 

She knelt down to pick him up. His head lolled to one side, and his limbs went limp in her grasp. She could not feel a pulse. Anyone else would have thought he was dead, but Heather knew he would wake up soon.

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Wow, love really does fix everything :)

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