Jack and Lucy Pt. 02

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Lucy learns more about her identity amidst obstacles.
10.7k words
4.64
8.3k
4

Part 2 of the 3 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 01/12/2017
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Welcome to the second installment of Jack and Lucy. I spent a lot of time on this one, so hopefully you all like it. My very first submission was rough, and the level of coherence was sometimes...bumpy. But, I'm very satisfied with this finished chapter and hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

As requested, no blood! Though, I had to tweak my plot around a bit (originally, I had planned for Lucy to have already been pregnant and not known it. But that's stupid! The fun is already over!).

Please tell me where I did or didn't do well on the sex scene as it's my first attempt at erotic fiction, and I'm a little unsteady. Also, if my transitions aren't working, let me know about that as well.

Thanks for the support! I read comments!

-LemonBarn

*****

"You know this has long term consequences—"

"Just inject the drug into her goddamn IV, Tom!"

"And this won't make her love you—"

"You've done enough. Do it and get out"

A long silence settled in the thick air as two men stood beside themselves with anger; One slowly unraveling from the inside, and the other observing with regret. The younger man stared murderously at his friend, the best man at his wedding, and the godfather of his first child. His stood with his hair on end and fists held in place, seemingly ready to kill him. But their bond was everlasting. No matter how painful the circumstance, nothing would come between them. Not even murder.

"I hope you're ready for what you have to live with."

"I'm doing all of this for you," said Jack. But Tom was gone, having slipped quietly out into the hospital corridor, leaving his companion to the roaring sound of his solitude, and his guilt. He disappears almost as quickly as he comes.

...

I heard the visitors before I saw them: the shuffling of their rubber soled shoes and the crisp starchiness of pants as they neared. Their careful whispers and many bodily sounds were offset by their clamorous steps. So many voices. The monitors buzzed and whirred, creating a cacophony of sound while fluorescent light shone with its harsh, antiseptic quality. Feeling trapped, I fluttered my eyelids under the offensive rays of light, but they were heavy with disuse, and I couldn't seem to fully rise. A light tap to my shoulder suddenly broke me from that spell and I jolted awake, eyelids flying open to white, abrasive light.

"Dear, do you remember your name?" His words slipped off his tongue like butter; soft and soothing. But their meaning was all wrong.

"I... I can't remember."

"What year is it?"

"I'm not sure, sir."

"What is the last memory you have?"

"I don't know. Everything seems... cloudy."

I struggled to adjust my eyes. The air was as sterile as the bleach-white walls. It was all so unnaturally... white. I hated it. The stranger in the white coat sighed as he scribbled notes onto his pad. His thinning hair framed a wearisome face, but he was handsome, respectable. "Hmm, quite alright. Take a deep breath. You're in the recovery room now with the best team of staff. Do you know why you're here...?" I only frowned, uncertain. It was all unfamiliar, and he continued with knowing apprehension. "You were admitted to the Regional Hospital in Pinewood for a concussion. Your husband whom you'll see shortly accompanied you here. Your name is Katherine Stone. I'm Doctor Mackson "

I have a husband. A husband. Surely, I would've remembered that.

"Dr-" What came out was a horrific croak so far from human. I cleared my throat. "Dr., why did I have a concussion? What was I doing at the time?"

"We don't know. I was hoping you would be the one to answer that. However, we do have an important topic to discuss - privately - regarding your health which needs to be raised: you were pregnant. Fourteen weeks to be exact."

I flinched. Was I slapped? It was an automatic response to fear and to be disturbed - disturbed by the sudden turn the conversation took, and anticipate with a little wince the consequences of whatever actions my former self took part in. Of course, she knew, she had to have known. But this wasn't exactly benevolent news to me, and I felt very much on edge.

Suddenly enraptured by curiosity, I sat up quickly, moving my hands around my belly. Nothing. No tiny bump to pat and poke. No extra fat. I was skin and bones. Was it... was it supposed to feel this way? Like nothing? "Doctor, you said...'were'?"

"Yes dear, you miscarried. Now, now. Don't be alarmed - It was all a very healthy process and your body has managed to naturally flush out the dead tissue." I felt very much alarmed. The doctor carried on, seemingly talking to himself. The thought spinning its web inside my mind was the fact that...It didn't seem fair. It didn't seem fair that I awaken to be suddenly thrust into this body...this unfamiliar, unknown body. To be forced to remember and act on emotions otherwise imposed on me by others.

I wanted to cry, but I couldn't in front of these cold, antiseptic walls. And it didn't matter that the doctor and I were alone, I still felt a dozen different pairs of eyes all looking down on me with ireful judgement. "When can I go home?" I all but whispered.

"I just need to perform a few more exams and then you and Jack can leave."

The doctor turned to the side, casually dismissing me while he looked through the hospital room cabinets.

"Jack?"

"Yes, your husband." He said it like the subject was closed, and the facts were sure things. You have a husband. End of discussion. But normal, sensible people make eye-contact when declaring these things, and he didn't. It was all mildly irritating in the least, but only because it was plainly a rude thing to do considering how sensitive the subject was, and in what delicate state I clearly was. Why wouldn't he just look at me?

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. The doctor promptly opened it, and a man walked in with a bouquet of yellow daffodils. The man smiled affectionately with eyes sincere and deliberate. His smile wasn't returned, and his eyes wavered before falling downcast. But his smile was held, and he seemed almost stoic as he stood in the doorway, a giant mindful of being watched. He was much taller than the doctor, a man of average height, but his height didn't make an ogre out of him, either. He seemed gentle, calm. A head of blonde, sandy-colored hair that curled around his ears. Hazel eyes like bronze moons. Eyes that seemed to suck me in like a vacuum, making it difficult to look away, but even harder to look on. "Ah, here he is! Is he familiar to you?"

"I... I can't say..." No. He didn't look familiar. Nothing was familiar. The doctor went on to explain how everything will be okay, my vitals were fine, and that my insurance didn't cover any more nights in the hospital. It was a small town, and they were in a hurry to ship me out for fear of available rooms. In just half an hour, I was discharged, the paperwork was signed, and Jack was wheeling me out the front doors before I could complain about the fact that I was leaving with a practical stranger...

Or the fact that I was handed over to him like an object. But to my husband. They all repeated that over and over and over. Like once wasn't enough. Like they worried I'd question them. Revolt and reject. But, there goes that voice again: I have a husband. Right? Oh, why won't it all just come back to me?

We didn't talk much in the car, or at home. Whatever 'home' was, that immaculately clean, monochromatic place of numbing coldness. The black leather furniture matched the silvery-grey walls, which contrasted with the starchy, white table napkins and various sea shell decor. Like an art piece, it was elegant and superficial, a fixed, ideal space apart from the vulgar machinations of the outside world. It gave off this uncanny vibe, like I was somehow sewn into this ideal universe designed by Jack.

Everything seemed to be in its rightful place. Including myself, and It never appeared even remotely less ironic to me. When Jack left, I had time to imagine and create stories about who I am, and it always led to this strange perception of belonging to someone. Like I was an object in his house, a pretty flower, or an exotic vase from a far away land. But this didn't feel right. Being with Jack didn't feel like a "rightful place", if felt foreign and unnatural. Unfamiliar. My mind seemed to be a blank slate in this space, for better or worse.

So I kept my distance. I "didn't feel well" at dinner, wandered into a room I hid in for the rest of the evening, and stayed up late so that I could fall asleep on the couch rather than in his bed. Jack didn't argue, much to my relief, and left me alone for hours at a time, and then days at a time. And time... time... time seemed to slow down, and speed up, and slip through my hands. I stopped fighting those ribbons of tears and let them soak my hair sticky until it clung to my face. It was the only way I knew how to silently express myself when I didn't know what to think.

There were framed photographs around the house - photos of us - photos of two smiling, happy people in a happy, normal relationship. Photographs of a smiling woman walking on white, salty sand, and photographs of her bending down to collect a shell. The man in the photograph looked younger, and wearisome as his eyes trailed after her... like he loved her. They were married, and a ring shone on a slender, dainty hand to prove it. Then, why didn't that transfer over to us?

I wondered about that. Wondered why Jack and I seemed perfectly incompatible, and why the clothes in my dresser weren't as snug as they were in the photo, why the shoe size was half a size too big, and—wouldn't past Catherine and present Catherine have the same taste in clothing? Apparently not. The Catherine I was now and the Catherine I was before seemed like two... completely different... people.

We sat quietly at the dinner table one night, Jack tapping his long fingers on the black mahogany and staring fixated at his plate while I played with my fork. His burly, outstretched arms laid out over the wood, and then folded to rest his hand against his temple. Several times. Repeatedly. He scratched his jaw, and then began tapping away at the table again. The silence was like a inflated balloon ready to pop.

And then he looked up, catching me staring. "When are we going to talk?" He asked.

"I don't know, I don't know if I'm ready."

Jack raised his eyebrows. He didn't like that answer. "I'm not a gentleman, and I'm not going to wait around-"

"I want a divorce." Could you really call it a 'divorce'? I didn't care. I wanted out of whatever this was.

I expected him to be more surprised but he only laughed and leaned back in his dining room chair, grinning like we were sharing a joke. But when he returned to his relaxed position with arms stretched out around his plate, I saw that his knuckles had turned a stony-white.

He looked up again with anger. And disappointment. "Do all of our encounters need to be like this?"

"All of our encounters? Are there other encounters I'm unaware of?"

Fists slammed down on the table. "THIS ENCOUNTER! This moment right now! And every moment of every encounter! Every moment with you is just HELL!"

"Don't yell at me."

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want to in my own house." He was visibly shaken, like he had lost control he held onto for so long. But he settled down.

"Then you won't mind that I leave. Tonight."

"You aren't. You're staying right where you are."

I was becoming frustrated by this brick wall between us. I may as well have been slamming my head against it, because nothing ever went though. I held my head between my hands, watching the brown locks fall between my outstretched fingers, and twirling the strands around those digits.

"Do I have a family?"

Jack crinkled his brows, offended. "I'm your family," he said slowly but deliberately. I watched his hand stretch out until it rested on my side of the table, and then it lingered there like a request. The open palm was so hesitant, so unprepared. Desperate.

As was I. "Do I have a mother? Siblings?" It was difficult to spit out. I just wanted to know that I had other options, that I had other lives outside of the life imposed on me by Jack and this amnesiatic brain. "Does anyone want me?" I all but choked on the words.

"You were adopted." Jack paused, choosing his words carefully as if he feared upsetting me. "You don't have anyone. We moved to this house a year ago, and you haven't made a friend."

There wasn't anything I wanted to say. I let the silence linger in the air, breathing it in, exhaling it out. Drinking it in. He opened his mouth again to say something, but stopped.

"I'm sorry. You were always kind of quiet," he said. This part wasn't so unbelievable. There was a long pause of silence where Jack watched me, I thought, trying to maintain this thread of civility between us before it collapsed. "I never thought we'd have this conversation. I just wanted you to get better. On your own. I don't want to have to tell you about your life, knowing it may hurt you."

I started up again. "Why haven't you ever mentioned this thing which grew inside me? During all this time I've spent here?"

"We haven't spoken once, Catherine-"

"Don't call me that. You don't get to call me anything when I can't remember my own name."

"I'm here to fill in the blanks. That's my job as your husband."

"My husband? My husband!" Incredible! The gall of this man! "I barely know you-no-no-I'm living with a stranger! Who are you to tell me-"

"I'm tired of your moods." He said, shutting me off mid-sentence. Sighing, he stretched his back before swatting his hand mid-yawn. Granted, I was tired, too, but seeing another person yawn has an effect on me regardless of whose it is. I couldn't decide whether he was swatting a fly or swatting away the words spewing out of my mouth in accusation. "Come to bed, Cat."

"No. I don't like that-" I started to protest. Unshaken, he came around and lifted me up into his arms.

"Come on, let's go," came his dismissive reply. He led us out of the dining room and down the hallway. Our plates were left untouched at the table.

"I'm not done with you." I meant to sound assertive, but the thought didn't transfer well with heavy limbs and drooping eyes. A glance at the passing clock on the wall read half past two, but with my averaging of more sleep and less activity, I was unsurprised by the loss of time. Everything began to mush together. I was in his arms, we walked past doors and rooms, and then I was laying in his bed with the nagging reminder of unbrushed teeth.

"Don't glare at me. I'm not going to touch you tonight." Was my stare really so lacerating?

"Jus... leave me... alone" My eyelids were as heavy as soaked blankets, tearing in their struggle to lift and accuse the guilty, shameful world. But my vision was clouding, and fluorescent light became unbearably harsh. I let the darkness consume me, and settled into a deep sleep.

But not in complete ignorance of the arms which surrounded me, or the heat which was not mine.

...

Someone had muted the cable channel and the girl in the little wooden box TV apparently knew it. She yelled and beat her palms against the unwavering screen until, exhausted, they hung limp at her side. And her chest heaved with every burned-out breath. Her lips moved but she uttered not a sound. She swung her wrists in exuberance, but the meaning was misunderstood. And she stood there under the willow tree, kicking the grass out of the earth and cursing the wind like it stole her words.

She was just an image on the screen. Just a grainy, badly pixelated version of a distraught woman. Just an actress. But I quickly grew bored of watching her wail and scream in silent agony. Climbing out of Jack's leather love-seat, I turned around and walked over to his kitchen's breakfast bar, knowing I'd find a remote on the countertop. I knew it was wrong. It wasn't a matter of popular ethics but a strange feeling in my gut which told me not to turn away from a woman who wants to speak - but I did. And suddenly a cacophony of distant murmuring reverberated behind me. She was shouting, trying to be heard. Voice growing louder and louder as it grew stronger and stronger.

"Don't turn your back on me, Lucy. Lucy!" Her voice suddenly broke the surface, capturing the night. And the name - the name froze me where I stood.

Quickly turning, I leapt at her. But I wasn't staring into a tiny, grainy tv with from the 90's anymore. Upon turning around, I nearly froze with fear at seeing the surrounding scenery having miraculously changed before me, like I had stepped outside Jack's home and wandered into the surrounding woods. Garden shrubbery covered in vines of jasmine. Foliage of almost equal parts maple and oak littering the grass in blankets. Their wide, imposing trunks dwarfed the houses around them, and winding trails of their roots curled along past me into a clearing. The cool, fall breeze picked up a smothering scent of lavender and morning dew.

The scent was something earthly and... dead. The air smelled of blood.

And she, hurling toward me like a gust of wind and ready to tear up the earth, materialized into pure flesh and bones. She stood tall and proud in the woods, like she had grown to belong there. A dominant force both savage and regal.

"Who is she? Who is Lucy?" I demanded. But my voice shook, betraying every fear I wished to conceal from her.

"Don't you know?" Came her ominous reply. She smiled like she had suddenly found some gained ground, or made sole keeper of a dark secret.

But I hate secrets. So I took a few steps back. "I - I can't help you. You have the wrong person"

The apparition of a woman clicked her tongue and spoke, "Ah - but you don't really think that, do you, Lucy?"

"I do."

"Not very convincing, Lucy-Lou." She giggled, but clasped her throat suddenly and coughed up something black and slimy. Old blood.

"Please, stop. Why are you calling me that?"

"Ah!" She threw her hands in the air, exasperatedly, causing me to jump back in alarm. Not every day that you argue with a potentially homeless and especially eccentric woman. "What else would you have me call you?"

"I don't know who you are, but I think it's best that you leave."

Her voice was suddenly low and a matter-of-fact, but it built up like a crescendo. "Oh, but I don't think so. You see, you're standing in my domain, right on the very ground where I rot."

"I don't know what you mean by that, but you're disgusting."

She didn't respond to me. Her lips twitched into a grin and she began to chortle in uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. She licked those same lips, but she was only licking tears as they fell. Tears that framed her delicate face.

That's when I realized that this apparition of a woman didn't have rosy, pink cheeks. She was as gaunt as a hollowed-out pumpkin, as white as a dishrag. She was the rhetorical skin and bones, and then some.

She opened her mouth again as if to speak this time, but not a sound escaped her. She became as silent as that original woman behind her television set. I woke up in the middle of the night, thinking about a red barrette.

It was a red barrette. I remember it. It had fallen like the leaves fall on the cusp of winter. Like a stormy wind had knocked it flat off its branch with a violent yank, jerking it from long locks of chocolate hair streaked with blood. Ripping it from the scalp, letting it rot on the cold, frozen ground... just like her body. Her bludgeoned, hardly recognizable body.