Author: AHS PM
Voltaire once said that history is nothing more than a tableau of crimes and misfortunes, and Jackson Rippner's history is no different.Rated: Fiction T - English - Adventure/Drama - Chapters: 23 - Words: 61,025 - Reviews: 76 - Favs: 25 - Follows: 6 - Updated: 10-24-06 - Published: 08-22-06 - Status: Complete - id: 3118778
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: Just a small author's note this time. What you'll see over the next few months is the edited version of the trilogy appearing on The first, of course, is Proxy, and once it is finished, there will be a short hiatus, then the posting of Bejerot's Diagnosis. Every Wednesday and Saturday, edited chapters will be posted.
'You'll fucking stay out here until--' his father shouted, blue eyes staring wildly at the snow-covered landscape. 'Until I fucking say you can come back into the fucking house!'
With a grunt, he tightened his grasp on the boy he had writhing behind him, making the boy thrash more as his dark brown hair finally started pulling out of his head at the scalp. One yank forward and the man let go of him, letting him fall onto the snow. The boy laid there for a moment, curled into himself, before the man bent over him with the back of his hand held up like he was going to slap him -- the boy jumped to his feet quickly, rubbing his scalp with inadvertent tears stinging his eyes.
'Dad,' he said softly, tears running down his face. 'Dad, it's really cold out here.'
'Jack, you'll stay in this place, and you won't move,' he said dangerously, shoving a finger into his son's face before speaking in a terrifying half-voice. 'And if you make a noise, any little fucking noise, I swear to God I will kill you.'
Jackson's toes curled in the snow and he shivered as he brought his arms up to cross his chest. As he watched his father's back retreat into the house, he started to lose feeling in his feet; when his father slammed the door, icicles went stabbing down into the fresh snow, and for all intents and purposes he should have jumped in surprise, but instead Jackson tipped his head forward with a dark look crossing his face. Willing his frozen feet forward, he crunched across the knee-deep snow with his eyes set on the wood-handled, rusty hatchet half-buried in a log underneath the stairs that led up to the second floor of the house. Wind blustered around him, sending snow up from the ground to meet with the newly falling snow at Jackson's face, but he was looking so intently at the tool that it didn't faze him.
He stood for several long moments, leaning against one of the support beams under the stairs as his eyes half-closed and his body reacted to the wind chill -- his pyjama pants were soaked completely through and the t-shirt wasn't faring much better. Overcoming his body's reaction, he reached out with shaky hands and clasped frozen fingers around the wood. The snow melted quickly under his touch, and with a deliberate yank, he pulled it from the icy log. Looking slowly at the door, he hulked over to it and sent the blade of the axe through the glass, which elicited a scream from his mother and an angry growl from his father. Reaching through the glass, he undid the lock and pushed open the door, stepping back into the heat with a bloody arm and the other hand holding the axe laxly to his side.
'What do you think you're doing?' his father demanded, standing up from the table in the kitchen with a fork held menacingly in front of him. 'Get back into the fucking yard, and put the axe back where you found it, you little piece of shit!'
'Michael...' Alice said, but her look seemed to contradict the sympathetic statement. 'Jackson Rippner, you heard your father. You're being punished.'
Softly closing the door behind him, Jackson took a few hesitant, sloshy steps forward, cutting his feet on the shards of glass covering the floor. Michael was about to open his mouth again when Jackson looked up with wide eyes and suddenly swung the axe, connecting it with the left-side tendons of his father's neck. When the man fell, Jackson followed him to the ground, hitting him savagely and splattering blood all over the area despite his mother's terrified screams.
'Jack!' she screamed as she stood, pushing over her chair.
With an animalistic glint in his eyes, Jackson stopped with his arms held above his head and turned to look at his mother, who was backing up against the counter with a shaking hand over her mouth. She was grasping at the drawer pull to retrieve a knife, and that just enraged him more. He stood and walked around his father's absolutely mutilated body, slipping a bit on a pool of blood as he made his way over to his mother. After cutting her delicate fingers on a few blades, she'd managed to find the butcher's knife and was now brandishing shakily it in front of her as her blood-splattered son made his way to her.
'I swear to you, Jack, I will--'
There was a spray of blood across the window behind her, and everything fell silent.