A/N: Jim Morrison was kind to me all the way home, so I decided it was time again to be mean to his copy cat.
I couldn't figure out that fucking chick. One day she's as sweet as pie, the next she's a ravenous beast and then sometimes she's a fucking kitten, scared and useless. I wanted to ask her why she had such bad fucking mood swings, but I hadn't seen her for a couple of days.
How long I'd been there was beyond me. It could've been a month, maybe two, or it could've been a week. I couldn't understand how no one had been looking for me... surely a fan had seen her ransack me. Mike had to wonder where I was-they couldn't possibly buy that story that I was dead.
Although I wouldn't be the first Morrison to die in his twenties.
I probably hadn't eaten in two or three days. My once chiseled stomach was smoothing out, but slimming. I could see my ribs poking against my arms, even when I was sitting normally.
I knew I was Godly, but I didn't want to look like Jesus. The guy did have pretty sweet hair, though.
I heard a door opening, but I didn't pay any attention to it. She'd been puttering around upstairs for a while, opening and closing cupboards and windows. It wasn't until the light filtered down the stairs that I looked up, saw her shadow pass the wall.
"Are you okay?" she asked quietly.
I wanted to scoff and tell her to go fuck herself, but her normally harsh voice was liquid honey and sad. I turned my head. "Are you?"
Her silhouette laughed. "You can't sweet talk me."
"I'm not." I grunted. I could still taste blood at the back of my throat. "I'm just talking. My voice is naturally sweet."
She laughed again, a little more naturally, a little happier. She clopped down the steps in her high heels, leaving the door open behind her. She smelled like lilacs. "It's a bit musty down here."
"It is." I looked up when she came closer. "Can I go upstairs?"
She looked like she was really considering it. "I can't let you do that, Johnny."
Her face was smokin' hot, even behind that Lucha Libre mask, even behind that ugly wall she had up. "Why do you call me Johnny?" I asked.
"You've always been Johnny." Her fingernails ran down my face.
"So I know you?"
She shook her head and turned away.
"Is that a yes or a no?"
She sighed. "Johnny, I can't tell you."
"Why not?" I struggled against the ropes. "I won't press charges, I promise."
"Press charges?" She laughed. "Like you'll make it out alive."
"So you're planning on killing me?"
"I'm planning on destroying John Morrison. If you happen to die in the process, that's not my problem."
"What have you got against John Morrison?"
Her hands clenched. "Everything."
"Is it my arrogance? My good looks? Is it - "
"It's not you." She came over and knelt down, eyes blazing. "It's not you. You're not John Morrison."
"Who am I, then?"
"John Hennigan." She rubbed her hands up and down my thighs. "You were born in So Cal - LA, to be specific, on October 3rd, 1979."
My heart was blasting out of my chest, not because she was touching me, but because she was touching me. Her hands were so warm and her words were tight, like she swallowed a knife sideways.
"You're not John Morrison," she whispered. She stood up. "I have to go."
"No, wait - "
She paused, like she knew I was going to stop her.
"Can you... stay? It... I'm pretty lonely down here."
She turned her head. "Can you keep a secret?"
I swallowed hard. "Depends."
Her knife sliced the air. "You're not down anywhere."
I blinked, my lungs contracting as she neared, wielding that pocket knife, closer and closer, dragging it down my skin, my arms, my wrists...
She slid it through the ropes like butter, and my hands were free.
"Can you tell me where we are?"
She smiled as we kept walking, the trees beside us so lush, so green. "I can't, but you know what I can tell you?"
"I'm sick of wearing this mask." She fluffed her hair. "It's so damn hot."
"Take it off," I whispered.
She looked at me and took a step ahead, keeping her pace.
I stopped and ran my hands down a tree trunk, thick with age. "Thank you."
She stumbled. I'd finally caught her off guard, her foot catching a tiny branch sticking out of the mossy earth. "For what?"
"For letting me outside." I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes. "For letting me breathe."
I scoffed slightly. "You're such a fucking poet."
"I am." I lifted my gaze, found her staring at me. "Did you know that?"
"I did." She leaned back against a tree. "I've read some of your stuff - it isn't bad."
"Thanks." I gave her a sideways smile, gazing up at the magnificent branches twisting above it. It filtered the light, shone diamonds down onto us. "The sun feels great."
"You've been cooped up in that house." She was beside me suddenly, her warmth emulating as our shoulders touched. "It's a wonder you didn't go insane."
"I almost did. I felt like I was dying." I coughed, tasted metal. "My throat's still bleeding."
"Bleeding?" She turned me, pulled my face down, forcing through my teeth. She peered inside, frowning. "Your throat's not bleeding."
"Then it's something more serious." I smiled around her fingers.
She slid her hands down my jaw, past my neck, against my chest. Maybe it was the clear air or the shining sun, the blue of the sky or the green of the woods, but she was so beautiful right then, crystal eyes reflecting light, hair on fire.
I bent down and kissed her.
She sounded so sad, a small grunt, disapproval. She pulled back and opened her eyes. "I don't want to kill you," she whispered.
I kissed her again. What a fool I was, drunk on a crisp day, stupidly loving the way her fingers felt against my skin. She wasn't someone I was trying to seduce, someone I was trying to fuck.
I just wanted her.
I lifted my head, my hair against her face, and blew on her nose playfully. "Yeah, we're falling through wet forests," I crooned, my fingers dancing up. I started pulling at the ties of her mask. "On our moonlight drive."
Her eyes snapped open.
"On our moonlight - fuck!" I flew back, tripped over a knotty root, falling against the moss. There was blood on my shirt.
The flash of metal. Her hands were shaking.
"Don't ever do that," she gritted.
I lifted the soaked material, feeling my stomach churn when I caught sight of the two inch gash. The knife fell, blade down, between my legs.
I looked up as she stepped over me. "Where are you going?"
"Home." She was tightening the strings on her mask. "Have fun finding your way back."
"What are you - " I tried to sit up, but I was tugged back down. The knife that had fallen had caught the edge of my pants, nailing me to the roots below me.
I got it out easily, but when I stood up, my head started swimming. The cut on my stomach was worsening, the forest was darkening and I had no idea where she went.
She didn't want to kill me. And it wouldn't be her fault if I died right there, crumpled against the tree that didn't look so beautiful anymore.
I just wish I had gotten to see her face before it happened.
A/N: Morrison, a romantic? It's possible. He's fucked up anyway. Review.