12-02-2013, 09:39 PM
The color drained from Jensen's face. But it was real. It was real? Wasn't it?
His eyes fell as though the answers he sought were hidden beneath the dull sheen of an otherwise ordinary table, and his heart pounded while the rest of Jon and Ömer's conversation flattened to words indiscernible darting back and forth.
A sort of cold panic soon grasped at his heels, and clawed its way slowly toward his heart, until he was fastened in place as securely as if the handcuffs still bolted him down. It had been real! He wanted to shake and shiver and scream with frustration for tossing his emotions back and forth these last few days. Ömer's pictures proved it was real! An old woman with a chihuahua - oh Lord Almighty, how he dread to know what happened to that chihuahua - had not a figment of his imagination.
But then there had been the heartbroken ache in Jessika's voice on the phone. 'We'll get you the help you need,' she'd promised. Jensen rubbed palms now wet with worry against his pant legs, and his brow furrowed painfully low. An angel in his dreams? Black demons in the basement? A kid running without a scratch on him? Was it all... in his head?
He scrubbed his hands through his hair, kneading his scalp, and silently begging for answers. But no matter how hard he tried to close that door on sanity, a window of doubt always blew open elsewhere in the house. He'd seen the words Jon wrote on the air. He felt a presence, daunting and merciless, even now. These things were real. No matter how nice it'd be to throw in the towel and claim crazy, Jensen unfortunately knew he was sane.
He sought out Jon's gaze, but the heat of doubt had dimmed it to a sole remaining question. Why craft this tale of woe for Ömer's sake? What was going on that Jensen did not realize?
Heartfelt interest in Ömer's answer for Jon's final inquiry returned his attention to the visitor. He'd seemed on the verge of sprinting a moment ago, nearly as horrified he'd encountered monsters as the street kids had been, but now he swallowed his unease, licked his lips, and returned to the table. But not to sit. He didn't appear to buy Jon's explanation either.
Ömer's palms pressed to the cold surface and he leaned in, somehow at a safe distance between both Jon and himself, but it was to Jensen he addressed, voice tight. "Do you think you could have killed her?"
The question pretty much smacked the remaining breath from Jensen's lungs. Which was alright. There wasn't that much left in there anyway. "Could I have killed her?"
He answered, horrified himself now.
"I.. I can't even..,"
he looked to Jon for help and scrubbed long hair once more from his face. Whatever that thing was, eating little kids was probably bad, and it's not like a guy sits around and ponders what he can and can't kill, but his lawyer would probably advise against saying either way. "Uh.. I don't know,"
he finally offered an olive branch. It was the best answer he had. And true as the day he was born. He had no idea what he could do.
Omer straightened, internalizing the reaction. A few moments later, he offered a thanks tightened by additional things he chose not to say, and took his leave.
Jensen watched the door close behind him and exhaled a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Uhh. That was ... strange."
He shifted, unaware of his own naivety, toward Jon. And for the night Jensen had, strange was kind of an understatement.
His eyes fell as though the answers he sought were hidden beneath the dull sheen of an otherwise ordinary table, and his heart pounded while the rest of Jon and Ömer's conversation flattened to words indiscernible darting back and forth.
A sort of cold panic soon grasped at his heels, and clawed its way slowly toward his heart, until he was fastened in place as securely as if the handcuffs still bolted him down. It had been real! He wanted to shake and shiver and scream with frustration for tossing his emotions back and forth these last few days. Ömer's pictures proved it was real! An old woman with a chihuahua - oh Lord Almighty, how he dread to know what happened to that chihuahua - had not a figment of his imagination.
But then there had been the heartbroken ache in Jessika's voice on the phone. 'We'll get you the help you need,' she'd promised. Jensen rubbed palms now wet with worry against his pant legs, and his brow furrowed painfully low. An angel in his dreams? Black demons in the basement? A kid running without a scratch on him? Was it all... in his head?
He scrubbed his hands through his hair, kneading his scalp, and silently begging for answers. But no matter how hard he tried to close that door on sanity, a window of doubt always blew open elsewhere in the house. He'd seen the words Jon wrote on the air. He felt a presence, daunting and merciless, even now. These things were real. No matter how nice it'd be to throw in the towel and claim crazy, Jensen unfortunately knew he was sane.
He sought out Jon's gaze, but the heat of doubt had dimmed it to a sole remaining question. Why craft this tale of woe for Ömer's sake? What was going on that Jensen did not realize?
Heartfelt interest in Ömer's answer for Jon's final inquiry returned his attention to the visitor. He'd seemed on the verge of sprinting a moment ago, nearly as horrified he'd encountered monsters as the street kids had been, but now he swallowed his unease, licked his lips, and returned to the table. But not to sit. He didn't appear to buy Jon's explanation either.
Ömer's palms pressed to the cold surface and he leaned in, somehow at a safe distance between both Jon and himself, but it was to Jensen he addressed, voice tight. "Do you think you could have killed her?"
The question pretty much smacked the remaining breath from Jensen's lungs. Which was alright. There wasn't that much left in there anyway. "Could I have killed her?"
He answered, horrified himself now.
"I.. I can't even..,"
he looked to Jon for help and scrubbed long hair once more from his face. Whatever that thing was, eating little kids was probably bad, and it's not like a guy sits around and ponders what he can and can't kill, but his lawyer would probably advise against saying either way. "Uh.. I don't know,"
he finally offered an olive branch. It was the best answer he had. And true as the day he was born. He had no idea what he could do.
Omer straightened, internalizing the reaction. A few moments later, he offered a thanks tightened by additional things he chose not to say, and took his leave.
Jensen watched the door close behind him and exhaled a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Uhh. That was ... strange."
He shifted, unaware of his own naivety, toward Jon. And for the night Jensen had, strange was kind of an understatement.