Something shivered under the huddle of dirty covers on the bed, and a hand reached out to scrabble for the watch on the table by the side. It was cold in the room; the creaking radiator in the corner was switched off and there was no other source of heat. That didn't make much difference to Aiden, though; he was always freezing, especially early in the morning. Drugs kickstarted his system and got him moving, but right now he felt stiff and as though there was ice moving through his veins. In the drawer compartment of the bedside table, there was a packet of cocaine, but the question was, could he actually physically move to reach it? The duvet suddenly felt like it was made of concrete, and he couldn't bring himself to force it off completely and expose himself to the chill of the room. He was cold enough as it was.
At last, he managed to bring the watch close to his face. It was midday, and his stomach was rumbling, protesting against the lack of food he'd put into his system over the past few days. That more than anything was what gave him the strength to sit up at last, hissing in a sharp breath as the covers slipped off him and the cold really struck. Feeling it right through to his bones, he used a trembling hand to open the drawer and found the packet he had wanted; it didn't take him long to inhale a line, and he instantly felt much better. The head rush was immediate, and so was the relief to his shivering and trembling body.
He felt strong enough now to get out of bed and pull on some jeans and a shirt. They were tangled in a heap at the bottom of his bed; he had long ago given up on little things like personal hygiene, for example. There had been someone once who had caused him to care very much about what he looked like and how attractive he appeared, but that was a long, long time ago now, and lost in the stains of the things he had done since then. There was blood on these hands, and she was better off without him - she had said as much herself.
A crumpled packet of cigarettes was sitting on the bedside table, and he lit up, deciding that he didn't care in the slightest if he triggered smoke alarms. Did this motel room even have them installed? He doubted it. The nicotine was a relief to his system, but it wasn't enough to fill the gaping hole in his stomach, and he pushed his hair out of his face, thinking about it. For food he needed money, and that was just one of the many things that he didn't have, except perhaps one or two crumpled notes in his pocket. They would have to do; he was starving.
He locked the door behind him as he stepped into the motel hallway, but there wasn't much point. There was nothing in his room to steal except mess; he ensured to keep his drugs and what meagre cash he had on his person at all times. Slipping the key into his pocket, he made his way out onto the street - there was a cheap food joint close by, and that would fill him up for now. Ordering something cheap, he sat at one of the plastic tables in the weak sunshine outside, and began to eat, forgetting everything and everyone except the fact that he was finally, finally going to get rid of his aching hunger.
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A Thousand Miles [Closed]
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A Thousand Miles [Closed] ( )
by St.Jimmy on Tue Sep 01, 2009 3:04 pm
Last edited by St.Jimmy on Wed Sep 02, 2009 9:45 am, edited 1 time in total.
my girlies;;
laurenn ;; larii ;; laurie ;; charlie ;; becky ;; beth ;; illy ;; sessi ;; rachael ;; kiers
may i waste your time too?
laurenn ;; larii ;; laurie ;; charlie ;; becky ;; beth ;; illy ;; sessi ;; rachael ;; kiers
may i waste your time too?
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St.Jimmy - Member for 4 years
Re: A Thousand Miles [Closed] ( )
by DyingHere on Tue Sep 01, 2009 8:14 pm
Lt. Danielle Harper had been driving for hours; exactly how many, she didn't know, but nor did she care. All she knew was that the sun had risen and set at least twice, and she hadn't stopped yet. She was tired, bordering on exhausted, but she ignored the voice in the back of her mind begging her to sleep; the sooner she got to Clanton, the sooner she could investigate this guy and leave.
The last time she'd visited the city, it had ended pretty badly; at the time, she'd been a bit of a drug addict, and was none too shy about it. The guy she'd been with - but, no, she wasn't going to go there, because he wasn't going to be there. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, her knuckles paling to a sickly white, as her car rolled past the weather-beaten "Welcome To Clanton!" sign. Wonderful.
She drove around the city for about half an hour before she found a motel that didn't look at all familiar - the last thing she wanted was to prompt the memories that were already flooding back in response to the return to this most hated and avoided place - but eventually she found a relatively new-looking one, pulled up outside, got her overnight bag out of the trunk of her car and checked in. What she needed was a good night's sleep. The reason she was back here could be faced tomorrow.
The sleep that she had been so desperate for, and the reprieve she had been so confident it would bring, didn't help. Whereas normally she slept soundly and dreamlessly, that night all she saw was his face. No matter where her dreams took her, he was always there - never approaching her, never speaking, just there, watching her from a distance with a solemn look on his face. Damn him to Hell.
Once she was up, showered, and feeling much better about the world in general, Danielle sat on the edge of the bed, put her head in her hands, and thought about the crappy job she'd been told to do. She had been sent by her superior officer to investigate some guy, a murder suspect, presumed to be involved in the death of a local drug dealer back home in Georgia and a couple of random people who, they thought, had witnessed the crime. One of them had been a doctor, maybe, she didn't know. She'd been given no name, no picture - just an approximate location and instructions to ask for someone who looked 'shady'. Danielle had scoffed at this; there weren't many shady figures in Clanton, but this, her superior officer had pointed out, would probably make their guy just that much more noticeable.
Well, it would have to do. Danielle only had so much time to do this; she had to be out by the day after tomorrow, with or without the suspect. She made her way, bag in hand, to the reception desk to check out, before heading to the parking lot and getting back behind the wheel of her car. She didn't know how she was going to do this, but she had a good idea where to start.
An hour later, she turned into the parking lot of another, much dingier motel, and made her way to the reception desk, where an irritable-looking middle-aged woman glared at her over the top of her magazine.
"Um, hi," Danielle began, a little nervously. "I'm looking for someone, but I don't know his name - can you help me?"
"Not if you don't know his name," was the retort.
"Well... A description, maybe?"
"Can't help you. Sorry."
"How about one of these?" she hedged, waving a warrant cheerfully in the woman's face.
The faintest hint of surprised clouded the receptionist's expression, but then was gone. "Well then."
After a further ten minutes of arguing with the receptionist, and she had a name, - probably false - a room number and, since he was out at the moment, a key. It didn't take her long for her to find his room and let herself in. The place was a mess, and stank of stale alcohol and cigarettes and God knows what else - she didn't want to know. Peeling back the duvet, Danielle soon realised that the sheets underneath were probably worse and put it back; pulling her jacket down as far as it would go, she settled herself on the bed and prepared herself for the wait.
The last time she'd visited the city, it had ended pretty badly; at the time, she'd been a bit of a drug addict, and was none too shy about it. The guy she'd been with - but, no, she wasn't going to go there, because he wasn't going to be there. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, her knuckles paling to a sickly white, as her car rolled past the weather-beaten "Welcome To Clanton!" sign. Wonderful.
She drove around the city for about half an hour before she found a motel that didn't look at all familiar - the last thing she wanted was to prompt the memories that were already flooding back in response to the return to this most hated and avoided place - but eventually she found a relatively new-looking one, pulled up outside, got her overnight bag out of the trunk of her car and checked in. What she needed was a good night's sleep. The reason she was back here could be faced tomorrow.
**
The sleep that she had been so desperate for, and the reprieve she had been so confident it would bring, didn't help. Whereas normally she slept soundly and dreamlessly, that night all she saw was his face. No matter where her dreams took her, he was always there - never approaching her, never speaking, just there, watching her from a distance with a solemn look on his face. Damn him to Hell.
Once she was up, showered, and feeling much better about the world in general, Danielle sat on the edge of the bed, put her head in her hands, and thought about the crappy job she'd been told to do. She had been sent by her superior officer to investigate some guy, a murder suspect, presumed to be involved in the death of a local drug dealer back home in Georgia and a couple of random people who, they thought, had witnessed the crime. One of them had been a doctor, maybe, she didn't know. She'd been given no name, no picture - just an approximate location and instructions to ask for someone who looked 'shady'. Danielle had scoffed at this; there weren't many shady figures in Clanton, but this, her superior officer had pointed out, would probably make their guy just that much more noticeable.
Well, it would have to do. Danielle only had so much time to do this; she had to be out by the day after tomorrow, with or without the suspect. She made her way, bag in hand, to the reception desk to check out, before heading to the parking lot and getting back behind the wheel of her car. She didn't know how she was going to do this, but she had a good idea where to start.
**
An hour later, she turned into the parking lot of another, much dingier motel, and made her way to the reception desk, where an irritable-looking middle-aged woman glared at her over the top of her magazine.
"Um, hi," Danielle began, a little nervously. "I'm looking for someone, but I don't know his name - can you help me?"
"Not if you don't know his name," was the retort.
"Well... A description, maybe?"
"Can't help you. Sorry."
"How about one of these?" she hedged, waving a warrant cheerfully in the woman's face.
The faintest hint of surprised clouded the receptionist's expression, but then was gone. "Well then."
After a further ten minutes of arguing with the receptionist, and she had a name, - probably false - a room number and, since he was out at the moment, a key. It didn't take her long for her to find his room and let herself in. The place was a mess, and stank of stale alcohol and cigarettes and God knows what else - she didn't want to know. Peeling back the duvet, Danielle soon realised that the sheets underneath were probably worse and put it back; pulling her jacket down as far as it would go, she settled herself on the bed and prepared herself for the wait.
Mah Peoplies;
Becky && Lauren && Larii && Sammi && Deb
Becky && Lauren && Larii && Sammi && Deb
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DyingHere - Member for 4 years
Re: A Thousand Miles [Closed] ( )
by St.Jimmy on Wed Sep 02, 2009 12:59 pm
A plate of bacon that was dripping in fat and an egg soggy with grease was not the ideal breakfast, but Aiden was far too hungry to complain. Besides, he felt that the saying "you get what you pay for" was applicable here: the meagre amount that this had cost was more than enough reason for it to be bordering on inedible, and he ate it with almost indecent gusto - it was obvious that he was ravenous. Other patrons kept well away from him; with his curtain of greasy hair, pale skin and lightly trembling hands, he was obviously the sort of person whom it was advisable to steer clear of. The waitress brought him the glass of water that he had asked for, and he downed it with his mouth still full of the bacon, then caught her staring at him as she moved to take the orders from the next table. Aiden was well aware that he was eating like he hadn't had food in a week - but that was okay, because he hadn't. The last meal he'd eaten had been around about last Wednesday, and it hadn't even been particularly filling.
All too soon, the food was gone, and he threw down his last scraps of money to pay for it. The greasy meal had filled him up for now, but it had been far from nutritious and he knew that he was going to have to find some way to afford further sustenance later on. For now, he wandered back to the motel for lack of anything better to do; Aiden generally spent his days sitting in his filthy room, spaced out on drugs and trying very hard to forget. Whenever he did allow his memories to creep up on him, usually in the dark of the night when his unprotected mind was inches from sleep, he was plagued by a series of images as clear as a film showing on a HD television: a dark haired girl curled up in his arms; watching her back as she walked out of their house - and his life - for the very last time; seeing the world through a kaleidoscope blur of drugs as the gun in his hand went off once, twice, three times, four - no. No, he would not go there again, not whilst he could help it in the bright of day; he would build the usual blocks against those thoughts, and he would make sure not to dwell on them again.
Even despite this promise to himself, however, he was still distracted when he stepped over the broken glass littering the pavement outside his motel and pushed his way into the reception. The woman behind the desk looked up as he entered, but he walked past without looking at her - his key was in his pocket, after all. Why would he need to talk to her? "Mr. Fields," he heard her say, and her tone contained a warning, but he didn't look back. Whoever this Mr. Fields was, he was probably going to be thrown out for not paying or something, and Aiden didn't particularly want to watch someone else's misery. "Mr. Fields," she said again, a little more insistently, but he had reached the swing doors by that point, so he didn't look back.
The corridor stank of cigarettes and something that was suspiciously like vomit, and Aiden wrinkled his nose as he walked, trying hard not to breathe. His stomach was protesting against the smell; it already had enough to contend with after he had given it the cheap and greasy food to digest. The last thing this corridor needed was him throwing up all over it as well, so he tried to ignore the rising nausea and instead focussed on something that was nagging at him a little bit. The receptionist had been talking in a tone that was not, he realized now, a reprimand - it had been more like a warning. And he hadn't heard anyone come in behind him, so who the hell had she been talking to? The name Mr. Fields wandered across his mind in search of something to connect with.
He had reached his door by this point, and just as he slid his hand into his pocket for his key, he was suddenly hit over the head by a blindingly obvious realization. John Fields. That was the name he had signed in under - he was Mr. Fields. The receptionist had been trying to warn of him of something, but what? And then he realized that his door was slightly ajar. There was somebody in his room.
His hand clenched around the key in his pocket, the jagged edges of metal cutting into his palm. He could walk out of here now, and find somewhere else to stay - but all of his clothes were in there, and even though they were filthy and ripped for the most part, they were all he had. Was he really going to be driven away from what was now his home by the possibility that there was somebody unfriendly on the other side of the door, and the paranoia that was born of bad memories? Of course he wasn't. Years alone had hardened him; he no longer particularly cared what happened to him. With that thought firmly imprinted in his mind, he kicked the door open and then drew back slightly, expecting to find somebody with a gun on him.
What he didn't expect was to see a dark-haired woman sitting neatly on the edge of his bed, looking towards the door.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked in surprise, his mind clearly not working to its full capabilities at the moment. If he had thought hard enough, he would have realized that the warning contained in the receptionist's voice could only mean one thing when linked to this young woman: police. At the moment, he was simply bewildered to find her sitting in his room - and there was something oddly familiar about her, too. He couldn't put his finger on what it was, and the line of cocaine he had taken was making it difficult to think in general, so he simply stood in the doorway and stared at her, trying to work out what the hell she was doing in his room.
All too soon, the food was gone, and he threw down his last scraps of money to pay for it. The greasy meal had filled him up for now, but it had been far from nutritious and he knew that he was going to have to find some way to afford further sustenance later on. For now, he wandered back to the motel for lack of anything better to do; Aiden generally spent his days sitting in his filthy room, spaced out on drugs and trying very hard to forget. Whenever he did allow his memories to creep up on him, usually in the dark of the night when his unprotected mind was inches from sleep, he was plagued by a series of images as clear as a film showing on a HD television: a dark haired girl curled up in his arms; watching her back as she walked out of their house - and his life - for the very last time; seeing the world through a kaleidoscope blur of drugs as the gun in his hand went off once, twice, three times, four - no. No, he would not go there again, not whilst he could help it in the bright of day; he would build the usual blocks against those thoughts, and he would make sure not to dwell on them again.
Even despite this promise to himself, however, he was still distracted when he stepped over the broken glass littering the pavement outside his motel and pushed his way into the reception. The woman behind the desk looked up as he entered, but he walked past without looking at her - his key was in his pocket, after all. Why would he need to talk to her? "Mr. Fields," he heard her say, and her tone contained a warning, but he didn't look back. Whoever this Mr. Fields was, he was probably going to be thrown out for not paying or something, and Aiden didn't particularly want to watch someone else's misery. "Mr. Fields," she said again, a little more insistently, but he had reached the swing doors by that point, so he didn't look back.
The corridor stank of cigarettes and something that was suspiciously like vomit, and Aiden wrinkled his nose as he walked, trying hard not to breathe. His stomach was protesting against the smell; it already had enough to contend with after he had given it the cheap and greasy food to digest. The last thing this corridor needed was him throwing up all over it as well, so he tried to ignore the rising nausea and instead focussed on something that was nagging at him a little bit. The receptionist had been talking in a tone that was not, he realized now, a reprimand - it had been more like a warning. And he hadn't heard anyone come in behind him, so who the hell had she been talking to? The name Mr. Fields wandered across his mind in search of something to connect with.
He had reached his door by this point, and just as he slid his hand into his pocket for his key, he was suddenly hit over the head by a blindingly obvious realization. John Fields. That was the name he had signed in under - he was Mr. Fields. The receptionist had been trying to warn of him of something, but what? And then he realized that his door was slightly ajar. There was somebody in his room.
His hand clenched around the key in his pocket, the jagged edges of metal cutting into his palm. He could walk out of here now, and find somewhere else to stay - but all of his clothes were in there, and even though they were filthy and ripped for the most part, they were all he had. Was he really going to be driven away from what was now his home by the possibility that there was somebody unfriendly on the other side of the door, and the paranoia that was born of bad memories? Of course he wasn't. Years alone had hardened him; he no longer particularly cared what happened to him. With that thought firmly imprinted in his mind, he kicked the door open and then drew back slightly, expecting to find somebody with a gun on him.
What he didn't expect was to see a dark-haired woman sitting neatly on the edge of his bed, looking towards the door.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked in surprise, his mind clearly not working to its full capabilities at the moment. If he had thought hard enough, he would have realized that the warning contained in the receptionist's voice could only mean one thing when linked to this young woman: police. At the moment, he was simply bewildered to find her sitting in his room - and there was something oddly familiar about her, too. He couldn't put his finger on what it was, and the line of cocaine he had taken was making it difficult to think in general, so he simply stood in the doorway and stared at her, trying to work out what the hell she was doing in his room.
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St.Jimmy - Member for 4 years
Re: A Thousand Miles [Closed] ( )
by DyingHere on Wed Sep 02, 2009 7:59 pm
Danielle sat up a little straighter on the filthy bed, re-fixing her gaze on the door as it began to swing open, and her jaw dropped. She'd been expecting a lot of things to walk through that door. She'd been expecting someone who dressed in clothes that only a good bonfire could help, someone whose eyes were wide and fearful, who constantly looked over their shoulder, who was probably a drug addict, someone who would break into a sweat and try to bolt the second she revealed her reason behind lowering herself to be seen in this craphole - in other words, a murder suspect. What she hadn't been expecting was for her ex to walk - no, stumble - into the room and fix her with a confused stare.
"Who the hell are you?"
That voice. Not that it was necessary; he may have been about five years older and more drugged up than she'd ever seen him, but it was instantly obvious who he was. However, it was his voice, wary and angered and just a little bit scared, that did it; hearing him speak was what finally brought the walls she'd spent five years building crashing to the ground, and opened the floodgate. Oh f--
They had been nineteen when they'd first got together. She had been known as Danni back then, and him Aiden; to this day she didn't know if that was his real name, although she had given him hers. They'd met right in this very city, in a dingy bar downtown, and, ironically enough, two years later Clanton had also witnessed their downfall. Although it had turned out that they both called Atlanta, Georgia their home, over their two years together the pair often took a few days out from their not-so-busy lives to return to Clanton - mainly because there were better dealers there than at home.
Okay, so they'd been low-lives, heavy on the drugs and the alcohol, and although she was still fairly certain that Aiden had been happy with who he'd turned out to be, Danni hadn't stopped to look at what she'd become until she was forced to. They'd chosen to stay in one of Clanton's more repulsing motels due to money problems that they never noticed until their supply of heroin and cocaine began to dwindle; she'd gone down to reception to ask for something - the actual item escaped her now - and had heard them whispering behind the door. 'Junkie', they'd called her, and it had hit her real hard. It wasn't who she'd wanted to be. So they'd fought that night, and they fought even more in the car after she'd demanded he drive her back to Atlanta, and then he crawled into a gutter someplace and she'd straightened herself out and became Lieutenant Danielle Harper. She hadn't seen or heard from him in five years. Until now.
Danielle bit back a strangled squeak of horror, and tried to focus. There appeared to have been a spark of recognition behind his eyes, but it had only lasted a moment; he'd probably passed it off as a trick of the light - or the drugs. She wasn't surprised that he didn't recognise her. A lot about her had changed in the last five years: her dark hair was shorter, and less messy, for one thing; for another, her eyes were a lot clearer than he'd ever seen them. The way she held herself was different, too; taller, prouder, like she knew exactly who she was and exactly what she was doing and she wasn't planning on letting anything stand in her way.
Offering a silent prayer to whatever God she believed in today that he wouldn't realise who she was until well after she'd left him behind, Danielle cleared her throat and answered his question. "I am Lt. Harper, Mr. Fields," she winced mentally as she forced her tongue to form the name that was so obviously not his. "-and I would like to ask you some questions, if you don't mind. Just routine, of course, nothing to worry about." Unless you're hiding a body or four, she added silently.
Smiling, Danielle gestured to a spot on the bed beside her, inviting him to sit down. "I think I'm just going to jump right in here. Hope you don't mind, I'm on the clock." Her smile widened, feigning innocence. "So, Mr. Fields, I'm going to take a not-so-wild guess here and tell you that you're not from Clanon. How long ago did you arrive here, and how long do you plan to stay?"
She had to admit to herself, she realised with a jolt, that other than the ex-boyfriend thing, everything she had been expecting had walked through that door - including the murder suspect part. But he was the wrong guy, surely? The Aiden she'd known had been one hell of a drug addict and a little on the violent side when he'd had too much to drink, sure, but he wasn't a murderer. Was he?
"Who the hell are you?"
That voice. Not that it was necessary; he may have been about five years older and more drugged up than she'd ever seen him, but it was instantly obvious who he was. However, it was his voice, wary and angered and just a little bit scared, that did it; hearing him speak was what finally brought the walls she'd spent five years building crashing to the ground, and opened the floodgate. Oh f--
**
They had been nineteen when they'd first got together. She had been known as Danni back then, and him Aiden; to this day she didn't know if that was his real name, although she had given him hers. They'd met right in this very city, in a dingy bar downtown, and, ironically enough, two years later Clanton had also witnessed their downfall. Although it had turned out that they both called Atlanta, Georgia their home, over their two years together the pair often took a few days out from their not-so-busy lives to return to Clanton - mainly because there were better dealers there than at home.
Okay, so they'd been low-lives, heavy on the drugs and the alcohol, and although she was still fairly certain that Aiden had been happy with who he'd turned out to be, Danni hadn't stopped to look at what she'd become until she was forced to. They'd chosen to stay in one of Clanton's more repulsing motels due to money problems that they never noticed until their supply of heroin and cocaine began to dwindle; she'd gone down to reception to ask for something - the actual item escaped her now - and had heard them whispering behind the door. 'Junkie', they'd called her, and it had hit her real hard. It wasn't who she'd wanted to be. So they'd fought that night, and they fought even more in the car after she'd demanded he drive her back to Atlanta, and then he crawled into a gutter someplace and she'd straightened herself out and became Lieutenant Danielle Harper. She hadn't seen or heard from him in five years. Until now.
**
Danielle bit back a strangled squeak of horror, and tried to focus. There appeared to have been a spark of recognition behind his eyes, but it had only lasted a moment; he'd probably passed it off as a trick of the light - or the drugs. She wasn't surprised that he didn't recognise her. A lot about her had changed in the last five years: her dark hair was shorter, and less messy, for one thing; for another, her eyes were a lot clearer than he'd ever seen them. The way she held herself was different, too; taller, prouder, like she knew exactly who she was and exactly what she was doing and she wasn't planning on letting anything stand in her way.
Offering a silent prayer to whatever God she believed in today that he wouldn't realise who she was until well after she'd left him behind, Danielle cleared her throat and answered his question. "I am Lt. Harper, Mr. Fields," she winced mentally as she forced her tongue to form the name that was so obviously not his. "-and I would like to ask you some questions, if you don't mind. Just routine, of course, nothing to worry about." Unless you're hiding a body or four, she added silently.
Smiling, Danielle gestured to a spot on the bed beside her, inviting him to sit down. "I think I'm just going to jump right in here. Hope you don't mind, I'm on the clock." Her smile widened, feigning innocence. "So, Mr. Fields, I'm going to take a not-so-wild guess here and tell you that you're not from Clanon. How long ago did you arrive here, and how long do you plan to stay?"
She had to admit to herself, she realised with a jolt, that other than the ex-boyfriend thing, everything she had been expecting had walked through that door - including the murder suspect part. But he was the wrong guy, surely? The Aiden she'd known had been one hell of a drug addict and a little on the violent side when he'd had too much to drink, sure, but he wasn't a murderer. Was he?
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DyingHere - Member for 4 years
Re: A Thousand Miles [Closed] ( )
by St.Jimmy on Thu Sep 03, 2009 12:36 pm
Lieutenant Harper. Aiden paused with his hand still resting on the door frame, hastily wiping his face clear of what had just moments ago been an expression very similar to that of a deer caught in headlights. Lieutenant. Police. Even after all of his hard work to disguise himself, to crawl into the woodwork and never come back out, to build wall after wall against the painful memories of a few short years ago, they had found him. They had found him, and they weren't going to let him go. One murder was bad enough - add the deaths of four innocent witnesses and both possession and distribution of Class A drugs, and he was probably looking at death row. For a moment, his whole body tensed and he prepared to run, but where would that leave him? Clearly guilty. He had no choice other than to comply, or else he might as well just tell her that he had done it and face the consequences right now.
Stepping somewhat warily into the room, in case she wasn't really alone, he closed the door behind him and moved forwards, but didn't sit where she had indicated. Instead, he surveyed her for a moment. She was brave, he thought, to come into a dive like this and calmly sit there, waiting for a suspected drug-addled murderer to come home and find his unexpected visitor, and there really was something naggingly familiar about her - something about the shape of her mouth, and her eyes, and the sound of her voice. After a further moment of scrutiny, he realized that she was once more talking to him, and he looked up to meet her eyes as she informed him that he wasn't from Clanton. How could she know that? Mr. Fields didn't exist - unless she knew that he was operating under a fake name, then he felt he was safe under the innocent guise of John Fields. The only problem was, John Fields wasn't living like an innocent man. If she was an experienced officer, the lack of clarity in his eyes would give him away immediately - he had taken cocaine, so his pupils were dilated and his eyes were hazy. It wouldn't take an experienced officer to deduce that he was on drugs simply from the state of his room, however: there were snapped needles in the corner and other empty cocaine packets and drug detritus littered the floor like some twisted version of a teenager's messy bedroom. Yes, he was definitely going to have to tread carefully with her.
"You're right," he said, deciding not to pointlessly argue with her about whether or not he was from Clanton. It would take her about five minutes to check with the local schools and learn that no John Fields - or at least, no John Fields with his description - had ever attended any of them. Thinking fast, he did what he did best and started to lie. "I've been here about a year, maybe. My folks are from out west - Phoenix, in Arizona? Grew up there until I was ten and then we lived in Lincoln for two years. My dad's job was taking him out west again and I didn't want to go, so I stayed in Nebraska with my grandparents until I was eighteen, then I moved to New York for a few years. Got a job with one of the tourist agencies out there, but the company's gone bust now. New York didn't suit me anyway; big cities aren't my thing. So I moved here about a year back, but as you can probably see, I've fallen on hard times at the moment, so I've just been staying in motels for twelve months, trying to get a job." It wouldn't take much investigation for his whole story to fall apart, but it would take some, and by that point, he would be far away from here, living under a different name and quite possibly a different appearance. A cheap hair dye and a different style could do the world of good if he was trying to keep his head down. All he had to do was get her out of his room, and then John Fields could disappear - just like Aiden Wheatley.
"Why are you investigating me, Lieutenant?" he asked bluntly, deciding that there was no point playing completely innocent. The state of his room was more than enough to tell her that he wasn't a clean-cut businessman or something like that, but perhaps he could pull off the image of someone just dabbling in drugs to deal with depression. If he could just convince her for the time being that he didn't know anything about any murders, then he had the feeling that he would be able to cut and run; surely she wouldn't charge him for possession if it didn't aid her much more serious investigation? "Is it the drugs? I'm not going to lie to you - you can see I've been taking a few. But I'm signing into rehab tomorrow, and I'm going to get myself back on the straight and narrow. I've been struggling a little the past few years; a nasty break-up with my girlfriend" - which was perfectly true, he thought - "and just being out of a job with no place to go has been difficult. But I'm sorting all of that out now, so there's really no need to - oh my God." He stopped speaking suddenly, staring at her. Something that she had said earlier had finally processed in his mind - a perfectly normal handful of words, but a handful of words that had a huge impact on him. Nothing to worry about. It was the way she had said it; his mind flashed back unbidden to six years ago, sitting with his back against a bathroom door and feeling like he was about to die. The second hand on his watch had seemed to be taking forever to make the journey around the twelve numbers, each tiny movement of it counting away the time he might have left as a man with no responsibilities at all. At last, the time it had said on the box they had bought together was up, and he got to his feet, knocking on the door with his heart in his mouth. She opened it at last, and the words that she said had stayed with him forever: it's negative. Nothing to worry about.
Nothing to worry about. Four words that had meant he wasn't going to mess up a baby; four words that had quite possibly saved his life. And now here they were again, spoken by a police officer with the same voice and the same eyes and the same mouth as the girl he had loved five years ago. Those same four words that had once saved him from a pregnancy scare were here again to change his life. Nothing to worry about. He stared at her, finding all of those little features that had once been as familiar to him as his own mind: the shape of her face, the way she smiled, the slight flicker in her eyes that meant that she was lying. So she did know more about him than she was letting on - but right now, that was the least of Aiden's concerns.
"Danni?" he said, his voice laced with complete disbelief. How could the girl who had walked out on him five years ago without a backwards glance be sitting in his filthy room now, with the purposes of investigating him? But it was her - there was no doubt about that. How many times had he laid awake with her asleep in his arms, just lying there and watching her face, committing every detail of it to memory and wondering how he had ever been lucky enough to have her? Countless times. And now here she was again: clean and with eyes that were clearer than he had ever seen them, and with a healthy flush about her face that was certainly absent from his own. So she had managed to kick the drugs and move on with her life? Good for her. He was still down on his hands and knees in the gutter, picking through trash to find a few dropped notes with which to buy his precious narcotics. Had she recognized him? He didn't know - but then, she ought to have done. It had only been five years, and he hadn't changed in the slightest. He was still the same Aiden she had walked out on; the same Aiden who hadn't been able to cope without her.
Nothing to worry about? He had never heard four words that sounded so false in all his life. There was everything to worry about. Danni was here in his room, but that meant nothing - she might as well have been sitting in a motel on the other side of the world. He hadn't changed, and she had, and he was never going to get her back.
Stepping somewhat warily into the room, in case she wasn't really alone, he closed the door behind him and moved forwards, but didn't sit where she had indicated. Instead, he surveyed her for a moment. She was brave, he thought, to come into a dive like this and calmly sit there, waiting for a suspected drug-addled murderer to come home and find his unexpected visitor, and there really was something naggingly familiar about her - something about the shape of her mouth, and her eyes, and the sound of her voice. After a further moment of scrutiny, he realized that she was once more talking to him, and he looked up to meet her eyes as she informed him that he wasn't from Clanton. How could she know that? Mr. Fields didn't exist - unless she knew that he was operating under a fake name, then he felt he was safe under the innocent guise of John Fields. The only problem was, John Fields wasn't living like an innocent man. If she was an experienced officer, the lack of clarity in his eyes would give him away immediately - he had taken cocaine, so his pupils were dilated and his eyes were hazy. It wouldn't take an experienced officer to deduce that he was on drugs simply from the state of his room, however: there were snapped needles in the corner and other empty cocaine packets and drug detritus littered the floor like some twisted version of a teenager's messy bedroom. Yes, he was definitely going to have to tread carefully with her.
"You're right," he said, deciding not to pointlessly argue with her about whether or not he was from Clanton. It would take her about five minutes to check with the local schools and learn that no John Fields - or at least, no John Fields with his description - had ever attended any of them. Thinking fast, he did what he did best and started to lie. "I've been here about a year, maybe. My folks are from out west - Phoenix, in Arizona? Grew up there until I was ten and then we lived in Lincoln for two years. My dad's job was taking him out west again and I didn't want to go, so I stayed in Nebraska with my grandparents until I was eighteen, then I moved to New York for a few years. Got a job with one of the tourist agencies out there, but the company's gone bust now. New York didn't suit me anyway; big cities aren't my thing. So I moved here about a year back, but as you can probably see, I've fallen on hard times at the moment, so I've just been staying in motels for twelve months, trying to get a job." It wouldn't take much investigation for his whole story to fall apart, but it would take some, and by that point, he would be far away from here, living under a different name and quite possibly a different appearance. A cheap hair dye and a different style could do the world of good if he was trying to keep his head down. All he had to do was get her out of his room, and then John Fields could disappear - just like Aiden Wheatley.
"Why are you investigating me, Lieutenant?" he asked bluntly, deciding that there was no point playing completely innocent. The state of his room was more than enough to tell her that he wasn't a clean-cut businessman or something like that, but perhaps he could pull off the image of someone just dabbling in drugs to deal with depression. If he could just convince her for the time being that he didn't know anything about any murders, then he had the feeling that he would be able to cut and run; surely she wouldn't charge him for possession if it didn't aid her much more serious investigation? "Is it the drugs? I'm not going to lie to you - you can see I've been taking a few. But I'm signing into rehab tomorrow, and I'm going to get myself back on the straight and narrow. I've been struggling a little the past few years; a nasty break-up with my girlfriend" - which was perfectly true, he thought - "and just being out of a job with no place to go has been difficult. But I'm sorting all of that out now, so there's really no need to - oh my God." He stopped speaking suddenly, staring at her. Something that she had said earlier had finally processed in his mind - a perfectly normal handful of words, but a handful of words that had a huge impact on him. Nothing to worry about. It was the way she had said it; his mind flashed back unbidden to six years ago, sitting with his back against a bathroom door and feeling like he was about to die. The second hand on his watch had seemed to be taking forever to make the journey around the twelve numbers, each tiny movement of it counting away the time he might have left as a man with no responsibilities at all. At last, the time it had said on the box they had bought together was up, and he got to his feet, knocking on the door with his heart in his mouth. She opened it at last, and the words that she said had stayed with him forever: it's negative. Nothing to worry about.
Nothing to worry about. Four words that had meant he wasn't going to mess up a baby; four words that had quite possibly saved his life. And now here they were again, spoken by a police officer with the same voice and the same eyes and the same mouth as the girl he had loved five years ago. Those same four words that had once saved him from a pregnancy scare were here again to change his life. Nothing to worry about. He stared at her, finding all of those little features that had once been as familiar to him as his own mind: the shape of her face, the way she smiled, the slight flicker in her eyes that meant that she was lying. So she did know more about him than she was letting on - but right now, that was the least of Aiden's concerns.
"Danni?" he said, his voice laced with complete disbelief. How could the girl who had walked out on him five years ago without a backwards glance be sitting in his filthy room now, with the purposes of investigating him? But it was her - there was no doubt about that. How many times had he laid awake with her asleep in his arms, just lying there and watching her face, committing every detail of it to memory and wondering how he had ever been lucky enough to have her? Countless times. And now here she was again: clean and with eyes that were clearer than he had ever seen them, and with a healthy flush about her face that was certainly absent from his own. So she had managed to kick the drugs and move on with her life? Good for her. He was still down on his hands and knees in the gutter, picking through trash to find a few dropped notes with which to buy his precious narcotics. Had she recognized him? He didn't know - but then, she ought to have done. It had only been five years, and he hadn't changed in the slightest. He was still the same Aiden she had walked out on; the same Aiden who hadn't been able to cope without her.
Nothing to worry about? He had never heard four words that sounded so false in all his life. There was everything to worry about. Danni was here in his room, but that meant nothing - she might as well have been sitting in a motel on the other side of the world. He hadn't changed, and she had, and he was never going to get her back.
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St.Jimmy - Member for 4 years
Re: A Thousand Miles [Closed] ( )
by DyingHere on Thu Sep 03, 2009 7:35 pm
"Danni?"
Danielle had dropped her gaze to the floor in defeat as Aiden had insisted on telling her a pack of lies about where he was from and why he was back in Clanton, but her eyes snapped up and locked onto his as he uttered the only name he knew her by. She gaped at him. She wasn't about to deny who she was, that was for sure, but she wasn't exactly certain how she should react to him recognising her. Get angry and shout at him? Or cry, perhaps. Right now she really didn't know which one she wanted to do more - but then again, she realised, it looked like they were going to be here for a while. There was probably time for both. Right now, though, the anger part was looking really good.
"It's 'Danielle' now, actually," she said calmly, confirming what he already knew. Her eyes burned with fury, but her voice was pure ice. "And I'd prefer it if you remembered that." She stood up slowly, kicking a pile of God-knows-what out of her way and sending a needle rolling along the floor, and began to pace in front of a very perplexed Aiden. "You haven't changed a bit, have you Aiden?" She gestured around the room, as if to prove her point. "You're still drugged up, still living moment-to-moment in shitholes like this, still running from the cops. But for different reasons this time, right?" She stopped in the middle of the floor, hesitating for a moment, and when she spoke again she appeared to have lost all of her patience for smalltalk. "You know what? I haven't been to this city in five years. Five years, Aiden. I didn't want to come back, either, but you see, there's these people that died. Five of them. A dealer, a doctor, and three people in between. And I was sent here to investigate someone. Their murder suspect. You."
Danielle sighed and started walking again. She couldn't look at him, at the person he'd become - but she didn't mind tearing him to pieces. "And you can't really hide it, either, can you? I mean, aside from the fact that you've just told me a bunch of crap about a guy who doesn't even exist and a relatively 'new' drug problem, you never could lie to me, Aiden. So tell me something, 'cause I think I deserve to know." Stopping once again, she turned to face him; there were tears in her eyes - of anger or sadness she didn't know - as she asked him the last of her questions. "Was it you? Did you kill those people? Are you a murderer now? Is that what five years has done to you? Are you--" Her voice broke and she looked away from him, unable to continue. Apparently the crying part of her plan had given up waiting and had taken over the angry part's turn. She didn't really want to know what he had to say; she already knew the answers to her questions, and because of that she felt that she no longer had any time for him. He wasn't the Aiden she'd loved all those years ago anymore.
Danielle had dropped her gaze to the floor in defeat as Aiden had insisted on telling her a pack of lies about where he was from and why he was back in Clanton, but her eyes snapped up and locked onto his as he uttered the only name he knew her by. She gaped at him. She wasn't about to deny who she was, that was for sure, but she wasn't exactly certain how she should react to him recognising her. Get angry and shout at him? Or cry, perhaps. Right now she really didn't know which one she wanted to do more - but then again, she realised, it looked like they were going to be here for a while. There was probably time for both. Right now, though, the anger part was looking really good.
"It's 'Danielle' now, actually," she said calmly, confirming what he already knew. Her eyes burned with fury, but her voice was pure ice. "And I'd prefer it if you remembered that." She stood up slowly, kicking a pile of God-knows-what out of her way and sending a needle rolling along the floor, and began to pace in front of a very perplexed Aiden. "You haven't changed a bit, have you Aiden?" She gestured around the room, as if to prove her point. "You're still drugged up, still living moment-to-moment in shitholes like this, still running from the cops. But for different reasons this time, right?" She stopped in the middle of the floor, hesitating for a moment, and when she spoke again she appeared to have lost all of her patience for smalltalk. "You know what? I haven't been to this city in five years. Five years, Aiden. I didn't want to come back, either, but you see, there's these people that died. Five of them. A dealer, a doctor, and three people in between. And I was sent here to investigate someone. Their murder suspect. You."
Danielle sighed and started walking again. She couldn't look at him, at the person he'd become - but she didn't mind tearing him to pieces. "And you can't really hide it, either, can you? I mean, aside from the fact that you've just told me a bunch of crap about a guy who doesn't even exist and a relatively 'new' drug problem, you never could lie to me, Aiden. So tell me something, 'cause I think I deserve to know." Stopping once again, she turned to face him; there were tears in her eyes - of anger or sadness she didn't know - as she asked him the last of her questions. "Was it you? Did you kill those people? Are you a murderer now? Is that what five years has done to you? Are you--" Her voice broke and she looked away from him, unable to continue. Apparently the crying part of her plan had given up waiting and had taken over the angry part's turn. She didn't really want to know what he had to say; she already knew the answers to her questions, and because of that she felt that she no longer had any time for him. He wasn't the Aiden she'd loved all those years ago anymore.
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DyingHere - Member for 4 years
Re: A Thousand Miles [Closed] ( )
by St.Jimmy on Sat Sep 05, 2009 9:42 am
It had happened during the late evening, the city dappled in the colours of the Georgia sunset as the sun hung low on the horizon in its descent behind the Atlanta skyline. Aiden could remember the reds, oranges and purples very clearly - deep shades accentuated by the drugs he'd taken earlier that day. It was LSD at the time, and the skyscrapers in the distance seemed to be distorting, like some kind of vast scale optical illusion. An Escher picture brought to life. He had been panicking; there was nausea building in his gut and he remembered wishing that the world would stop spinning, just so that he could get a handle on reality and try to work out what he was going to do, because the solution he had come up with earlier that day was now weighing very heavily in his pocket, and only seemed to be making everything worse. The biggest problem of all, of course, was the fact that there was nothing else on his person apart from the thing that was currently occupying so much of his mind - he needed money, and he didn't have it, and that was what was causing his current predicament.
His dealer was waiting in their usual spot - secluded, but not so shady as to be conspicuous. This wasn't a scene from a bad movie, with a guy in a black Sedan waiting for him at the end of a broken down alleyway. It was just two young men, barely older than teenagers, both of them scraping to survive from the dregs that were left to them at the bottom of the barrel, and today, Aiden was going to be putting himself in a very risky position indeed, because desperation led to God only knew what, and his dealer was a desperate man. But then again, you had to be to live this life, and Aiden was desperate too. Proof of that, after all, was sitting in his pocket.
He remembered the way the dealer - Aiden knew his name, but was careful never to think of it; never to allow a personality to become attached to what he had done - had stepped towards him, asking if he had the money. He wasn't sure what had happened next: fear and the hallucinogenic effects of the acid took over, and the next thing he knew he was being threatened, shouted at, pushed up against the wall. There was no other word to describe it: Aiden was terrified. Self-preservation kicked in and the next moment, the gun was in his hand and then it was going off. Pulling the trigger had been a reaction born of utter fear, and of the drugs swirling through his bloodstream. As soon as the dealer slumped to the ground, Aiden knew that he had made a terrible mistake, but he couldn't even move to run. Shock was pinning him against the wall, his hand still clenched tightly around the gun, and he vaguely remembered a man running over, shouting something about being able to help, he was a doctor, and in Aiden's utter terror the gun went off again; someone screamed on the other side of the street and he saw a woman standing in front of a teenage girl and a younger boy, fear written all over her face...
No. Memories that he fought every day not to return to had been reawakened in his mind by Danni's voice, stating the facts of what had happened and causing his stomach to flip over and tie itself in knots. I didn't want to come back, either, but you see, there's these people that died. Five of them. A dealer, a doctor, and three people in between. After he had done it, Aiden had picked up a paper to read the story, both dreading finding out and needing to know who he had killed. The details had been there in black and white, emotionless facts mixed in with tragic interviews from the family members of the victims. His victims. Katie White had been thirty five years old, walking home with her thirteen year old daughter Emma and her seven year old son Kieran. The children's father had given a highly emotional interview, and then there had been one from the doctor's wife. It had been the worst thing he had ever read in his entire life; he had wanted to die. Aiden had seriously contemplated killing himself - it was the closest he had ever gotten to ending his own life, because the guilt was crushing him and there was constant paranoia now, bad memories chasing him down every street and into his dreams on a night. By its very nature, suicide would be a self-centred escape from what he had done, but he didn't even have the guts to put the same gun that had killed five other people to his own forehead and pull the trigger. Didn't even have the guts to take the coward's way out.
With a jolt, he realized that Danni's voice had cracked and she was looking away from him. This pulled him very firmly back into the present, leaving the waking nightmares behind in the corners of his mind. Aiden was haunted by what he had done; he felt that the ghosts of his memories had been following him ever since that evening over a year ago now, and he had never been fully able to drag himself back to reality. Either drugs or thinking back had kept a part of him firmly rooted in things that didn't exist or belonged to the unchangeable past, but Danni's distress in the here and now seemed to wake him up. He had never liked seeing her worried or upset, and every time it had happened, he had felt helpless to do anything about it. Today was worse than ever - the things that he had done were hanging between them immovably, as though there was a brick wall across the room. At that moment, something snapped inside him, and he felt his shoulders sag. He was tired of running; tired of constantly trying to escape from what he had done. Besides, like Danni had said, he never had been able to lie to her.
"Yeah," he said at last, speaking to the threadbare, stained carpet rather than looking at her. "Yeah, I did it. I killed them, Danni. That's why I'm here." And that's why I'm more fucked over than ever, he added silently, but he didn't say that - he couldn't say that. Instead, he just remained staring at the carpet, waiting for her to hate him.
His dealer was waiting in their usual spot - secluded, but not so shady as to be conspicuous. This wasn't a scene from a bad movie, with a guy in a black Sedan waiting for him at the end of a broken down alleyway. It was just two young men, barely older than teenagers, both of them scraping to survive from the dregs that were left to them at the bottom of the barrel, and today, Aiden was going to be putting himself in a very risky position indeed, because desperation led to God only knew what, and his dealer was a desperate man. But then again, you had to be to live this life, and Aiden was desperate too. Proof of that, after all, was sitting in his pocket.
He remembered the way the dealer - Aiden knew his name, but was careful never to think of it; never to allow a personality to become attached to what he had done - had stepped towards him, asking if he had the money. He wasn't sure what had happened next: fear and the hallucinogenic effects of the acid took over, and the next thing he knew he was being threatened, shouted at, pushed up against the wall. There was no other word to describe it: Aiden was terrified. Self-preservation kicked in and the next moment, the gun was in his hand and then it was going off. Pulling the trigger had been a reaction born of utter fear, and of the drugs swirling through his bloodstream. As soon as the dealer slumped to the ground, Aiden knew that he had made a terrible mistake, but he couldn't even move to run. Shock was pinning him against the wall, his hand still clenched tightly around the gun, and he vaguely remembered a man running over, shouting something about being able to help, he was a doctor, and in Aiden's utter terror the gun went off again; someone screamed on the other side of the street and he saw a woman standing in front of a teenage girl and a younger boy, fear written all over her face...
No. Memories that he fought every day not to return to had been reawakened in his mind by Danni's voice, stating the facts of what had happened and causing his stomach to flip over and tie itself in knots. I didn't want to come back, either, but you see, there's these people that died. Five of them. A dealer, a doctor, and three people in between. After he had done it, Aiden had picked up a paper to read the story, both dreading finding out and needing to know who he had killed. The details had been there in black and white, emotionless facts mixed in with tragic interviews from the family members of the victims. His victims. Katie White had been thirty five years old, walking home with her thirteen year old daughter Emma and her seven year old son Kieran. The children's father had given a highly emotional interview, and then there had been one from the doctor's wife. It had been the worst thing he had ever read in his entire life; he had wanted to die. Aiden had seriously contemplated killing himself - it was the closest he had ever gotten to ending his own life, because the guilt was crushing him and there was constant paranoia now, bad memories chasing him down every street and into his dreams on a night. By its very nature, suicide would be a self-centred escape from what he had done, but he didn't even have the guts to put the same gun that had killed five other people to his own forehead and pull the trigger. Didn't even have the guts to take the coward's way out.
With a jolt, he realized that Danni's voice had cracked and she was looking away from him. This pulled him very firmly back into the present, leaving the waking nightmares behind in the corners of his mind. Aiden was haunted by what he had done; he felt that the ghosts of his memories had been following him ever since that evening over a year ago now, and he had never been fully able to drag himself back to reality. Either drugs or thinking back had kept a part of him firmly rooted in things that didn't exist or belonged to the unchangeable past, but Danni's distress in the here and now seemed to wake him up. He had never liked seeing her worried or upset, and every time it had happened, he had felt helpless to do anything about it. Today was worse than ever - the things that he had done were hanging between them immovably, as though there was a brick wall across the room. At that moment, something snapped inside him, and he felt his shoulders sag. He was tired of running; tired of constantly trying to escape from what he had done. Besides, like Danni had said, he never had been able to lie to her.
"Yeah," he said at last, speaking to the threadbare, stained carpet rather than looking at her. "Yeah, I did it. I killed them, Danni. That's why I'm here." And that's why I'm more fucked over than ever, he added silently, but he didn't say that - he couldn't say that. Instead, he just remained staring at the carpet, waiting for her to hate him.
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St.Jimmy - Member for 4 years
Re: A Thousand Miles [Closed] ( )
by DyingHere on Thu Dec 17, 2009 4:20 pm
The sudden confirmation that Aiden was guilty shot through Danielle like an electric shock, and she stared at him with an expression of bewilderment. She hadn't been expecting him to admit it so easily, and if she was honest she hadn't been prepared for his answer. For two years she'd thought she'd known him, known who he was and what he was capable of; never in a million years would she have dreamt that he was capable of killing someone, and it made her heart hurt just to think of him holding a gun, let alone firing one. He didn't appear to be paying any attention to her, so she thought it was safe to allow a sob to rip through her chest, but then quickly tried to compose herself. After all she'd done to prove that she wasn't 'Danni' anymore, it would be unprofessional to let him see that this was hurting her.
Unfortunately, the practice of this theory turned out to be quite difficult. Anger, confusion and heartbreaking sadness threatened to overwhelm her, and she was concentrating so hard on the desire to not show any emotion that it wasn't until another gut-wrenching sob escaped her that she realised she was crying. Letting out a small gasp of embarrassed surprise, she hastily tried to wipe the rapidly-falling tears away, but soon gave up when it became apparant that it wasn't working and instead turned to face him.
"Okay, screw looking unprofessional; why?!" she demanded exhasperatedly, her eyes pleading for an explanation. "Why would you do that? Why would you fuck your life up like that? Surely you knew this had to happen - that someone would eventually catch up with you. What were you thinking?" She stopped talking abruptly as something occured to her, and suddenly everything made sense. Why hadn't she thought of it before? "Unless you were too off it to know what you were doing," she murmured, her voice losing all of its conviction as the icy cold fingers of shock finally found her and began creeping up her spine. "You were that out of it you didn't think at all, did you? You just did what you had to do. What was it? He didn't have what you wanted? Or couldn't you pay up?" She shook her head as she ran her fingers desperately through her hair, and backed away from him until the back of her legs bumped against the edge of the bed. "You haven't changed in the slightest, have you?" she whispered as she collapsed onto the mattress, for once not caring about what kind of crap soiled the sheets she had landed on. She hadn't noticed yet that her hands were shaking.
It was him, she thought helplessly. He did it. He killed all those people.
"And it's me who has to bring you in for it," she finished aloud. Looking up, she forced herself to meet Aiden's eyes, a strange, new determination in her own. "But I'm not going to."
Unfortunately, the practice of this theory turned out to be quite difficult. Anger, confusion and heartbreaking sadness threatened to overwhelm her, and she was concentrating so hard on the desire to not show any emotion that it wasn't until another gut-wrenching sob escaped her that she realised she was crying. Letting out a small gasp of embarrassed surprise, she hastily tried to wipe the rapidly-falling tears away, but soon gave up when it became apparant that it wasn't working and instead turned to face him.
"Okay, screw looking unprofessional; why?!" she demanded exhasperatedly, her eyes pleading for an explanation. "Why would you do that? Why would you fuck your life up like that? Surely you knew this had to happen - that someone would eventually catch up with you. What were you thinking?" She stopped talking abruptly as something occured to her, and suddenly everything made sense. Why hadn't she thought of it before? "Unless you were too off it to know what you were doing," she murmured, her voice losing all of its conviction as the icy cold fingers of shock finally found her and began creeping up her spine. "You were that out of it you didn't think at all, did you? You just did what you had to do. What was it? He didn't have what you wanted? Or couldn't you pay up?" She shook her head as she ran her fingers desperately through her hair, and backed away from him until the back of her legs bumped against the edge of the bed. "You haven't changed in the slightest, have you?" she whispered as she collapsed onto the mattress, for once not caring about what kind of crap soiled the sheets she had landed on. She hadn't noticed yet that her hands were shaking.
It was him, she thought helplessly. He did it. He killed all those people.
"And it's me who has to bring you in for it," she finished aloud. Looking up, she forced herself to meet Aiden's eyes, a strange, new determination in her own. "But I'm not going to."
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DyingHere - Member for 4 years
Re: A Thousand Miles [Closed] ( )
by St.Jimmy on Sat Dec 19, 2009 2:08 pm
There was a moment where Aiden felt nothing at all. He knew without looking at her that Danni was crying, but the fact of the matter was, she wasn't Danni anymore. The woman in front of him was Danielle Harper, Lieutenant Danielle Harper, a woman with a profession and a direction and a purpose. His Danni was gone; they no longer fitted together as they had once done, like matching pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, because Danielle had no jagged edges left - she didn't need him anymore. It was that simple. She had moved on, and he was still crawling through the shit where she had left him, and they were separated by so many barriers that he could almost see the gulf that was widening between them. Employment, social status, drug necessity and being on complete opposite sides of the law were all contributing factors in their current polarized state, and Aiden felt that he would never be able to relate to her again. How often had he dreamed of her coming back through his door? He'd never thought that if she finally did, it would be to arrest him. For that was what she was going to have to do, and he would not put up a fight; no, he would go quietly, because there was nothing left to live for. But he already knew that that was a lie, even in his own head - he was a coward, and as much as he told himself that he didn't care what happened to him, he did not want to die. He'd run if she tried to cuff him, and if worst came to worst, he'd hit her. The thought already made him feel like shit, but he was scared, and as he had learned those long years ago, he did desperate things when he was afraid. Besides, this wasn't Danni. This was Danielle Harper, remember?
And then she started to speak. He had no need to reply; her words were hitting every nail on the head. The desperation. The intoxicated state. The fact that he had had no idea what he was doing. But then she asked him what the final catalyst had been - whether he couldn't pay up, or whether the dealer hadn't had what he'd wanted. His stomach lurched and twisted. Shooting a man in desperation born of self-defence was one thing, but shooting him in cold blood because he hadn't had the right drugs was quite another. He was about to open his mouth and demand how the hell she could accuse him of that, when he remembered the crumpled bodies of the doctor and the woman with her two young children. He closed his mouth again, feeling sick. Perhaps he was capable of that. If the dealer had turned up empty-handed whilst he was desperate for drugs, would he have shot him? Maybe. He didn't really know who he was anymore - there was only the drugs. Before he could say anything, though, Danni had closed her eyes and slumped back on his bed with her hands shaking; professionalism had vanished in the wake of his confession. Do you love me? he wanted, bizarrely, to demand. Did you ever love me? He wanted her to tell him that she had; that she still did. Dreams are better when they're not just pretending.
Words, however, stuck in his throat as he watched her shake. For some reason, he felt strangely isolated from the situation. Now would be an ideal opportunity to run, but the fight seemed to have gone out of him. His shoulders had slumped. He couldn't leave her to cry in this dirty room on her own; it would have felt too much like when she had abandoned him in a very similar manner. Vaguely, he wondered if she had backup with her - would they have sent a female police officer alone to question a male murder suspect? But then, he doubted very much that they would have expected him to confess so quickly, or indeed at all - perhaps this was meant to be nothing more than scouting out the area for anyone who may have been involved. Besides, one thing he did know about Danielle Harper was that she would be just as capable as Danni had been. And she was probably armed. The thought didn't frighten him in the slightest as he watched her tremble; just as the fight seemed to have gone out of him, it appeared to have also abandoned her. He wanted to say something to make the situation better, but he could not think of how anything possibly could. The carpet - he would look at the carpet again. Yes, that seemed like the best thing to do.
And then she spoke again. She was telling him that she would not turn him in, and his heart seemed to do something funny in his chest, or maybe that was his stomach. He didn't know, but when he raised his eyes and saw her looking back at him with that old determined expression on her face, it was definitely his heart that flipped. "You - you won't?" he asked uncertainly. Maybe she was going to tell him that no, damn right she wouldn't, he'd turn himself in for it if he had a scrap of moral decency left, to which his retort would be that he'd lost his moral decency the moment she'd left him, and she could get the fuck out of his motel room if she was going to be like that. Already angry at the prospect of this imagined conversation, it took him a moment to realize that Danni wasn't about to say anything of the sort. He stared at her; this was an unexpected turn of events. "What - what are you going to do, then?" For a moment, he allowed himself the brief flicker of hope that she was going to help him - but no, surely not. He would not allow himself to dream; he would instead just wait for her to answer.
But that couldn't stop him hoping.
And then she started to speak. He had no need to reply; her words were hitting every nail on the head. The desperation. The intoxicated state. The fact that he had had no idea what he was doing. But then she asked him what the final catalyst had been - whether he couldn't pay up, or whether the dealer hadn't had what he'd wanted. His stomach lurched and twisted. Shooting a man in desperation born of self-defence was one thing, but shooting him in cold blood because he hadn't had the right drugs was quite another. He was about to open his mouth and demand how the hell she could accuse him of that, when he remembered the crumpled bodies of the doctor and the woman with her two young children. He closed his mouth again, feeling sick. Perhaps he was capable of that. If the dealer had turned up empty-handed whilst he was desperate for drugs, would he have shot him? Maybe. He didn't really know who he was anymore - there was only the drugs. Before he could say anything, though, Danni had closed her eyes and slumped back on his bed with her hands shaking; professionalism had vanished in the wake of his confession. Do you love me? he wanted, bizarrely, to demand. Did you ever love me? He wanted her to tell him that she had; that she still did. Dreams are better when they're not just pretending.
Words, however, stuck in his throat as he watched her shake. For some reason, he felt strangely isolated from the situation. Now would be an ideal opportunity to run, but the fight seemed to have gone out of him. His shoulders had slumped. He couldn't leave her to cry in this dirty room on her own; it would have felt too much like when she had abandoned him in a very similar manner. Vaguely, he wondered if she had backup with her - would they have sent a female police officer alone to question a male murder suspect? But then, he doubted very much that they would have expected him to confess so quickly, or indeed at all - perhaps this was meant to be nothing more than scouting out the area for anyone who may have been involved. Besides, one thing he did know about Danielle Harper was that she would be just as capable as Danni had been. And she was probably armed. The thought didn't frighten him in the slightest as he watched her tremble; just as the fight seemed to have gone out of him, it appeared to have also abandoned her. He wanted to say something to make the situation better, but he could not think of how anything possibly could. The carpet - he would look at the carpet again. Yes, that seemed like the best thing to do.
And then she spoke again. She was telling him that she would not turn him in, and his heart seemed to do something funny in his chest, or maybe that was his stomach. He didn't know, but when he raised his eyes and saw her looking back at him with that old determined expression on her face, it was definitely his heart that flipped. "You - you won't?" he asked uncertainly. Maybe she was going to tell him that no, damn right she wouldn't, he'd turn himself in for it if he had a scrap of moral decency left, to which his retort would be that he'd lost his moral decency the moment she'd left him, and she could get the fuck out of his motel room if she was going to be like that. Already angry at the prospect of this imagined conversation, it took him a moment to realize that Danni wasn't about to say anything of the sort. He stared at her; this was an unexpected turn of events. "What - what are you going to do, then?" For a moment, he allowed himself the brief flicker of hope that she was going to help him - but no, surely not. He would not allow himself to dream; he would instead just wait for her to answer.
But that couldn't stop him hoping.
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St.Jimmy - Member for 4 years
Re: A Thousand Miles [Closed] ( )
by DyingHere on Tue Jan 05, 2010 1:48 am
Danielle smiled. She didn't know why, and she realised it was probably a ludicrously insensitive thing to do, but it wasn't something that could be helped. She just smiled, a sad, sympathetic smile. She'd just repeatedly shouted at him that he hadn't changed, but she saw now that that wasn't true. He had changed, a lot; just as she wasn't his Danni anymore, he definitely wasn't her Aiden. This Aiden was a broken, scared, different version of himself; he was still as drugged up and, well, obnoxious as he'd ever been, but killing all those people appeared to have warped the Aiden she'd known in ways that she wasn't sure could be fixed. This realisation, alongside the unexpected spark of hope in his eyes in reaction to her words, left her oddly sad and oddly speechless. And all she could do was smile.
Her words.. God, had she really said that out loud? Shit. She hadn't meant to. Now, she supposed, she'd have to explain the crazy thoughts running through her mind; thoughts of getting out of town, running from the law that she was supposed to be part of, being together again... "No."
Shit! She had to stop saying these things out loud! Her eyes, which had been staring unfocused around the room while she had attempted to process her thoughts, suddenly darted to his, and she winced. Had he heard that? She decided to pretend nothing had been said, and continue with her original plan of explanation. But how? She hadn't meant to voice her thoughts; she hadn't worked out her insane idea in her head enough to be ready to voice anything. But now she'd seen the hope in his eyes, she had no choice. With a heavy sigh she stood up and headed for the bag she'd spotted at the end of his bed.
"Okay. I'll call my superior officer and tell him you'd bolted before I got here. I don't know how long that'll give us, especially when I don't go back home, but it'll give us a something at least. I'll need to get myself some more clothes; I only brought enough for a weekend." She was talking quickly as she sped around his room, stuffing what filthy clothes and other personal belongings she could find into the bag, taking care to avoid the drugs stashed in various places. It was obvious she was going over a plan that hadn't been fully worked out yet; a plan that she had very little faith in but every hope pinned on. "And money. Can't use my bank account once we've left, they'll trace it or something." Once she'd stripped the motel room of every non-drug related item he owned, she threw the bag at him and headed for the door, only briefly pausing to ask herself why she was doing this before another thought took over; she hesitated with her fingers clasped around the handle and looked back at him.
"Aiden? This doesn't change anything for us. Anything. We're still not together." She sighed, and looked back toward the door. "I'm just not letting you go down for this. It'd destroy you." And with that she stepped over the threshold to head back down the dingy corridor, toward the stairs that would lead to entrance to the motel and then her car, not bothering to look back to see if he was following her.
Her words.. God, had she really said that out loud? Shit. She hadn't meant to. Now, she supposed, she'd have to explain the crazy thoughts running through her mind; thoughts of getting out of town, running from the law that she was supposed to be part of, being together again... "No."
Shit! She had to stop saying these things out loud! Her eyes, which had been staring unfocused around the room while she had attempted to process her thoughts, suddenly darted to his, and she winced. Had he heard that? She decided to pretend nothing had been said, and continue with her original plan of explanation. But how? She hadn't meant to voice her thoughts; she hadn't worked out her insane idea in her head enough to be ready to voice anything. But now she'd seen the hope in his eyes, she had no choice. With a heavy sigh she stood up and headed for the bag she'd spotted at the end of his bed.
"Okay. I'll call my superior officer and tell him you'd bolted before I got here. I don't know how long that'll give us, especially when I don't go back home, but it'll give us a something at least. I'll need to get myself some more clothes; I only brought enough for a weekend." She was talking quickly as she sped around his room, stuffing what filthy clothes and other personal belongings she could find into the bag, taking care to avoid the drugs stashed in various places. It was obvious she was going over a plan that hadn't been fully worked out yet; a plan that she had very little faith in but every hope pinned on. "And money. Can't use my bank account once we've left, they'll trace it or something." Once she'd stripped the motel room of every non-drug related item he owned, she threw the bag at him and headed for the door, only briefly pausing to ask herself why she was doing this before another thought took over; she hesitated with her fingers clasped around the handle and looked back at him.
"Aiden? This doesn't change anything for us. Anything. We're still not together." She sighed, and looked back toward the door. "I'm just not letting you go down for this. It'd destroy you." And with that she stepped over the threshold to head back down the dingy corridor, toward the stairs that would lead to entrance to the motel and then her car, not bothering to look back to see if he was following her.
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DyingHere - Member for 4 years
Re: A Thousand Miles [Closed] ( )
by St.Jimmy on Thu Jan 07, 2010 3:45 pm
For a long time, Aiden had watched Danielle simply sit where she was, looking as though she was agonizing over something in her head. It was not very hard to work out what that might be; after all, the immediate problem in her life was that she had just discovered that her ex-boyfriend was the culprit in five murders -the very five murders that she had been sent to investigate. When the silence grew almost unbearable, he opened his mouth to say something, anything, with no clear idea of what would actually come out - but Danielle beat him to it. It was just one word, but spoken with conviction - "no." He blinked, closing his mouth again and waiting for her to follow up on what she had just said, but no explanation came; instead, she looked surprised herself, as if she had not even meant to speak out loud. He felt suddenly guilty, realizing that he was tearing her apart inside. It was her job, her newfound self-confidence, her morality, her whole life - or him. And what was he, if he allowed that thought to take root? The truth; was he strong enough to admit the truth of what he was to himself? Before he could even make up his mind, the word to describe him was there in his head: nothing. He was nothing. Just a drugged-up murderer who had taken the lives of five people, four of them completely and utterly innocent. He winced, trying to flinch away from the thoughts, but it was too late, and he was just about to decide whether to turn tail and bolt right now or to tell Danielle that he'd had enough of running, and she could arrest him and take him in, when she got to her feet and started to talk.
She was going to help him. That was the one thought that truly hit him as Danielle moved around the room, shoving his belongings into a bag and speaking rapidly about how she would ring her superior and tell him that he had already bolted before she found him. It suddenly struck Aiden that when Danielle didn't come back, they would think that he had forced her to make that call. Maybe they would even suspect him of murdering her. The thought made his stomach twist; no matter what happened, he could never, ever hurt Danielle. It was what would be believed, though; a young female police officer and a male murder suspect. Of course they were going to jump to the conclusion that he had kidnapped her; killed her. For one brief, heart-stopping moment, he wondered what would have happened had it been Danielle who had witnessed him shoot the drug dealer; had it been her who had run towards him. Without realizing who she was, would he have pulled the trigger on her, too? Would he have killed her by accident?
In panic, would he have done it even if he had known who she was?
No. No; he would not allow himself to even consider that possibility. The very idea sickened him, and he told himself firmly that had he seen Danielle running towards him, he would of course have recognized her as his Danni, and he would have dropped the gun. He would have! Tearing his thoughts back to the present, and away from the unhappy possibility of pulling the trigger on Danielle that his mind was still suggesting to him, Aiden realized she was saying one more thing in the doorway - telling him that this didn't change anything. That they weren't back together. If he was honest, he hadn't thought much about that; hadn't thought much about what happened beyond getting out of this room, because either he was going to leave as a free man or as Danielle's latest arrest. It seemed, however, that the former would be how things were going to work. She wasn't going to turn him in; instead, she was going to get him out of here safely. He noticed, however, that even though she had packed up his belongings for him in the bag that she was even now throwing in his direction, she had avoided his drugs as though they might burn her, flinching every time she saw something like a needle or one of the packets of cocaine. He caught the strap of the bag and swung it up over his shoulder, wanting to thank her but preoccupied for the moment by wondering if maybe, just maybe, she was still tempted even now by the lure of the drugs. Once you'd experienced the world through the hazed, numb blur of heroin, did it ever get any easier to forget how that felt? By the time he had collected his thoughts enough to be able to get anywhere near thanking her, she had already gone, leaving him standing alone in the room and clutching the bag that was as yet empty of drugs. He hesitated for a moment, looking down at the stash on the bedside table and asking himself whether he could cope without them - and wondering just how much Danielle would kill him if he brought them along.
Five minutes later, he joined her in the car, stowing the bag down by his feet and closing the door with hands that were lightly trembling. He couldn't bring himself to look at her; he imagined her expression to be one of utter contempt. Deciding not even to ask where they were going, but instead to just let her drive and see where they ended up, he looked out of the window at the cheap motel one last time. It was just like any other, but it reminded him of the places they had stayed in together, in happier times when both of them had been absorbed in nothing more than each other and the comfort of a world seen and felt through the drug-tipped haze of a needle. Things were very different now. As Danielle put the car into gear and they started to move, he finally managed to say the words that had been stuck in his throat ever since she had first mentioned helping him.
"Thank you, Danni-- Danielle." There was nothing else to add; he was completely indebted to her for giving him this chance, despite what he had admitted to doing and the state he was still in. She had thrown her career and her morals and her whole life on the line for him, and there wasn't words to describe how grateful he was to her.
And in the inside pocket of his jacket sat all the little packets of drugs from his motel room - but she never had to know about that.
She was going to help him. That was the one thought that truly hit him as Danielle moved around the room, shoving his belongings into a bag and speaking rapidly about how she would ring her superior and tell him that he had already bolted before she found him. It suddenly struck Aiden that when Danielle didn't come back, they would think that he had forced her to make that call. Maybe they would even suspect him of murdering her. The thought made his stomach twist; no matter what happened, he could never, ever hurt Danielle. It was what would be believed, though; a young female police officer and a male murder suspect. Of course they were going to jump to the conclusion that he had kidnapped her; killed her. For one brief, heart-stopping moment, he wondered what would have happened had it been Danielle who had witnessed him shoot the drug dealer; had it been her who had run towards him. Without realizing who she was, would he have pulled the trigger on her, too? Would he have killed her by accident?
In panic, would he have done it even if he had known who she was?
No. No; he would not allow himself to even consider that possibility. The very idea sickened him, and he told himself firmly that had he seen Danielle running towards him, he would of course have recognized her as his Danni, and he would have dropped the gun. He would have! Tearing his thoughts back to the present, and away from the unhappy possibility of pulling the trigger on Danielle that his mind was still suggesting to him, Aiden realized she was saying one more thing in the doorway - telling him that this didn't change anything. That they weren't back together. If he was honest, he hadn't thought much about that; hadn't thought much about what happened beyond getting out of this room, because either he was going to leave as a free man or as Danielle's latest arrest. It seemed, however, that the former would be how things were going to work. She wasn't going to turn him in; instead, she was going to get him out of here safely. He noticed, however, that even though she had packed up his belongings for him in the bag that she was even now throwing in his direction, she had avoided his drugs as though they might burn her, flinching every time she saw something like a needle or one of the packets of cocaine. He caught the strap of the bag and swung it up over his shoulder, wanting to thank her but preoccupied for the moment by wondering if maybe, just maybe, she was still tempted even now by the lure of the drugs. Once you'd experienced the world through the hazed, numb blur of heroin, did it ever get any easier to forget how that felt? By the time he had collected his thoughts enough to be able to get anywhere near thanking her, she had already gone, leaving him standing alone in the room and clutching the bag that was as yet empty of drugs. He hesitated for a moment, looking down at the stash on the bedside table and asking himself whether he could cope without them - and wondering just how much Danielle would kill him if he brought them along.
Five minutes later, he joined her in the car, stowing the bag down by his feet and closing the door with hands that were lightly trembling. He couldn't bring himself to look at her; he imagined her expression to be one of utter contempt. Deciding not even to ask where they were going, but instead to just let her drive and see where they ended up, he looked out of the window at the cheap motel one last time. It was just like any other, but it reminded him of the places they had stayed in together, in happier times when both of them had been absorbed in nothing more than each other and the comfort of a world seen and felt through the drug-tipped haze of a needle. Things were very different now. As Danielle put the car into gear and they started to move, he finally managed to say the words that had been stuck in his throat ever since she had first mentioned helping him.
"Thank you, Danni-- Danielle." There was nothing else to add; he was completely indebted to her for giving him this chance, despite what he had admitted to doing and the state he was still in. She had thrown her career and her morals and her whole life on the line for him, and there wasn't words to describe how grateful he was to her.
And in the inside pocket of his jacket sat all the little packets of drugs from his motel room - but she never had to know about that.
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St.Jimmy - Member for 4 years
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