Sunrise wept across the sky painted orange and pink at the suns insistence. Chasing the last of the stars away as the day wakes. Jacqueline watches this progression with noted interest, storm cloud aftermath puddled at her feet. Sharp eyes tracking the movement of clouds as they rolled in. The Wind kicked up the wooden wind chimes hanging on the enclosed porch of her small home, what is often beautiful and melodious simply annoying in that moment. Her eyes shutter closed, its cold and dark in her head when she can no longer see the sun. Rays too weak to penetrate her eyelids. A constant, subtle, reminder that she is no saint despite the words that have chewed up her brain.
She hates these days like no other but supposes that there is a common cause of this madness. An ever-present taste of mud in her mouth when she starts reflecting this deeply. Jacquelyn has a job today. A once monthly visit to ensure that god has yet to allow peace to a man meant to suffer. She knows, not on a surface level, that she should let him go altogether. A man that wreaked havoc on her life has no bearings in the future of it. And yet, some sick twist of guilty pleasure skitters up her spine when she thinks about prolonging such a man’s life.
‘Let him suffer. Let him suffer like I suffered.’
And yet she is there no less than a few hours after sunrise, greeting a woman she does not know and who is not her mother but all the same has claimed to take a space in the life of the Auguste’s. Doesn’t bother remembering her name when she’s never had to use it. A glorified caretaker who does not know him as a deceiver spurred on by the thought of blessed divinity for her good deeds. Jacqueline knew that no god, no heaven nor hell, would accept her for taking care of the wolf that wore lambskin.
“Oh Jacqueline, you should visit more often.” She always says, each time, in a voice that mocks properness but cannot truly be rid of the casual country slip. Out of place where Jaq’s words slur and blend and twist to the pronunciation of syllables born to Gretna’s finest. The woman reminds her of a city slicker trying to play house in the wilderness, and she’s known plenty of ‘em. Too many.
“Oh, ya’ll don’t need me in the way.” Jacqueline would reply, the picture of graceful innocent. Half mocking the refined words and half letting slip her true heritage. She may have been born elsewhere but Gretna is a cemented home now. “Sides’, no one’d take care of Bug.”
An excuse as paper-thin as the smile she wears. Who wears the lambskin in that moment? She wonders. The chair bound vegetable or the girl with his smile. A constant reminder that she can never escape her heritage unscathed. “He may not be up for a chat today.” The woman persists as if she can sense the waning patience in the way Jacqueline grips her hands. Mock prayer. And Jacqueline would all but state her lack of disinterest in his comfort with a simple, small, true smile.
Visiting her father has become a cleansing ritual in a way, a reminder that no matter how jaded she becomes she will never amount to the pure psychotic state of mind that shattered him to pieces. Cobwebs covering the most important memories he once held. These days, he regards her as an old friend. As if years of mental torture had never occurred, as if his words did not once hold her entire life in the palm of his hands. She wore that familiarity like a cloak. A dagger ready in hand for the snarling dog waiting just underneath.
Funny. In this case, she’s the dog.
As they sit in contemplative silence she wonders when it is he will die. He’s outlived the usual mortality, though his youth when bearing her had some part in his continued existence in her adult life.
“So how’s it gon’ be today.” Jacqueline leans close, comfort far off in a place where this home does not exist. Silence. She does not push. Knows that distant glaze is a mind lost to age and injury. Some days better than others and today no better than the last few visits. It is coming soon. An end to her self-harming visits. The day she will no longer have to antagonize a dying old man. The day he will meet his truth in purgatory.
Truth. A word he knew only as a stranger. Jacqueline would leave then, satisfied by the persistent catatonia plugging up his throat. She stops only at the behest of a wheezing chuckle. A grimace full of teeth pulling her lips to reflect the intent of a dog ready to bite.
“Liars rot in hell, child.” He breaks on every gasped word. “I can see the sin in your eyes.”
“So do I.” She would agree. “You gave them to me, after all.”
Jacqueline haunts the road idle, spitting curses at the wind kicking up her skirts. Muddy boots soon to be ditched at the door of her home. She stayed in sight of that bastard for far too long. Made sure he felt every word like a whip, petty, a tactic he would have once used. It scares her sometimes how much she is like him. How she can wrap words up in a pretty little box only and send it on with the intent to harm. How she can spit fire like an angry god; Blaspheme, Jacqueline.
Full of grudges or not she had no ill intention to lead her down that same road. She took no pleasure in the pain of others and had no reason to lie to anybody but herself. An honest liar; more like a plague ready to spread.
She is home, but she is not. When she crosses the threshold, she stops only to clean up and set a dish of old food out for Bug. The old stray cat gives very little comfort, a silent companion with sharp claws and a diseased body. Named after the very things that infest him. Perhaps another means of reminder, but she holds no ill will towards the cat at her feet. Lapping up the fruit of her labor. Still, she does not touch him, nor speak, she simply allows him the food and goes on her way.
There are places she would rather be, after all, homes away from the shell she calls home. A house she only lives in because old money grants it and she knows there are plenty of people that would much rather she have returned to her birthplace. Or perhaps, tracked down the adulterous mother that had been too weak to save her from the bible itself. Live among more lies. These days, she takes it in stride. A mind-full of verses and only a handful of other people she can bother about them.
Strange to think about the reverse of her personality when presented with the people she truly loves. Maybe, there is hope for her after all.
She leaves Bug to his feast. He does not spare her a single glance as she goes.
Gretna’s roads are busy in the day despite the dark cloud that continues to follow in the wake of this dry spell. She’d already heard plenty of hushed whispers on her way, people naturally got quiet when she came around. Still weary of her, though these days’ people didn’t much mind her. She had long outlived the reputation of her family and once they realized she posed no harm – a different tune came about. But since those boys had come to town everything became a whisper. People got real nervous.
Maybe they remember who she is, where she came from. She grew up in Gretna but would that holdfast? Would they remember her runner’s legacy and assume her the enemy again? She hopes to the heavens above that sense is kept in these trying times. She would hate to spiral again, left on her own. Only, she isn’t alone. Not truly. The dour outlook seemed marginally sunnier when she thought of the friendships she holds dear.
Where she’s heading to now, the Honey Stop is more home than the one where she lays her head at night. A place of existing outside of herself, of the petty nature of her mind. Where she can smile truly and not be judged for the resemblance to her father. She loves it more than she should, knows that it is a weakness that she cannot give up or hide. Today, the gossip on the wind is that big things went down the night before. Nobody knows what, and she suspects that its being kept hush for the moment. Jacqueline wouldn’t blame anybody for fearing the repercussions of letting big news slip. Still, curiosity outweighs her distaste for a rumor.
And small places like Gretna don’t usually have a filter on hearsay.
Jaq sheds the tough act the moment she slips through the door, no weariness to be found in the pep to her step. She settles into place, familiar in routine. She can see the silence but the rush of white noise gives no indication of it being real. There are plenty of familiar faces already in. She does not approach Rem, knowing that his vicinity to Atticus is purposeful and for the most part she only likes to make the deputy uncomfortable when serious business isn't going down. This, she thinks, will be an interesting day.