Post by h4ck3r on Jun 7, 2012 8:39:55 GMT -5
“Cuddles and Cupcake”
It's just so...
Strange
Overrated
Stupid
Horrible
Hard
Unbelievable
Dumb
Pointless
Confusing
Big
Scary
Gray
Lonely
Numb
Painful
It's just so...
Complicated.
Useless. Annoying. Stupid. Loser.
These were the words people used to describe H4ck3r. Ever since his school days, when he had been the weird kid with a stutter who would rather sit inside and watch people than play with the other boys, people had despised him. The way he walked, the way he spoke, with a stutter and a hint of an accent that screamed all too loudly that he was poor, the state of his clothes that said the rest; all of it was fair game for mockery. So, he avoided the other children, found clever ways to sneak home and clever ways to get away from them. He made teachers like him, and told them nasty things about the boys who would pick on him so that they would get in trouble. Still everyone else hated him, and he hated them right back.
Years later, a pretty girl he met at school one day saw something of worth in him. It made him glow with pride when she smiled at him, and the day he proposed and she accepted, he thought he could have died and not regretted anything at all. She was an practically an angel in his eyes. The voice of schoolyard boys whispered to him, though; he knew in a dark place inside of him that he did not really deserve her, that he must have tricked her somehow for her to want him like she did. Not that he was complaining, but it hurt sometimes when he looked at her beautiful, smiling face, and all he could think was, 'She'll be gone as soon as she figures out how worthless I am."
Still, he was clever. That was how he got her to fall in love, he figured. He was clever and witty, and she mistook his awkward hunch and inability to look her in the eye for charming quirks. She loved him, but he couldn’t see that. He could only feel as if he was losing her, but this was simply his shyness, not actual fact.
One day, he knew, he was going to lose her, and that day was going to break him. He could ignore the barbs that his colleagues threw at him so casually, the way they overlooked him. It had hurt for a while, when he got his first proper job, how no one ever seemed to notice how clever he was, how different and smart his ideas could be, if he would just be allowed to play them out. They only noticed his failed cases, only laughed and thought him a fool. They reminded him constantly that boys never really stopped being petty, hateful creatures, that just because he got nicer clothes and a pretty girl didn't mean he was allowed to be one of them. But their words had dulled with time, become an easily ignorable routine.
If she left, though, she would take with her everything that made him something. He couldn’t let her go, even if she did wish to leave.
When he was fourteen, our precious little H4ck3r met the man who would change his life. Drake Hunter A.K.A Alexander Krossa, an unassuming name attached to a somewhat forgettable face. Drake promised H4ck3r that he would be great, that his name would be remembered forever, and he knew that his time had finally come. He would finally be able to show someone how clever he was, and Drake would be proud as he ruled with H4ck3r by his side. Drake saw something in him worth nurturing, worth having, worth wanting. A remarkable being who seemed to be the greatest person alive saw something worthwhile in HIM, and for the first time, H4cker found something worthwhile in himself.
At least, that's what H4ck3r thought, until that face was burned forever into his memory as the man he had originally thought to be his friend destroyed him, destroyed everything he had become, made him feel like nothing. Drake Hunter remade him, and once his mental screams subsided and his new reality sank in, H4ck3r knew that he would give anything to make sure that Drake never forgot his decision to betray him.
Maybe he did deserve her, after all?
♫Wires.♫
♫You've got wires going in; you've got wires coming out of your skin.♫
Collapsing in front of his whole entire world ... “Butchered” by the monster who had destroyed and created him. It obliterated everything he is ... everything he was. Leaving the shell of the man he could have been.
♫You've got tears making tracks; I've got tears that are scared of the facts.♫
"What has he done?"
He brushed a stray piece of hair off of her pretty face. Why would anyone do this to someone so innocent? What had she done to deserve this? Simple, she loved him.
♫There's dry blood on your wrist, your dry blood on my fingertips.♫
"Forgive me, please."
He placed his hands either side of her head, attempting to bury his thumbs over her eyes and push them deep inside closing them forever, hoping to kill her in her drunken slumber and end her sad life. But he couldn’t do that to someone he loved. He placed his forehead on top of hers for a moment, letting out a sob as tears ran down his cheeks. The tears run over to her cheek, waking her slightly.
"We’re okay ... we’re okay."
♫I see it in your eyes, I see it in your eyes, you'll be alright.♫
Drake ... he HAS to be stopped.
YEARS LATER ...
The telephone rings just as H4ck3r and his lovely soulmate are sitting down to dinner. Let’s call her “Rachel" for the time being. Rachel lets him answer it; she already knows what it's going to be. It's why they had the thing installed: so H4ck3r could be at his boss's beck and call.
"They need me at the office," he tells her.
He's no happier about it than she is, but complaining won't do any good. She hands him his briefcase, and he pauses to give her a kiss before he dashes out the door.
Rachel eats her meal while it's still hot – no point in letting good food spoil – and she sets her darling’s plate aside for later. When she's finished the dishes, she switches on the wireless and busies herself with darning his socks.
The carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimes the hour. It's getting late; “Cuddles” as she calls him has been gone a long time. He's working too hard, but that's how he's going to get ahead. He won't be in that job forever, hopefully he could climb the ladder and find himself a better job. Someone is going to recognise his talents, and then things will be different.
Her eyes are too tired for the black on black; she sets her work aside. The sweet sound of a violin comes over the radio – something classical, but she doesn't know the composer. Surely H4ck3r won't be too much longer. She's just going to rest her eyes while she waits.
Rachel startles awake, but it's just the front door closing. It's just H4ck3r. He's creeping down the hall, trying not to wake her.
"I'm in here," she calls out.
He stands, swaying, in the doorway, a pale apparition that drives her from her seat, her heart thumping.
"Are you all right?" She drags him into the light. "You look like you've been in a fight. What's happened?"
"There was a bit of trouble at the office," he tells her, "but it's going to be all right." He slumps into his armchair. "Everything is going to be all right," he keeps repeating. His eyes tell a different story.
Rachel steers her boyfriend up to bed, because she doesn't know what else to do. She watches him sleep. And when she can't bear to see him twitch and whimper any longer, she goes downstairs and washes his shirt. Once blood has set, it never comes out.
Her “Cuddles” is having an affair – what else is she supposed to think? His hours become erratic; he goes out in the middle of the night when Rachel knows the telephone hasn't rung.
“Cuddles” hovers around her, guilty and apologetic. He doesn't want to touch her any more. He's tired. He has papers to read. Once, he even has a headache, and that's supposed to be her excuse. When he kisses her it feels like she's kissing a stranger. What has happened to her lovely cuddley man?
"Things are a bit hectic at work," he tells her, when he comes home late one evening and finds her scraping his dinner into the bin.
It would be simple enough to check: she could walk down to his office or wherever it is that he's supposed to be. But that would make it too real, too final, and she wants to cling to her uncertainty a little longer. She didn’t want to find out he had been cheating on her, she couldn’t handle that. She’s been through too much to be let down by Cuddles now. He surely wouldn’t be sleeping with his secutary ... would he?
Rachel finds a smear of red on her Cuddles's collar, but it isn't lipstick. If it were, then at least she'd understand what's going on.
With the way that soap's still rationed, Rachel struggles to keep up with the laundry. It's mud all over Cuddles's shirt this time, and he stammers out an excuse when she confronts him about it. He's never been able to lie to her; he's never wanted to. She scrubs at the stains until her hands turn red and start to sting, and she blinks away her tears.
It must be something criminal. Cuddles got himself mixed up in something dangerous, and he's trying to shield her from it. They're close to the bad part of town, and the racketeers have been thriving since they arrived.
"Is it money trouble?" Rachel asks. "Because I could –"
"It's not about money," he tells her.
Which isn't an explanation but it's a beginning, the first step towards closing the distance that's opened up between them, and she finds herself starting to cry. She wants to hug Cuddles – wants him to hug her – but she mustn't be clingy. He'll tell her the rest in his own time.
Cuddles's hands are always cold; Rachel worries that he's ill. Maybe he had been diagnosed with some sort of illness and wasn’t speaking to her about it in fear that it would ruin what little time he could have left? Her mind was racing with questions. Was it so difficult just to know what her lovely Cuddles was up to? They were drifting apart.
"You don't eat enough to keep a sparrow alive," she frets. She doesn't want to nag; she can't always stop herself.
She cooks his favourite, steak and kidney pie. He dutifully clears his plate, but as soon at the last mouthful is gone he's putting on his coat and hat. She doesn't wait up. She wakes to find him undressing, and she sees the scratches, fresh and angry, on his shoulder. Rachel knows she wasn't the one who put them there: they haven't made love since this all began. He WAS cheating on her ... she began to tear up.
She was right the first time: he's having an affair. But something still doesn't ring true, and her head's in such a muddle. She needs someone to talk to, but her mother always said that he would be a disappointment, and Rachel will be damned if she's going to give her the satisfaction. Maybe this is just what life was like with him now? Oh god, if it was, she must be the one falling out of love with him because honestly, if this kept going on, she didn’t want to be with him any more.
"Let's get out of the city," she says. "It's perfect weather for a picnic."
Cuddles spends too long indoors – in offices and cells and courtrooms – and he always leaps at the chance to get out in the sunshine. Rachel loves the way his skin turns pink; she loves his freckles. She loves him, and she wants him back – HER Cuddles, not this man who sits in the shade and hides his eyes behind a pair of sunglasses.
"You look like a film star," she laughs, but it isn't funny. Ordinary people don't wear sunglasses.
On one of their anniversaries, Cuddles gives his “Cupcake” a beautiful necklace and matching braclet that he couldn't possibly afford. She puts on her prettiest dress, and he takes her dancing. You'd never think it to look at him, but H4ck3r is a wonderful dancer. They drink too much wine, and she holds onto his arm as they walk home under the stars.
"Remember this?" she asks, switching on the radio. He pulls her close and leads her into a waltz.
"We'll have this moment forever," Rachel sings. She closes her eyes and lets herself pretend that everything's the way it used to be.
The telephone rings. He flinches, and stops so abruptly that she treads on his toes. She follows him into the hall.
"Not tonight, please," her boyfriend is saying, and he twists the telephone cord tighter and tighter around his hand. Rachel can't hear the answer, but he gulps and stammers, "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
She clutches at his arm as he passes, but he twists out of her grasp.
"... Cuddles," she chokes through sudden tears, but he's already gone. He must have found something ... or someone more important than her. How ... how ... tragic.
She stands there, listening to the beautiful classical music playing in the background. She abruptly punches the radio and pulls the plug, obviously mad at her man. She goes to bed alone ... again.
Rachel wants to know who's making those mysterious calls, who has the power to take her man away from her like that.
Then she's woken one night by the sound of voices, and she finds her boyfriend out in the garage with three strange men. She retreats to their bedroom and waits, but when Cuddles comes upstairs he climbs straight into bed and turns to face the wall.
"Isaac Hackington," she says, just to test his reaction. "I thought I'd met all your colleagues. Is he new?" He doesn't speak, but she sees his shoulders stiffen.
Isaac Hackington: handsome; cocky; a charming smile. He'd returned her man to her without complaint. But Rachel saw the way that her man looked at her – the way that he looked at him. There was something about Mister Hackington that made her afraid for them both. Were they up to something?
"There's something going on, isn't there? Something to do with him." She cans the rising hysteria in her voice. "Why won't you talk to me, Cuddles?"
He silences her with a kiss. There's hunger in it, real hunger, and it's been far too long since she had his weight to anchor her. He hitches up her nightdress. But when he thrusts inside her, he turns his head away, almost as if he’s only doing it to shut her up. She knew this ... but she played along and pretended to moan. Watching all those porn movies on her boyfriend’s computer really paid off. That night ... she was given the most amazing orgasm she has ever felt. Maybe it was because of the wait, maybe it was because he had been reading up on how to pleasure women or maybe it was just her missing his touch. They ended up spooning, she felt wanted again. She felt needed.
In the morning they sit down to breakfast together. He hardly speaks; he doesn't eat. He stares at her, like he's studying every contour of her face, and Rachel almost blushes, for all that they share a bed. He squeezes her hand, and she thinks that this is it, that he's finally going to tell her.
He hangs his head. "I have to go," he says.
He comes home early that evening; he locks and bolts the door behind him.
He watches her all the time, and she doesn't know what it means. He flinches at the slightest noise. It's almost a relief when he's not there, but his nervousness is catching, and she doesn't like being in the house on her own any more.
It's her time of the month, and Rachel's tired and irritable. But her friend Alice has brought her baby daughter round, and they always cheer her up.
"What's wrong?" Alice asks. "You're out of sorts."
Rachel doesn't answer: little Allison is determinedly crawling towards the fire, and she scoops her up. She thrashes his arms and legs, and sends her rattle hurtling to the floor.
"You little monkey." She bounces her on her hip until she claps her hands and gurgles in delight.
"You've been together years," Alice says. "It's about time you had one of your own."
"We will," Rachel tells her. But a friend's a friend, and it takes more than a brave face to fool them.
"Is there a problem in that department? Something wrong with him? You know ... down there"
Rachel blushes and laughs. There's something wrong – she's sure of that, can feel it in her bones – but not in the way that Alice means. Not in any of the ways that Alice could imagine. Rachel's Cuddles has never hit her, never even raised his voice. He puts food on the table and pays the bills on time.
How can she explain all those things that just aren't normal? That he has taken down all the mirrors in the house. That, when she started bleeding yesterday, he buried his head between her legs and –
"You will be all right, won't you?" Alice takes her hand as she gets up to leave.
"Of course I will," Rachel tells her. A friend may be a friend, but there are some things that you have to deal with alone.
Rachel piles the tea things back onto the tray. There's something peeking out from under the table: Allison's rattle. She snatches it up. If she's quick, she'll catch Alice before her bus turns up.
The doorbell rings; Rachel hurries into the hall, the rattle in her hand. It isn't Alice.
She can see the outline of a trench coat, a fedora, but the man's face is a blur behind the frosted glass. She shudders, although she couldn't say exactly why. A part of her wants to turn and walk away, but she's worn out with all her worrying, and exhaustion gives her a kind of desperate courage.
She opens the door and death smiles at her.
“Hello, my dear. I do believe you’re meddling in mine and your boyfriend’s business” the man states, he must be the man her Cuddles has been talking to, mister Isaac Hackington.
Her eyes open widely, she didn’t want to know what her boyfriend and this man was up to. She slams the door shut, explaining that she “had a chicken in the oven to check on”, but the man in the trenchcoat and fedora jams is foot in the doorway, stopping the door from closing and makes his way into the apartment. Rachel steps back in fear as the man grabs ahold of her wrists and pins her against the wall opposite the one iside the kitchen. He presses hard against her wrists and stares right into her eyes. The man was pale, had dark brown eyes and had medium length brown hair dangling from under his hat.
“This is a warning. Don’t go digging into things which don’t concern you,” he begins, instantly being interrupted by Rachel.
“He’s my boyfriend, I have a right to what he’s been up to!” she screams back at the man presumably called Isaac. He raises an eyebrow in seemingful agreement.
“True.” he responds, letting go of Rachel’s wrists and beginning to make his way out of the apartment, tipping his hat to her as he leaves as an act of gentlemanliness.
Rachel stops the man from leaving, grabbing ahold onto his arm and begging for answers.
“Please. Tell me ... is he cheating on me?” She asks.
Isaac nods, signifying a no.
“No, miss,” he responds.
“Good ... but is he involved in some kind of criminal thing?” she asks again.
“No,” Isaac answered her again, preparing to leave the apartment and be on his way.
“So ... is he ... is he an addict or something?” She questions Isaac once more, looking rather worried. If her “Cuddles” did actually have an addiction - or any sort of problem, really -, she would gladly stick by him and help him through it. That’s what she does. She’s a kind, lovely, honest, trustworthy and honourable woman, a woman that H4ck3r intended to marry one day.
Isaac nods once more, signifying a no. Rachel nods back as the mysterious man somehow involved with her boyfriend dissappeared within a blink of an eye. A look of confusion and shock burst onto Rachel’s face. She came running to her apartment doorway, frantically looking around outside for the mysterious stranger. He was nowhere to be found. She rubs her eyes and returns to the apartment she shares with her boyfriend, believing herself to be tired, she returns to bed.
SEVERAL HOURS LATER
She walked into the pub, almost at the same time as the man that sat down at the bar close to her. She pulled out her iPhone, clicking the foursquare App and checking in. She was just about to put it away when it vibrated, telling her another foursquare user had checked in at the same pub. She looked up, glancing to her left where he was sitting - phone in hand and smiling a little embarrassed smile at her.
"Hi. I'm ... Paul."
"Jorgie Smiles" She smiled, offering her hand in a kindly gesture, he seemed a little unsure but shook it never the less.
"You look nice." He smiled broadly, again with the awkward and embarrassed demeanor.
The woman laughed, feeling her cheeks heating, "Thanks. I like your hair." It was true, the guy had a great head of hair.
He ran a hand through the poofy, sort-of wild, hair on his head. "You think? I thought most people hated it."
"Well they're foolish then." She waved for the bartender, ordering a Guinness.
"I'll pay for that." “Paul” offered, laying a couple quid down on the counter and ordering himself a glass of wine.
"Well, that's awfully nice of you." Jorgie felt the hot blush spread across her skin. She hated being ginger. The pale skin, the freckles, the full body blushes. "I think we might have ordered opposite orders of what most people would think."
The bartender brought them their orders, leaving them alone at the bar. "I've never seen you in here before." “Paul" smiled, he always came into this pub.
"Yes, well, my ex works at my old haunt so I tend to avoid it now." She laughed, shifting a little uncomfortably. "So I was trying this place out tonight. I like the atmosphere."
The man calling himself Paul nodded, unsure of what to say. He started to speak but decided what he was going to say was daft, so he just shut his mouth before she thought he was gaping.
"So what do you do?"
"I'm ... well, I work at a wrestling company." The word sounded strange rolling off his tongue and he quickly took a sip of wine before he felt anymore awkward.
"That's a pretty profitable occupation." Jorgie laughed, taking a long sip of her Guinness and smiling at him.
"What do you do?" Paul asked, looking a little too anxious to hear her answer. He'd only looked at her a few times, trying not to let her notice his glances.
"I’m a lawyer." She turned to look at his face, most guys looked at her funny when she said she was a lawyer. But not him, he looked intrigued.
"That sounds fun." He sounded excited about, like that tiny bit of information about her meant the world to him. She couldn't help but laugh at his enthusiasm.
There were a million things she could say that would be disparaging, but something about this man intrigued her and she didn't want to shoot him down. She'd been single for almost a three months, she wouldn't mind just hooking up with some cute guy from a pub. Especially one with that head of hair.
"I like it. It was sort of my dream job my whole life. It might not be a big law firm ... but maybe one day I’ll get to where I wanna be."
She quickly changes the subject, no longer wishes to talk about her career.
"So are you a local? You don't have that American accent I keep hearing."
"I’m from ... Manchester." He smiled, wondering faintly if she meant his slight lisp. People mocked him for that lisp - few found it sexy, one of them being his girlfriend.
"Ah, I wasn't exactly sure where the accent was from but it's ... nice."
He resisted the urge to say really again, she seemed to be the Queen of Flattery and it was a nice change to speak to another woman other than Rachel. Everyone else treated him like something to swat away. He hated it, he wanted to be noticed, to be liked. No one liked him. He sipped his wine, "Thank you. You don't sound like a native either."
"Born in Scotland to an Irish father and a Welsh mother, was in America for about two years, then moved back up to Scotland to care for my dad, he had a stroke a while back and my mom was too busy with her new boyfriend. I’ve been in America for about four years now. Not that I'm complaining." She laughed a little briskly, sipping her Guinness. "Now, Paul, tell me this - do you have a girlfriend?"
"... No." He laughed nervously, controlling the maniacal tone - no one wanted him like that.
"... Good, because the last time someone hit on me his girlfriend came out of the loo and beat me up with a chair." She frowned a little, looking into the dark beer. She looked back up and smiled at him, "Just checking."
"Well that's criminal, but I can see why he'd chat you up." He grinned, a little too over-zealously, but she laughed off his enthusiasm. "I'm sorry, I must seem like a bumbling idiot. My apologies."
"It's endearing. My last interest was a bit of an arrogant prick." She shrugged, taking a longer sip. "How do you mind going outside for a smoke with me?" She'd barely finished the sentence before he was on his feet with his wine in his hand and a lopsided grin.
"I'd love to."
They stepped outside the pub, standing in the little alleyway between the pub and the block of unfinished houses next to it. Grace sat her beer down on a little ledge, pulling out a ciggie and lighting it, offering him his own one. He accepts and lights up his own ciggie.
Paul handed back the lighter, making sure their fingers brushed a little bit.
"Gosh you're cold!" Jorgie laughed, grabbing his hand rather suddenly, and feeling how chilly he was.
"You're quite warm." Paul instantly replied, pulling his hand away, afraid she'd realise the tattoo he had of him and Rachel on his wrist, a match to Rachel’s.
Jorgie rolled her eyes and leaned against the brick wall, "Blame Irish genetics. I'm known for a lovely full-flush." She took a drag of the cigarette, sighing heavily. "I used to be absolutely addicted to these things." She wiggled the cigarette in her hand, "Then my dad died and it turned me off of them. But obviously once addicted always addicted."
“Paul” cringed a little, for an unknown reason, but she didn't notice. He eyed her up as she sipped her beer, sitting it back on the ledge and looking up at him.
"Why so silent?"
"Sorry, I was just thinking of a friend of mine who died as well." He laughed awkwardly, lying unbeknownst to her. He met her eyes and wondered what that dark look meant in them. Inside they looked green, but in the low light of the alley light they looked dark, and her heart-rate peaked.
Jorgie stepped towards him, smiling a little as she flicked the cigarette onto the pavement. He knew what she meant as she came an inch closer. He hadn't kissed someone proper like this since he fell in love with Rachel, and God had he missed it.
He pulled Jorgie to him, wrapping an arm around her waist and throwing the cigarette across the the alley.
She was a great kisser, she was an even greater kisser because she was kissing him.
"Maybe we could go back to you place?" Paul asked hesitantly as she pressed against him a little harder, making him let out a reluctant groan.
"Yes." She laughed, with a wink, kissing him again.
~o~
“Paul” gasped as he woke up beside Jorgie, but it became quickly apparent that the cold body beside him was no longer Jorgie, but the shell of who she had once been. He panicked, jumping out of the bed and realizing the horror scene on his bed. Her neck ripped open, her pale skin stained blood red, her body bare, his body bare and stained with her blood.
"Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God." He muttered, looking down at his bloody hands. "I'm so sorry Jorgie, I'm so sorry."
"I know you are." She stood behind him, watching him freak out. Now a figment of his imagination.
"Oh Jorgie!" He was crying now, the bubbling babbling fool he knew he was. He reached out to touch her now cold and faintly there cheek. "I didn't mean to. I lost control. I thought that I could. But I couldn't."
"It's alright, I know you lost control." A tear slipped down her cheek, a frowning marring her beautiful lips. "The door came for me, but I shut it. I wanted to see you wake up."
"No, no, no! You can't have missed your door for me. No - Jorgie! I ruined your plans." He hugged the partially caporal spirit. Stroking his fingers through her hair.
Jorgie nodded her head, kissing his forehead and then slowly fading away. "There's nothing for me to hold onto here."
"I'm so sorry, Jorgie!" “Paul” cried out, sinking to his knees. He was a failure. The first woman he tried to cheat with and he killed her. He was a slave to his addiction.
His addiction ... to fantasise about cheating on his lovely Rachel, then killing them. All this meeting with the woman and the subsequent death and ressurection of her was just a figment of his over-active immagination. In reality he was sat on the end of his bed whilst his lovely girlfriend Rachel slept. He held a picture, a picture showing a young Drake Hunter and a young Rachel. A tear fell down his face as he ran his fingers through his hair and whispered to himself.
“Drake ... you’re the monster here ... not me. Not me.” H4ck3r whispers as he tucked the picture into his drawer and turned over to his sleeping soulmate, smiling as he holds his arms around her.
“I love you, sweetheart.”
Who is H4ck3r? Why did he change the name of his girlfriend? Why does he have so much hatred for Drake Hunter? Who the hell is Isaac Hackington and is he involved in the H4ck3r mystery? And most of all, why is H4ck3r having fantasies of cheating on his girlfriend and killing the woman? Who knows? H4ck3r knows.
Tune in to NYCCW presents: Caged Aggression, live on TNN on June the 23rd.
It's just so...
Strange
Overrated
Stupid
Horrible
Hard
Unbelievable
Dumb
Pointless
Confusing
Big
Scary
Gray
Lonely
Numb
Painful
It's just so...
Complicated.
Useless. Annoying. Stupid. Loser.
These were the words people used to describe H4ck3r. Ever since his school days, when he had been the weird kid with a stutter who would rather sit inside and watch people than play with the other boys, people had despised him. The way he walked, the way he spoke, with a stutter and a hint of an accent that screamed all too loudly that he was poor, the state of his clothes that said the rest; all of it was fair game for mockery. So, he avoided the other children, found clever ways to sneak home and clever ways to get away from them. He made teachers like him, and told them nasty things about the boys who would pick on him so that they would get in trouble. Still everyone else hated him, and he hated them right back.
Years later, a pretty girl he met at school one day saw something of worth in him. It made him glow with pride when she smiled at him, and the day he proposed and she accepted, he thought he could have died and not regretted anything at all. She was an practically an angel in his eyes. The voice of schoolyard boys whispered to him, though; he knew in a dark place inside of him that he did not really deserve her, that he must have tricked her somehow for her to want him like she did. Not that he was complaining, but it hurt sometimes when he looked at her beautiful, smiling face, and all he could think was, 'She'll be gone as soon as she figures out how worthless I am."
Still, he was clever. That was how he got her to fall in love, he figured. He was clever and witty, and she mistook his awkward hunch and inability to look her in the eye for charming quirks. She loved him, but he couldn’t see that. He could only feel as if he was losing her, but this was simply his shyness, not actual fact.
One day, he knew, he was going to lose her, and that day was going to break him. He could ignore the barbs that his colleagues threw at him so casually, the way they overlooked him. It had hurt for a while, when he got his first proper job, how no one ever seemed to notice how clever he was, how different and smart his ideas could be, if he would just be allowed to play them out. They only noticed his failed cases, only laughed and thought him a fool. They reminded him constantly that boys never really stopped being petty, hateful creatures, that just because he got nicer clothes and a pretty girl didn't mean he was allowed to be one of them. But their words had dulled with time, become an easily ignorable routine.
If she left, though, she would take with her everything that made him something. He couldn’t let her go, even if she did wish to leave.
When he was fourteen, our precious little H4ck3r met the man who would change his life. Drake Hunter A.K.A Alexander Krossa, an unassuming name attached to a somewhat forgettable face. Drake promised H4ck3r that he would be great, that his name would be remembered forever, and he knew that his time had finally come. He would finally be able to show someone how clever he was, and Drake would be proud as he ruled with H4ck3r by his side. Drake saw something in him worth nurturing, worth having, worth wanting. A remarkable being who seemed to be the greatest person alive saw something worthwhile in HIM, and for the first time, H4cker found something worthwhile in himself.
At least, that's what H4ck3r thought, until that face was burned forever into his memory as the man he had originally thought to be his friend destroyed him, destroyed everything he had become, made him feel like nothing. Drake Hunter remade him, and once his mental screams subsided and his new reality sank in, H4ck3r knew that he would give anything to make sure that Drake never forgot his decision to betray him.
Maybe he did deserve her, after all?
♫Wires.♫
♫You've got wires going in; you've got wires coming out of your skin.♫
Collapsing in front of his whole entire world ... “Butchered” by the monster who had destroyed and created him. It obliterated everything he is ... everything he was. Leaving the shell of the man he could have been.
♫You've got tears making tracks; I've got tears that are scared of the facts.♫
"What has he done?"
He brushed a stray piece of hair off of her pretty face. Why would anyone do this to someone so innocent? What had she done to deserve this? Simple, she loved him.
♫There's dry blood on your wrist, your dry blood on my fingertips.♫
"Forgive me, please."
He placed his hands either side of her head, attempting to bury his thumbs over her eyes and push them deep inside closing them forever, hoping to kill her in her drunken slumber and end her sad life. But he couldn’t do that to someone he loved. He placed his forehead on top of hers for a moment, letting out a sob as tears ran down his cheeks. The tears run over to her cheek, waking her slightly.
"We’re okay ... we’re okay."
♫I see it in your eyes, I see it in your eyes, you'll be alright.♫
Drake ... he HAS to be stopped.
YEARS LATER ...
The telephone rings just as H4ck3r and his lovely soulmate are sitting down to dinner. Let’s call her “Rachel" for the time being. Rachel lets him answer it; she already knows what it's going to be. It's why they had the thing installed: so H4ck3r could be at his boss's beck and call.
"They need me at the office," he tells her.
He's no happier about it than she is, but complaining won't do any good. She hands him his briefcase, and he pauses to give her a kiss before he dashes out the door.
Rachel eats her meal while it's still hot – no point in letting good food spoil – and she sets her darling’s plate aside for later. When she's finished the dishes, she switches on the wireless and busies herself with darning his socks.
The carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimes the hour. It's getting late; “Cuddles” as she calls him has been gone a long time. He's working too hard, but that's how he's going to get ahead. He won't be in that job forever, hopefully he could climb the ladder and find himself a better job. Someone is going to recognise his talents, and then things will be different.
Her eyes are too tired for the black on black; she sets her work aside. The sweet sound of a violin comes over the radio – something classical, but she doesn't know the composer. Surely H4ck3r won't be too much longer. She's just going to rest her eyes while she waits.
Rachel startles awake, but it's just the front door closing. It's just H4ck3r. He's creeping down the hall, trying not to wake her.
"I'm in here," she calls out.
He stands, swaying, in the doorway, a pale apparition that drives her from her seat, her heart thumping.
"Are you all right?" She drags him into the light. "You look like you've been in a fight. What's happened?"
"There was a bit of trouble at the office," he tells her, "but it's going to be all right." He slumps into his armchair. "Everything is going to be all right," he keeps repeating. His eyes tell a different story.
Rachel steers her boyfriend up to bed, because she doesn't know what else to do. She watches him sleep. And when she can't bear to see him twitch and whimper any longer, she goes downstairs and washes his shirt. Once blood has set, it never comes out.
Her “Cuddles” is having an affair – what else is she supposed to think? His hours become erratic; he goes out in the middle of the night when Rachel knows the telephone hasn't rung.
“Cuddles” hovers around her, guilty and apologetic. He doesn't want to touch her any more. He's tired. He has papers to read. Once, he even has a headache, and that's supposed to be her excuse. When he kisses her it feels like she's kissing a stranger. What has happened to her lovely cuddley man?
"Things are a bit hectic at work," he tells her, when he comes home late one evening and finds her scraping his dinner into the bin.
It would be simple enough to check: she could walk down to his office or wherever it is that he's supposed to be. But that would make it too real, too final, and she wants to cling to her uncertainty a little longer. She didn’t want to find out he had been cheating on her, she couldn’t handle that. She’s been through too much to be let down by Cuddles now. He surely wouldn’t be sleeping with his secutary ... would he?
Rachel finds a smear of red on her Cuddles's collar, but it isn't lipstick. If it were, then at least she'd understand what's going on.
With the way that soap's still rationed, Rachel struggles to keep up with the laundry. It's mud all over Cuddles's shirt this time, and he stammers out an excuse when she confronts him about it. He's never been able to lie to her; he's never wanted to. She scrubs at the stains until her hands turn red and start to sting, and she blinks away her tears.
It must be something criminal. Cuddles got himself mixed up in something dangerous, and he's trying to shield her from it. They're close to the bad part of town, and the racketeers have been thriving since they arrived.
"Is it money trouble?" Rachel asks. "Because I could –"
"It's not about money," he tells her.
Which isn't an explanation but it's a beginning, the first step towards closing the distance that's opened up between them, and she finds herself starting to cry. She wants to hug Cuddles – wants him to hug her – but she mustn't be clingy. He'll tell her the rest in his own time.
Cuddles's hands are always cold; Rachel worries that he's ill. Maybe he had been diagnosed with some sort of illness and wasn’t speaking to her about it in fear that it would ruin what little time he could have left? Her mind was racing with questions. Was it so difficult just to know what her lovely Cuddles was up to? They were drifting apart.
"You don't eat enough to keep a sparrow alive," she frets. She doesn't want to nag; she can't always stop herself.
She cooks his favourite, steak and kidney pie. He dutifully clears his plate, but as soon at the last mouthful is gone he's putting on his coat and hat. She doesn't wait up. She wakes to find him undressing, and she sees the scratches, fresh and angry, on his shoulder. Rachel knows she wasn't the one who put them there: they haven't made love since this all began. He WAS cheating on her ... she began to tear up.
She was right the first time: he's having an affair. But something still doesn't ring true, and her head's in such a muddle. She needs someone to talk to, but her mother always said that he would be a disappointment, and Rachel will be damned if she's going to give her the satisfaction. Maybe this is just what life was like with him now? Oh god, if it was, she must be the one falling out of love with him because honestly, if this kept going on, she didn’t want to be with him any more.
"Let's get out of the city," she says. "It's perfect weather for a picnic."
Cuddles spends too long indoors – in offices and cells and courtrooms – and he always leaps at the chance to get out in the sunshine. Rachel loves the way his skin turns pink; she loves his freckles. She loves him, and she wants him back – HER Cuddles, not this man who sits in the shade and hides his eyes behind a pair of sunglasses.
"You look like a film star," she laughs, but it isn't funny. Ordinary people don't wear sunglasses.
On one of their anniversaries, Cuddles gives his “Cupcake” a beautiful necklace and matching braclet that he couldn't possibly afford. She puts on her prettiest dress, and he takes her dancing. You'd never think it to look at him, but H4ck3r is a wonderful dancer. They drink too much wine, and she holds onto his arm as they walk home under the stars.
"Remember this?" she asks, switching on the radio. He pulls her close and leads her into a waltz.
"We'll have this moment forever," Rachel sings. She closes her eyes and lets herself pretend that everything's the way it used to be.
The telephone rings. He flinches, and stops so abruptly that she treads on his toes. She follows him into the hall.
"Not tonight, please," her boyfriend is saying, and he twists the telephone cord tighter and tighter around his hand. Rachel can't hear the answer, but he gulps and stammers, "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
She clutches at his arm as he passes, but he twists out of her grasp.
"... Cuddles," she chokes through sudden tears, but he's already gone. He must have found something ... or someone more important than her. How ... how ... tragic.
She stands there, listening to the beautiful classical music playing in the background. She abruptly punches the radio and pulls the plug, obviously mad at her man. She goes to bed alone ... again.
Rachel wants to know who's making those mysterious calls, who has the power to take her man away from her like that.
Then she's woken one night by the sound of voices, and she finds her boyfriend out in the garage with three strange men. She retreats to their bedroom and waits, but when Cuddles comes upstairs he climbs straight into bed and turns to face the wall.
"Isaac Hackington," she says, just to test his reaction. "I thought I'd met all your colleagues. Is he new?" He doesn't speak, but she sees his shoulders stiffen.
Isaac Hackington: handsome; cocky; a charming smile. He'd returned her man to her without complaint. But Rachel saw the way that her man looked at her – the way that he looked at him. There was something about Mister Hackington that made her afraid for them both. Were they up to something?
"There's something going on, isn't there? Something to do with him." She cans the rising hysteria in her voice. "Why won't you talk to me, Cuddles?"
He silences her with a kiss. There's hunger in it, real hunger, and it's been far too long since she had his weight to anchor her. He hitches up her nightdress. But when he thrusts inside her, he turns his head away, almost as if he’s only doing it to shut her up. She knew this ... but she played along and pretended to moan. Watching all those porn movies on her boyfriend’s computer really paid off. That night ... she was given the most amazing orgasm she has ever felt. Maybe it was because of the wait, maybe it was because he had been reading up on how to pleasure women or maybe it was just her missing his touch. They ended up spooning, she felt wanted again. She felt needed.
In the morning they sit down to breakfast together. He hardly speaks; he doesn't eat. He stares at her, like he's studying every contour of her face, and Rachel almost blushes, for all that they share a bed. He squeezes her hand, and she thinks that this is it, that he's finally going to tell her.
He hangs his head. "I have to go," he says.
He comes home early that evening; he locks and bolts the door behind him.
He watches her all the time, and she doesn't know what it means. He flinches at the slightest noise. It's almost a relief when he's not there, but his nervousness is catching, and she doesn't like being in the house on her own any more.
It's her time of the month, and Rachel's tired and irritable. But her friend Alice has brought her baby daughter round, and they always cheer her up.
"What's wrong?" Alice asks. "You're out of sorts."
Rachel doesn't answer: little Allison is determinedly crawling towards the fire, and she scoops her up. She thrashes his arms and legs, and sends her rattle hurtling to the floor.
"You little monkey." She bounces her on her hip until she claps her hands and gurgles in delight.
"You've been together years," Alice says. "It's about time you had one of your own."
"We will," Rachel tells her. But a friend's a friend, and it takes more than a brave face to fool them.
"Is there a problem in that department? Something wrong with him? You know ... down there"
Rachel blushes and laughs. There's something wrong – she's sure of that, can feel it in her bones – but not in the way that Alice means. Not in any of the ways that Alice could imagine. Rachel's Cuddles has never hit her, never even raised his voice. He puts food on the table and pays the bills on time.
How can she explain all those things that just aren't normal? That he has taken down all the mirrors in the house. That, when she started bleeding yesterday, he buried his head between her legs and –
"You will be all right, won't you?" Alice takes her hand as she gets up to leave.
"Of course I will," Rachel tells her. A friend may be a friend, but there are some things that you have to deal with alone.
Rachel piles the tea things back onto the tray. There's something peeking out from under the table: Allison's rattle. She snatches it up. If she's quick, she'll catch Alice before her bus turns up.
The doorbell rings; Rachel hurries into the hall, the rattle in her hand. It isn't Alice.
She can see the outline of a trench coat, a fedora, but the man's face is a blur behind the frosted glass. She shudders, although she couldn't say exactly why. A part of her wants to turn and walk away, but she's worn out with all her worrying, and exhaustion gives her a kind of desperate courage.
She opens the door and death smiles at her.
“Hello, my dear. I do believe you’re meddling in mine and your boyfriend’s business” the man states, he must be the man her Cuddles has been talking to, mister Isaac Hackington.
Her eyes open widely, she didn’t want to know what her boyfriend and this man was up to. She slams the door shut, explaining that she “had a chicken in the oven to check on”, but the man in the trenchcoat and fedora jams is foot in the doorway, stopping the door from closing and makes his way into the apartment. Rachel steps back in fear as the man grabs ahold of her wrists and pins her against the wall opposite the one iside the kitchen. He presses hard against her wrists and stares right into her eyes. The man was pale, had dark brown eyes and had medium length brown hair dangling from under his hat.
“This is a warning. Don’t go digging into things which don’t concern you,” he begins, instantly being interrupted by Rachel.
“He’s my boyfriend, I have a right to what he’s been up to!” she screams back at the man presumably called Isaac. He raises an eyebrow in seemingful agreement.
“True.” he responds, letting go of Rachel’s wrists and beginning to make his way out of the apartment, tipping his hat to her as he leaves as an act of gentlemanliness.
Rachel stops the man from leaving, grabbing ahold onto his arm and begging for answers.
“Please. Tell me ... is he cheating on me?” She asks.
Isaac nods, signifying a no.
“No, miss,” he responds.
“Good ... but is he involved in some kind of criminal thing?” she asks again.
“No,” Isaac answered her again, preparing to leave the apartment and be on his way.
“So ... is he ... is he an addict or something?” She questions Isaac once more, looking rather worried. If her “Cuddles” did actually have an addiction - or any sort of problem, really -, she would gladly stick by him and help him through it. That’s what she does. She’s a kind, lovely, honest, trustworthy and honourable woman, a woman that H4ck3r intended to marry one day.
Isaac nods once more, signifying a no. Rachel nods back as the mysterious man somehow involved with her boyfriend dissappeared within a blink of an eye. A look of confusion and shock burst onto Rachel’s face. She came running to her apartment doorway, frantically looking around outside for the mysterious stranger. He was nowhere to be found. She rubs her eyes and returns to the apartment she shares with her boyfriend, believing herself to be tired, she returns to bed.
SEVERAL HOURS LATER
She walked into the pub, almost at the same time as the man that sat down at the bar close to her. She pulled out her iPhone, clicking the foursquare App and checking in. She was just about to put it away when it vibrated, telling her another foursquare user had checked in at the same pub. She looked up, glancing to her left where he was sitting - phone in hand and smiling a little embarrassed smile at her.
"Hi. I'm ... Paul."
"Jorgie Smiles" She smiled, offering her hand in a kindly gesture, he seemed a little unsure but shook it never the less.
"You look nice." He smiled broadly, again with the awkward and embarrassed demeanor.
The woman laughed, feeling her cheeks heating, "Thanks. I like your hair." It was true, the guy had a great head of hair.
He ran a hand through the poofy, sort-of wild, hair on his head. "You think? I thought most people hated it."
"Well they're foolish then." She waved for the bartender, ordering a Guinness.
"I'll pay for that." “Paul” offered, laying a couple quid down on the counter and ordering himself a glass of wine.
"Well, that's awfully nice of you." Jorgie felt the hot blush spread across her skin. She hated being ginger. The pale skin, the freckles, the full body blushes. "I think we might have ordered opposite orders of what most people would think."
The bartender brought them their orders, leaving them alone at the bar. "I've never seen you in here before." “Paul" smiled, he always came into this pub.
"Yes, well, my ex works at my old haunt so I tend to avoid it now." She laughed, shifting a little uncomfortably. "So I was trying this place out tonight. I like the atmosphere."
The man calling himself Paul nodded, unsure of what to say. He started to speak but decided what he was going to say was daft, so he just shut his mouth before she thought he was gaping.
"So what do you do?"
"I'm ... well, I work at a wrestling company." The word sounded strange rolling off his tongue and he quickly took a sip of wine before he felt anymore awkward.
"That's a pretty profitable occupation." Jorgie laughed, taking a long sip of her Guinness and smiling at him.
"What do you do?" Paul asked, looking a little too anxious to hear her answer. He'd only looked at her a few times, trying not to let her notice his glances.
"I’m a lawyer." She turned to look at his face, most guys looked at her funny when she said she was a lawyer. But not him, he looked intrigued.
"That sounds fun." He sounded excited about, like that tiny bit of information about her meant the world to him. She couldn't help but laugh at his enthusiasm.
There were a million things she could say that would be disparaging, but something about this man intrigued her and she didn't want to shoot him down. She'd been single for almost a three months, she wouldn't mind just hooking up with some cute guy from a pub. Especially one with that head of hair.
"I like it. It was sort of my dream job my whole life. It might not be a big law firm ... but maybe one day I’ll get to where I wanna be."
She quickly changes the subject, no longer wishes to talk about her career.
"So are you a local? You don't have that American accent I keep hearing."
"I’m from ... Manchester." He smiled, wondering faintly if she meant his slight lisp. People mocked him for that lisp - few found it sexy, one of them being his girlfriend.
"Ah, I wasn't exactly sure where the accent was from but it's ... nice."
He resisted the urge to say really again, she seemed to be the Queen of Flattery and it was a nice change to speak to another woman other than Rachel. Everyone else treated him like something to swat away. He hated it, he wanted to be noticed, to be liked. No one liked him. He sipped his wine, "Thank you. You don't sound like a native either."
"Born in Scotland to an Irish father and a Welsh mother, was in America for about two years, then moved back up to Scotland to care for my dad, he had a stroke a while back and my mom was too busy with her new boyfriend. I’ve been in America for about four years now. Not that I'm complaining." She laughed a little briskly, sipping her Guinness. "Now, Paul, tell me this - do you have a girlfriend?"
"... No." He laughed nervously, controlling the maniacal tone - no one wanted him like that.
"... Good, because the last time someone hit on me his girlfriend came out of the loo and beat me up with a chair." She frowned a little, looking into the dark beer. She looked back up and smiled at him, "Just checking."
"Well that's criminal, but I can see why he'd chat you up." He grinned, a little too over-zealously, but she laughed off his enthusiasm. "I'm sorry, I must seem like a bumbling idiot. My apologies."
"It's endearing. My last interest was a bit of an arrogant prick." She shrugged, taking a longer sip. "How do you mind going outside for a smoke with me?" She'd barely finished the sentence before he was on his feet with his wine in his hand and a lopsided grin.
"I'd love to."
They stepped outside the pub, standing in the little alleyway between the pub and the block of unfinished houses next to it. Grace sat her beer down on a little ledge, pulling out a ciggie and lighting it, offering him his own one. He accepts and lights up his own ciggie.
Paul handed back the lighter, making sure their fingers brushed a little bit.
"Gosh you're cold!" Jorgie laughed, grabbing his hand rather suddenly, and feeling how chilly he was.
"You're quite warm." Paul instantly replied, pulling his hand away, afraid she'd realise the tattoo he had of him and Rachel on his wrist, a match to Rachel’s.
Jorgie rolled her eyes and leaned against the brick wall, "Blame Irish genetics. I'm known for a lovely full-flush." She took a drag of the cigarette, sighing heavily. "I used to be absolutely addicted to these things." She wiggled the cigarette in her hand, "Then my dad died and it turned me off of them. But obviously once addicted always addicted."
“Paul” cringed a little, for an unknown reason, but she didn't notice. He eyed her up as she sipped her beer, sitting it back on the ledge and looking up at him.
"Why so silent?"
"Sorry, I was just thinking of a friend of mine who died as well." He laughed awkwardly, lying unbeknownst to her. He met her eyes and wondered what that dark look meant in them. Inside they looked green, but in the low light of the alley light they looked dark, and her heart-rate peaked.
Jorgie stepped towards him, smiling a little as she flicked the cigarette onto the pavement. He knew what she meant as she came an inch closer. He hadn't kissed someone proper like this since he fell in love with Rachel, and God had he missed it.
He pulled Jorgie to him, wrapping an arm around her waist and throwing the cigarette across the the alley.
She was a great kisser, she was an even greater kisser because she was kissing him.
"Maybe we could go back to you place?" Paul asked hesitantly as she pressed against him a little harder, making him let out a reluctant groan.
"Yes." She laughed, with a wink, kissing him again.
~o~
“Paul” gasped as he woke up beside Jorgie, but it became quickly apparent that the cold body beside him was no longer Jorgie, but the shell of who she had once been. He panicked, jumping out of the bed and realizing the horror scene on his bed. Her neck ripped open, her pale skin stained blood red, her body bare, his body bare and stained with her blood.
"Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God." He muttered, looking down at his bloody hands. "I'm so sorry Jorgie, I'm so sorry."
"I know you are." She stood behind him, watching him freak out. Now a figment of his imagination.
"Oh Jorgie!" He was crying now, the bubbling babbling fool he knew he was. He reached out to touch her now cold and faintly there cheek. "I didn't mean to. I lost control. I thought that I could. But I couldn't."
"It's alright, I know you lost control." A tear slipped down her cheek, a frowning marring her beautiful lips. "The door came for me, but I shut it. I wanted to see you wake up."
"No, no, no! You can't have missed your door for me. No - Jorgie! I ruined your plans." He hugged the partially caporal spirit. Stroking his fingers through her hair.
Jorgie nodded her head, kissing his forehead and then slowly fading away. "There's nothing for me to hold onto here."
"I'm so sorry, Jorgie!" “Paul” cried out, sinking to his knees. He was a failure. The first woman he tried to cheat with and he killed her. He was a slave to his addiction.
His addiction ... to fantasise about cheating on his lovely Rachel, then killing them. All this meeting with the woman and the subsequent death and ressurection of her was just a figment of his over-active immagination. In reality he was sat on the end of his bed whilst his lovely girlfriend Rachel slept. He held a picture, a picture showing a young Drake Hunter and a young Rachel. A tear fell down his face as he ran his fingers through his hair and whispered to himself.
“Drake ... you’re the monster here ... not me. Not me.” H4ck3r whispers as he tucked the picture into his drawer and turned over to his sleeping soulmate, smiling as he holds his arms around her.
“I love you, sweetheart.”
Who is H4ck3r? Why did he change the name of his girlfriend? Why does he have so much hatred for Drake Hunter? Who the hell is Isaac Hackington and is he involved in the H4ck3r mystery? And most of all, why is H4ck3r having fantasies of cheating on his girlfriend and killing the woman? Who knows? H4ck3r knows.
Tune in to NYCCW presents: Caged Aggression, live on TNN on June the 23rd.
