Post by Lisa Rippner on Nov 9, 2005 18:28:17 GMT -5
Alrighty. I'm officially obsessed with Red Eye fanfics, lol. Here's another one. It's an alternative ending, basically a what if Lisa's dad hadn't woken up and shot Jackson kind of thing. I hope you guys like it! 
Lisa’s trembling hands clutched the gun she held at an arm’s length. Her eyes were wide with panic, with fear, and she breathed in short, shallow wisps of air. Jackson eyed her cautiously for a moment, noting uncomfortably that she stood between him and the door. Slowly, as though a sudden movement would cause her to fire, he raised a hand and put two fingers against the hole in his throat.
“We’ll talk again,” he insisted, glancing to the door as sirens resounded dangerously in his ears. Jackson mentally cursed for the millionth time that morning. He had never been caught before, and he’d be demanded if he was going to let that little Reisert biatch land him in a cell.
There was only one choice. Either she would fire, or she wouldn’t. He was just going to have to take that chance.
Gripping his knife in hand, he stiffly put one foot forward, only to be met with the sound of a gun being shot, and the feel of his own aching, bleeding flesh. He clenched his teeth, sharply inhaling, and sped down the last steps. He kicked the gun from her hands, watching triumphantly as she fell to catch it. Jackson swung a leg over her and bent down, gripping a fistful of the hair he had so often admired, and brought her up. He was still wielding his knife, and repositioned it in his clutch for easier access.
Lisa cried out in pain, struggling away from him, but this only encouraged him further, and he held to her tighter still. Finally, she was hurting as he was, feeling a fraction of the bodily pain he was enduring. He brought the knife down, almost slowly, and held it to her smooth, scented neck. She screamed, trembling and sobbing all at once. Jackson knit his brow, suddenly more interested in this sudden show of weakness than finishing the job. Then he remembered.
Oh, yes. The scar.
Jackson nuzzled her curls away from her ear, brushing his lips against the lobe. “Don’t worry, Lise, I’m not going to rape you. I’m simply going to slit your pretty little throat.” Lisa went rigid against him, glancing at the glinting silver out of the corner of her eye.
“Don’t,” she pleaded, then: “Jackson.”
---------------------
“Name’s Jackson,” he said. For eight weeks he had known nothing but her. Now she would know him.
“Is it Jack for short?” A question.
“No, no. I haven’t gone by Jack since I was ten years old. Last name’s Rippner.”
“Jack Rippner…Jack the…Oooohhh. That wasn’t very nice of your parents.” A smile, beautiful and wary.
“That’s what I told them. Before I killed them.”
-----------------------
Jackson’s knife now pressed upon her shoulder, moving towards the curve of her neck but not cutting. Her back was against his chest, held so insistently that she leaned in like a mold for his body. Lisa’s eyes were filled with tears, some fallen, some tittering on the brink, others flowing freely down her heated cheeks. Her lips were pressed tightly together and Jackson moved his head down to look at her. He was fixated by the way she was, struggling and thrashing like a sleeper in a nightmare whose only comfort was the tangle of sheets that kept her from falling.
-------------------------------
Lisa arms spread frantically over the top cover of her bed. She was crying. She was in pain. She was dreaming.
Jackson watched all this from his lab top, placed conveniently on his lap as he sat in his car. In all honesty, he didn’t have to be outside of her window, watching for signs of her. But there he was, sipping his late night coffee and admiring his prey. After a few minutes, though, he didn’t like what he saw. He wanted her peaceful again. He liked the way she looked when she was just sleeping.
Sighing, he got out of the car, pulling his spare key out of his pocket as he walked briskly across the street. Jackson unlocked the door and quietly stepped into the hallway. He didn’t turn on the lights, didn’t leave any sign of his entrance.
When he got to her room, she was still fearing, still thrashing, and for a moment he just stared. He had never approached her before, had never been this close. Then, bending over her bed, he put his curved palm against her hair. It felt brilliantly soft, and he found his fingers unconsciously weaving through the auburn curls. To still her, and only for that purpose, he lightly cupped the side of her face, and shivered. She leaned into his touch, and he started.
“Don’t leave…me…” she whispered, her voice broken.
Jackson had left as soon as possible.
------------------------------
“Jackson,” Lisa whispered again.
His hand stilled on the knife. The sirens were growing louder. He was sweating.
With a disgusted growl, Jackson threw Lisa from him, and she crumpled on the floor, shivering with relief. She turned back in time to see him stab his knife into the wall, shuddering with his face contorted in loathing and confusion. Lisa stared at him, breathing heavily and feeling a strange gratitude for only act of compassion she knew she would ever witness from him.
Footsteps moved from the kitchen into the hallway, and Lisa’s dad fell into view. He held out his handgun, eyes narrowed dangerously as he targeted Jackson. Lisa’s eyes widened, and before she knew was she was saying, cried: “Daddy, no!”
Jackson’s head turned sharply to meet her eyes. “Run,” she said urgently. Jackson stared with a searching gaze, and she was forced to repeat herself. “Damnit, Jackson, run!” Nodding almost dazedly, he fled out the door. Lisa watched him go.
Even as her dad helped her up, her gaze remained on the open, or rather nonexistent, door. The police and fire department were swarming in her driveway. She knew they wouldn’t find him, and strangely, she was glad.
Lisa’s trembling hands clutched the gun she held at an arm’s length. Her eyes were wide with panic, with fear, and she breathed in short, shallow wisps of air. Jackson eyed her cautiously for a moment, noting uncomfortably that she stood between him and the door. Slowly, as though a sudden movement would cause her to fire, he raised a hand and put two fingers against the hole in his throat.
“We’ll talk again,” he insisted, glancing to the door as sirens resounded dangerously in his ears. Jackson mentally cursed for the millionth time that morning. He had never been caught before, and he’d be demanded if he was going to let that little Reisert biatch land him in a cell.
There was only one choice. Either she would fire, or she wouldn’t. He was just going to have to take that chance.
Gripping his knife in hand, he stiffly put one foot forward, only to be met with the sound of a gun being shot, and the feel of his own aching, bleeding flesh. He clenched his teeth, sharply inhaling, and sped down the last steps. He kicked the gun from her hands, watching triumphantly as she fell to catch it. Jackson swung a leg over her and bent down, gripping a fistful of the hair he had so often admired, and brought her up. He was still wielding his knife, and repositioned it in his clutch for easier access.
Lisa cried out in pain, struggling away from him, but this only encouraged him further, and he held to her tighter still. Finally, she was hurting as he was, feeling a fraction of the bodily pain he was enduring. He brought the knife down, almost slowly, and held it to her smooth, scented neck. She screamed, trembling and sobbing all at once. Jackson knit his brow, suddenly more interested in this sudden show of weakness than finishing the job. Then he remembered.
Oh, yes. The scar.
Jackson nuzzled her curls away from her ear, brushing his lips against the lobe. “Don’t worry, Lise, I’m not going to rape you. I’m simply going to slit your pretty little throat.” Lisa went rigid against him, glancing at the glinting silver out of the corner of her eye.
“Don’t,” she pleaded, then: “Jackson.”
---------------------
“Name’s Jackson,” he said. For eight weeks he had known nothing but her. Now she would know him.
“Is it Jack for short?” A question.
“No, no. I haven’t gone by Jack since I was ten years old. Last name’s Rippner.”
“Jack Rippner…Jack the…Oooohhh. That wasn’t very nice of your parents.” A smile, beautiful and wary.
“That’s what I told them. Before I killed them.”
-----------------------
Jackson’s knife now pressed upon her shoulder, moving towards the curve of her neck but not cutting. Her back was against his chest, held so insistently that she leaned in like a mold for his body. Lisa’s eyes were filled with tears, some fallen, some tittering on the brink, others flowing freely down her heated cheeks. Her lips were pressed tightly together and Jackson moved his head down to look at her. He was fixated by the way she was, struggling and thrashing like a sleeper in a nightmare whose only comfort was the tangle of sheets that kept her from falling.
-------------------------------
Lisa arms spread frantically over the top cover of her bed. She was crying. She was in pain. She was dreaming.
Jackson watched all this from his lab top, placed conveniently on his lap as he sat in his car. In all honesty, he didn’t have to be outside of her window, watching for signs of her. But there he was, sipping his late night coffee and admiring his prey. After a few minutes, though, he didn’t like what he saw. He wanted her peaceful again. He liked the way she looked when she was just sleeping.
Sighing, he got out of the car, pulling his spare key out of his pocket as he walked briskly across the street. Jackson unlocked the door and quietly stepped into the hallway. He didn’t turn on the lights, didn’t leave any sign of his entrance.
When he got to her room, she was still fearing, still thrashing, and for a moment he just stared. He had never approached her before, had never been this close. Then, bending over her bed, he put his curved palm against her hair. It felt brilliantly soft, and he found his fingers unconsciously weaving through the auburn curls. To still her, and only for that purpose, he lightly cupped the side of her face, and shivered. She leaned into his touch, and he started.
“Don’t leave…me…” she whispered, her voice broken.
Jackson had left as soon as possible.
------------------------------
“Jackson,” Lisa whispered again.
His hand stilled on the knife. The sirens were growing louder. He was sweating.
With a disgusted growl, Jackson threw Lisa from him, and she crumpled on the floor, shivering with relief. She turned back in time to see him stab his knife into the wall, shuddering with his face contorted in loathing and confusion. Lisa stared at him, breathing heavily and feeling a strange gratitude for only act of compassion she knew she would ever witness from him.
Footsteps moved from the kitchen into the hallway, and Lisa’s dad fell into view. He held out his handgun, eyes narrowed dangerously as he targeted Jackson. Lisa’s eyes widened, and before she knew was she was saying, cried: “Daddy, no!”
Jackson’s head turned sharply to meet her eyes. “Run,” she said urgently. Jackson stared with a searching gaze, and she was forced to repeat herself. “Damnit, Jackson, run!” Nodding almost dazedly, he fled out the door. Lisa watched him go.
Even as her dad helped her up, her gaze remained on the open, or rather nonexistent, door. The police and fire department were swarming in her driveway. She knew they wouldn’t find him, and strangely, she was glad.
I gotta say, I'm lovin your one shots.
