Post by Kizuna on Feb 27, 2006 23:47:24 GMT -5
Okay, I've had this nagging idea in my head for a Red Eye fanfic, but I'm not sure to continue it. I'd really like to, but I've been busy with life and another muti-chapter fanfic. If anyone would like to take it up for themselves, feel free to PM me abaout it.
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Of Blood and Venom
Prologue: Bitter Thoughts and Reflections
Jackson Rippner had been born in a hole.
He was born a slave to violence without even knowing it and since then, it went downhill from there. As he grew up, it grew worse, and Jackson not only found himself being a victim of the violence the world had dished out at him, he became violent back. It went up to the point where he became a top manager of high-profile government assassinations and overthrows. In time, he began to live for it, and even found himself enjoying the gruesome tasks. Jackson found some sort of sick pleasure in making people fear him as he coerced them into helping him kill off politicians. In short, he became a hideous beast devoid of all emotions and feelings save for bloodlust.
Of course, nothing, good or bad, or even in the undefined grey area between the two extremes, lasted forever. Everything had to come to an end. So it was with Jackson’s trance of cold, cunning manipulations. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint just when in time it all ended; somehow, the change eluded him. One minuet, he was organizing the gruesome demise of some politician; the next, he awoke to an array of new feelings.
Emotions Jackson had grown insensitive to and qualities of his he long believed were dead had reawakened and blossomed everywhere, their origin unknown. He found himself thirsting for independence. He started to want acceptance and, heaven forbid, love. And most of all was a longing for the one thing he knew he could never have: true happiness. Yes, he wasn’t supposed to think this way, but Jackson took great care in hiding it all.
However, this, like everything else in life, was all a double-edged sword. Darker emotions came up. They were the ones that tormented Jackson at his every waking moment, sometimes even when he slept. He found himself with fear and doubt. Feelings of stinging, burning self loathing plagued him. A profound disillusionment of life itself would catch up to him many times. And there was the constant bite of the disgrace and guilt that always seemed to sneak up on him and grab him, biting and gnawing away at his mind, worming its way into his soul. Still, Jackson admitted it was better than being an emotionless robot. But not by much.
He knew what the trigger of all this was. How could he not, when the reminders were right there, in front of him, each and every single day? But he often wished they didn’t exist because Jackson Rippner, of all people, found himself terribly torn and conflicted between two equally tempting options. In the end, he chose the easy road.
He had taken the easy road and it caught up with him. Jackson’s life crumbled and collapsed under his feet. While his life was destroyed, it didn’t take him along with it. He remained alive and rather unwell. Instead of being sucked in by the dark abyss, Jackson had been washed ashore like a beached whale.
It took a great deal of his skill and all of his effort to erase himself from society more or less, but Jackson had managed out of sheer will. He eventually started a new imitation of life, smuggling for a man named Jeremiah Falcone. It was a filthy, dirty job, but Jackson had been stained with enough dirt, grime and blood before. Even so, the guilt still resurfaced.
Jackson would continuously stuff those feelings of guilt, disgrace, and self hatred in a box, buried in the deepest, darkest depths of his mind so they would leave him alone. On very rare occasions, Jackson would be able to fool himself into believing that he actually enjoyed this sham of a life. But on those times when his conscience couldn’t be fooled, he broke out the alcohol. He would be submerged in a state of blissful, numb ecstasy. Sure, Jackson knew this wasn’t healthy, but it certainly helped him forget the pain and emptiness he felt he was doomed to live with. Of course, nothing lasted forever and when he wasn’t drunk to the eyeballs, the pain he felt became a hundred times worse. Jackson knew that no matter how many bottles he drank, he couldn’t hide. He couldn’t hide from life. He couldn’t hide from the memories. He couldn’t hide from himself.
And Jackson especially couldn’t hide from them. His seven-year-old twins, Aaron and Rachel Rippner. Sometimes, Jackson resented them. Other times, he found himself succumbing to an intense, seething hatred that bubbled deep within the core of his soul, where it would just stay there undiscovered. And then the target shifted to Jackson himself. Why?
The answer was simple. Aaron and Rachel were both very good children, healthy, beautiful, and smart. One might have even aptly described them as perfect little angels. However, that couldn’t fully be attributed to Jackson’s looks. At least Aaron looked like him, with his dark brown hair, blue eyes, and similar smile. In fact, the only thing Aaron ever inherited from his mother was her ivory complexion.
Rachel, on the other hand, was a different story. All she ever got from Jackson was his sharp, pointed chin. Rachel’s hair was that unforgettable shade of deep auburn that would always worm its way into his dreams. And her eyes… The eyes. They were exactly identical to the other pair of hazel green eyes Jackson would see in his thoughts in his every waking moment. Sometimes, even when he slept.
And Jackson hated them both. He never said it. He never showed it. He really did try to love them though. He tried with all his might. There were those scattered, rare moments in his life when he fooled himself into believing that he actually felt something other than the pure, unadulterated hatred he had for those wretched children. Then, it would seem as though the hole in his heart was filled.
But the rest of the time, the cold, slimy fingers of self disgust and hatred would grip at his soul, holding him there, all the while the bitter thoughts would worm their way into his mind, scraping their claws against his skull. It’s your fault. You’re cold and heartless. You’re ruthless and unfeeling. You’re pathetic. You’re a terrible father. Jackson couldn’t remember a single day that went on without those voices, save for before Aaron and Rachel were born.
Sure, the voices were harsh, but they would always say what was painfully true. This was his fault. He was a pathetic excuse for a human being. He was a cold, heartless, unfeeling monster. He was a terrible father. And Jackson knew he certainly was not an example to follow, not a person to admire and idolize. No sensible person in their right mind, not even his children, who practically embodied innocence, would ever want to admire someone like him- a washed-up, drug addicted ex-assassin smuggler.
Those were the thoughts that ran through Jackson’s head as he stared out the window of his apartment at the ominous landscape of the middle-of-nowhere world he now resided in. The city below, the sky above and the mountains and hills in the distance were bleak and grey. It was raining today. Jackson hated the rain right now; it did nothing but add more to the mood of gloominess and depression.
And then, for no real reason, Jackson found himself crying. A single nerve-wracking sob escaped him as he buried his face in his hands, his limp hair falling around his head like a dark curtain. Before this, he always kept a clean, sharp appearance. But now, Jackson was wearing some old clothes- a pair of worn-out jeans and a dirty sweater. Even his hair lacked its old luster. Before, it was neatly combed and was a brilliant, deep chestnut brown; now, it was a dull, rusty color and in a desperate need of being cut.
He just could not hide no matter how much he wanted to. Jackson leaned against the window sill as the tears welled in his eyes. He stared off into the distance again as they rolled down his deathly pale cheeks. And then, a tiny voice called out to him.
“Daddy…?” It was barely above a whisper, but it stood out from the lifeless silence. He didn’t answer.
“Daddy.” It was louder this time, but still quiet. Jackson turned around and just stared. He felt Rachel’s green eyes stabbing right through him.
“Why are you crying?” Rachel asked silently. Aaron stood right behind her at doorway. Genuine concern and worry thrived in their eyes, and Jackson swore that just for a moment, they were wet with unshed tears. Suddenly, a sort of knowledge sparked in Aaron’s eyes and his unblinking stare turned serious.
“It’s about Mommy, isn’t it?” Aaron asked.
Jackson turned away. It was The Question. It just had a tendency to spring up at unexpected times. He never answered it once.
==================================
Of Blood and Venom
Prologue: Bitter Thoughts and Reflections
Jackson Rippner had been born in a hole.
He was born a slave to violence without even knowing it and since then, it went downhill from there. As he grew up, it grew worse, and Jackson not only found himself being a victim of the violence the world had dished out at him, he became violent back. It went up to the point where he became a top manager of high-profile government assassinations and overthrows. In time, he began to live for it, and even found himself enjoying the gruesome tasks. Jackson found some sort of sick pleasure in making people fear him as he coerced them into helping him kill off politicians. In short, he became a hideous beast devoid of all emotions and feelings save for bloodlust.
Of course, nothing, good or bad, or even in the undefined grey area between the two extremes, lasted forever. Everything had to come to an end. So it was with Jackson’s trance of cold, cunning manipulations. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint just when in time it all ended; somehow, the change eluded him. One minuet, he was organizing the gruesome demise of some politician; the next, he awoke to an array of new feelings.
Emotions Jackson had grown insensitive to and qualities of his he long believed were dead had reawakened and blossomed everywhere, their origin unknown. He found himself thirsting for independence. He started to want acceptance and, heaven forbid, love. And most of all was a longing for the one thing he knew he could never have: true happiness. Yes, he wasn’t supposed to think this way, but Jackson took great care in hiding it all.
However, this, like everything else in life, was all a double-edged sword. Darker emotions came up. They were the ones that tormented Jackson at his every waking moment, sometimes even when he slept. He found himself with fear and doubt. Feelings of stinging, burning self loathing plagued him. A profound disillusionment of life itself would catch up to him many times. And there was the constant bite of the disgrace and guilt that always seemed to sneak up on him and grab him, biting and gnawing away at his mind, worming its way into his soul. Still, Jackson admitted it was better than being an emotionless robot. But not by much.
He knew what the trigger of all this was. How could he not, when the reminders were right there, in front of him, each and every single day? But he often wished they didn’t exist because Jackson Rippner, of all people, found himself terribly torn and conflicted between two equally tempting options. In the end, he chose the easy road.
He had taken the easy road and it caught up with him. Jackson’s life crumbled and collapsed under his feet. While his life was destroyed, it didn’t take him along with it. He remained alive and rather unwell. Instead of being sucked in by the dark abyss, Jackson had been washed ashore like a beached whale.
It took a great deal of his skill and all of his effort to erase himself from society more or less, but Jackson had managed out of sheer will. He eventually started a new imitation of life, smuggling for a man named Jeremiah Falcone. It was a filthy, dirty job, but Jackson had been stained with enough dirt, grime and blood before. Even so, the guilt still resurfaced.
Jackson would continuously stuff those feelings of guilt, disgrace, and self hatred in a box, buried in the deepest, darkest depths of his mind so they would leave him alone. On very rare occasions, Jackson would be able to fool himself into believing that he actually enjoyed this sham of a life. But on those times when his conscience couldn’t be fooled, he broke out the alcohol. He would be submerged in a state of blissful, numb ecstasy. Sure, Jackson knew this wasn’t healthy, but it certainly helped him forget the pain and emptiness he felt he was doomed to live with. Of course, nothing lasted forever and when he wasn’t drunk to the eyeballs, the pain he felt became a hundred times worse. Jackson knew that no matter how many bottles he drank, he couldn’t hide. He couldn’t hide from life. He couldn’t hide from the memories. He couldn’t hide from himself.
And Jackson especially couldn’t hide from them. His seven-year-old twins, Aaron and Rachel Rippner. Sometimes, Jackson resented them. Other times, he found himself succumbing to an intense, seething hatred that bubbled deep within the core of his soul, where it would just stay there undiscovered. And then the target shifted to Jackson himself. Why?
The answer was simple. Aaron and Rachel were both very good children, healthy, beautiful, and smart. One might have even aptly described them as perfect little angels. However, that couldn’t fully be attributed to Jackson’s looks. At least Aaron looked like him, with his dark brown hair, blue eyes, and similar smile. In fact, the only thing Aaron ever inherited from his mother was her ivory complexion.
Rachel, on the other hand, was a different story. All she ever got from Jackson was his sharp, pointed chin. Rachel’s hair was that unforgettable shade of deep auburn that would always worm its way into his dreams. And her eyes… The eyes. They were exactly identical to the other pair of hazel green eyes Jackson would see in his thoughts in his every waking moment. Sometimes, even when he slept.
And Jackson hated them both. He never said it. He never showed it. He really did try to love them though. He tried with all his might. There were those scattered, rare moments in his life when he fooled himself into believing that he actually felt something other than the pure, unadulterated hatred he had for those wretched children. Then, it would seem as though the hole in his heart was filled.
But the rest of the time, the cold, slimy fingers of self disgust and hatred would grip at his soul, holding him there, all the while the bitter thoughts would worm their way into his mind, scraping their claws against his skull. It’s your fault. You’re cold and heartless. You’re ruthless and unfeeling. You’re pathetic. You’re a terrible father. Jackson couldn’t remember a single day that went on without those voices, save for before Aaron and Rachel were born.
Sure, the voices were harsh, but they would always say what was painfully true. This was his fault. He was a pathetic excuse for a human being. He was a cold, heartless, unfeeling monster. He was a terrible father. And Jackson knew he certainly was not an example to follow, not a person to admire and idolize. No sensible person in their right mind, not even his children, who practically embodied innocence, would ever want to admire someone like him- a washed-up, drug addicted ex-assassin smuggler.
Those were the thoughts that ran through Jackson’s head as he stared out the window of his apartment at the ominous landscape of the middle-of-nowhere world he now resided in. The city below, the sky above and the mountains and hills in the distance were bleak and grey. It was raining today. Jackson hated the rain right now; it did nothing but add more to the mood of gloominess and depression.
And then, for no real reason, Jackson found himself crying. A single nerve-wracking sob escaped him as he buried his face in his hands, his limp hair falling around his head like a dark curtain. Before this, he always kept a clean, sharp appearance. But now, Jackson was wearing some old clothes- a pair of worn-out jeans and a dirty sweater. Even his hair lacked its old luster. Before, it was neatly combed and was a brilliant, deep chestnut brown; now, it was a dull, rusty color and in a desperate need of being cut.
He just could not hide no matter how much he wanted to. Jackson leaned against the window sill as the tears welled in his eyes. He stared off into the distance again as they rolled down his deathly pale cheeks. And then, a tiny voice called out to him.
“Daddy…?” It was barely above a whisper, but it stood out from the lifeless silence. He didn’t answer.
“Daddy.” It was louder this time, but still quiet. Jackson turned around and just stared. He felt Rachel’s green eyes stabbing right through him.
“Why are you crying?” Rachel asked silently. Aaron stood right behind her at doorway. Genuine concern and worry thrived in their eyes, and Jackson swore that just for a moment, they were wet with unshed tears. Suddenly, a sort of knowledge sparked in Aaron’s eyes and his unblinking stare turned serious.
“It’s about Mommy, isn’t it?” Aaron asked.
Jackson turned away. It was The Question. It just had a tendency to spring up at unexpected times. He never answered it once.
