Page 51 of Jackson
It was as she cried out my name in her sleep I knew exactly what I had to do. I was on the brink of losing her before we’d gotstarted.
I walked to my bedroom and opened the drawer to my bedside cabinet. I took out the small cardboard box and unwrapped the tissue. My hand shook with desire as I held the blade. My stomach knotted with need and my head thumped. I walked to the balcony, down the steps, and onto the beach. I continued, stepping through people sunbathing and laughing, having a great time. I continued until I was chest deep in water and raised my arm. I hesitated. My fingers curled over the blade and I felt the sting as the metal sliced throughskin.
Just one more time, Ithought.
I threw it as far as I could. I lost sight of it as it sailed through the air; the sun had blindedme.
I waded back, ignoring the questioning stares of people I passed. Dripping in salt water, I placed the box on the barbecue and switched on the gas. I lit it and watched the box burn. I wrapped a tissue around my fingers to soak up theblood.
“Jack?” Summer hadwoken.
Maybe it was the sound of her voice, maybe it was the loss of my blade, or the fact she finally saw me the same way I saw myself, asick fuck, but something knotted inside me. My heart felt wrenched, my chest constricted. The need, the urge to hurt rolled over me like a wave. I swallowed hard, trying to lubricate my dry throat as panic welled insideme.
Immediately, I felt like the times I’d seen D-J going through withdrawal. I knew it wasn’t real, but my hands shook and beads of sweat formed on my forehead. There were a hundred things I could use as a replacement but I’d had that blade for years. I knew it was coming. I headed to my bedroom and closed the door. I lay on the bed, as his voice grew louder in myhead.
‘You see this, Jackson. This ends it all,’he said, as he handed me a packet with a razorblade.
‘Jackson, all you need to do is cut, just across here,’he said, showing me hisforearm.
“No,” I cried out. My father’s voice was all I couldhear.
‘You cry out for your mother, Jackson. Here, take this, be with her,’hesaid.
‘If your mother had the C-section she might have lived, Jackson. They would have cut her stomach and pulled you out, but she didn’t, and you killed her,’he cried when he’d saidthat.
‘Your mother is all I cared about, she was my life and you took that from me,’he said, many times over theyears.
‘Oh, Jackson. Now you’ve surprised me. You cut, well done. Now do it properly,’he said, when he’d caught me sitting on the bathroom floor with the blood from my arm dripping on the tiles. I was eleven yearsold.
I thrashed about on the bed as sweat rolled from my body. I gripped the headboard; it was a subconscious way to keep me from climbing from the bed and doing exactly what he had drummed into my head, foryears.
The words, ‘cut her stomach’ had morphed into ‘cut my stomach.’ I arched my body off the bed and my skin itched. It felt like a thousand ants had run across mycuts.
“Jackson?” There was a panicked edge to hervoice.
“Dexter,” was all I managed before I cried out again infrustration.
She ran from the room and it felt like hours passed before I heard footstepsreturning.
“Son, relax. I’m here,” I heard and opened myeyes.
Dexter stood beside the bed. “Tie my hands, Dex,” Ipleaded.
Summer had stood by the doorwatching.
He stood and looked around the room. “The drawer,” I said through gritted teeth. If he didn’t hurry up, I was going to tear my stomachapart.
I closed my eyes and listened as he opened the drawer to retrieved two pieces of rope. Pieces of rope I’d used on Honey many times but never myself. As the twine tightened against the skin on my wrist, pain shot through me where it rubbed against the raw tattoo. I welcomed in thepain.
“Let me give you something,” hewhispered.
I cried out in frustration as yet another wave of the imaginary ants marched across mybody.
“No,” Isaid.
“Think of her, Jackson. Think of her auburn hair; see her brown eyes, and the smile she gives you. Think of her tattoo, son. Remember dancing with her, do you remember the words you sang to her? Think, Jack, just think ofSummer.”
The ants crawled, my father’s voice battled with Dexter’s to be heard and brown eyes smiled atme.
