Jameson Jackson / Noir Stories (JSE Fanfiction)

Noir (Part 2)

"F̵uc̷ḱi̶n̢g͢ ͢h̨e̢ll!" Anti yelled, his voice thick and strangled. He threw his head back against the chair with a forceful growl, blood spraying from behind his clenched teeth. His whole body writhed under Jameson's knife as it slid over his chest, the blade sinking at least an inch into the flesh.

Jameson's face was frozen, focused, drinking every moment in, until he finally drew his knife away. Again he turned away, wiping the blade calmly on his handkerchief and Anti hissed and screamed through his teeth.

"I̷ hop̀e ̀y̛ou'̢re ̨h҉-h͏a̵ving̶ a̷ fưcki͞nǵ bl͝a̕s̵t͠,́ S͟téa̡m͠boat Willíé," Anti said shakily, drawing a sharp breath and triggering a coughing fit that flung blood all over Jameson's shoes. "I sur͜e a̢m͞.̸"

I'm just getting started, Jameson said calmly, his voice echoing like a cathedral in Anti's mind. Did you really think that I would be satisfied with a few paper cuts? After all the things you've done to me?

"It'̢s̕ ̢o̧kay,͠ ̢J̨J,͜ yo̶u can͞ ͟s͟a̴y҉ ìt̸," Anti chuckled, his face twisted in a mocking pout despite the excruciating pain behind his eyes. "Y-́Y̛ou̢'̨r̀e͞ ̀a f̧anboy͠."

I will do things to you that you can't even hope to dream up, Jameson seethed, his lip curling in utter rage and disgust. His eyes were wild. Different. Every movement was slow, yet spastic, like a limp puppet on strings. You're going to beg me for death by the end. You're going to regr–

"Fuc̶k ̀off,̴" Anti spat, leaning his head back against the chair and letting out a long, labored sigh. "I̶'m ̶t̵i̷red o͞f͘ t̀h̷is ̴hal̸f̧-a̴ssed́ routi̢ne͜, Ja̷c̷kso͢n͏.͘ ͏Ev̨e͝r҉yo͞n̷ę ̨knoẃs ͡you͡'͏r͢e ͝a li͠t͢t̀le͡ wh̸iny bitch̛,̕ w̸h͞i͘ch i͢s҉ ͠p̵r̸e͡tty ìmp̴r͠ess̕ive ̀c̷on̵s̕ider͞in̢ģ y̵ou ̸ca͢n't eve͠n̶ f҉uck͠i̷n̛g ͢s̛p̶ea͘k."

Jameson looked at him for a moment, squinting slightly like he was imagining the millions of ways he was going to tear him apart. You're one to talk, he finally said. You can't even get yourself out of a chair. Are you too weak to go one more round with me?

"Abo͜u͢t t̕ha̧t," Anti sighed, his eyes following his arm down to his bound wrists. "W͡h҉at҉'s̕ ̀t̢h̢e ͡deal͜ ̴wi̛th t͟hes҉e fu̧ck̕i͝ng̛ r̶op͡és͡? Is Edgelor҉d́ pųll̴in͠g҉ ͠y̴oųr ̨li̡t͠t̢le͠ ͝s̶t͞r͞i͞n̶gs?" he shook his head, chuckling a little. "I̡ sw͢e͝ár҉ to̕ ̢go͝d, ͜Jaḿes̸on,͜ you ̢have͞ s̀o m̕a͟ny ̶péopl͜e ͏pòking͞ ̸aŕo̵u̧nd ͡yóur ͘h́éa̢d̸ t͡he͠se͡ da̸y̨s I'̧m ͢su͞r͜pr͡i͝sed̀ ̕yo͞u d̸o͠n҉'͢t͟ ̵h̛a̛v҉e͟ ̵an͏ ST͟D̵.͟"

Jameson walked toward him, placing one hand on the back of the chair and bending down to meet Anti's eyes. Anti returned his cold, empty gaze with his own crazed delighted one. For a moment there was silence, except for Anti's pained gasps and muffled groans.

You're scared of Dark, aren't you? Jameson finally asked, and for the first time a small, chilling smile cracked on his face. Pure elation. I know you do. Look at you. You're like a mangy starving dog trapped in a corner. I pity you. I pity that you truly believe no one else in the world could be as fucked up as you.

Anti spat, sending red spraying across Jameson's face.

Jameson only smiled more, his hand trailing down from Anti's shoulder to his chest, now decorated with countless slices and stabs. Anti grimaced from the contact but never stopped smiling.

"Is this t̕h͠e ̢p͜a̴r͠ţ óf ̡the pa̶rt ̡o͞f ͠t̡h̵e ̵progŗa͘m͘ ̶wh̨èr̢e ͏we ha҉v̧e p͝ass̴ionąt͜e ͟h̵a̕t͏e sex?" he asked, his tone casual despite the growing anger rising in his expression. He did look caged. Frantic. Almost nervous.

Consider this a gift from Dark, Jameson purred. He hopes you like it.

"Te҉l͞l̷ hím͢ I͞-͢-"

Anti's words were suddenly cut off by a strangle scream of pain that came relentlessly tearing from his throat as Jameson suddenly pressed his hand into Anti's chest. A strange light began to throb under Anti's skin as he thrashed violently in the chair. A few seconds in his voice broke and he began to choke, more blood and bile poured from his mouth.

Almost thirty seconds passed.

Forty-five.

A minute.

Jameson finally drew his hand away.

Anti fell limply back into the chair, his head lolling to the side as his chest rose and fell with every labored breath, the blood from his wounds spurting almost randomly as every muscle twitched. A strange, whistle-y whimper escaped him but he couldn't even speak.

Silence hung in the air, broken only by the quiet fuzzy music of the gramophone and the clicking of the projector.

Jameson stood there for a moment, looking at him. Fresh blood coated the entire front of his shirt, smeared on his face now twisted in a slowly-growing smile. Then he laughed.

You know, I thought it wouldn't work at first, Jameson mused as he flexed his hand. A satisfied shiver ran down his spine. It seems you really do have a soul.

He watched a tear that traced down Anti's cheek, already mixed with blood and sweat that coated his face. Pure, unadulterated rage darkened Anti's expression as his eyes wandered across the floor. He seemed barely aware of his surroundings, but still his teeth were bared like a cornered animal getting ready to strike.

What did I tell you? Jameson said, blending down to Anti's level and holding out the knife to lift Anti's chin. I'm just getting started.