The Legend of Jack -- Red Eye fic -- R

[tigriswolf]

Title: The Legend of Jack
Fandom: Red Eye
Disclaimer: Only Jack and Lisa aren’t mine. Just for fun.
Warnings: non-con and non-con incest; character death; child abuse; pre- and post-movie
Pairings: read the warnings, love.
Rating: R
Wordcount: 2500
Point of View: first

If you cannot change something, you must stand it. Make the best of things—eventually, it’ll go your way. It must. Wait it out. And if it never does—well, that’s how monsters are born. – Laura Williams

----

My parents had a sick sense of humor, very cruel. With a last name like ‘Rippner’, my father was mocked as a child. He used to tell me stories about his school days, when he’d been called “The Ripper” and teased constantly.

My mother was obsessed with serial killers and psychopaths; to meet expectations, my father had started acting like one.

Jack the Ripper, a report in college, brought my parents together. Dad—name of Jason—researched him in the library where my mother—Rachel—worked as a librarian. She saw the books he was borrowing and started a conversation. Dad was fascinated with her and came back; it took three weeks before he asked her out.

Their whole relationship was based on a common interest. So they spent time together, spoke for hours about psychopaths, and fell in love without ever really knowing each other.

Jason and Rachel Rippner: a young couple, happy in their ignorance of each other, blissfully unaware of each other’s faults.

Jason had a dark side, planted by a torturous father, fostered by cruel children, tended by malicious teenagers, tempered by studying the great killers and torturers of the past. No, my father was not a nice man, not kind at all. He hid it, of course, buried deep inside.

Rachel, too, had her rages, only brought out alcohol, every now and then. She once had dreams of greatness, of fame—before a car crash at age seventeen stole away her beauty and a part of her brain. My mother was not stupid, not by any means, but a two-week coma and a head wound will change anyone. Parts of her past never came back, and her hopes—half-remembered—were dashed, as a ship upon the rocks during a storm.

Jason and Rachel, two tattered souls, came together young. Even after they realized it wouldn’t work, divorce was never contemplated.

I entered the world a year into the marriage. If I had been a girl, my name would have been Danielle. Sometimes, I wish I had been.

Jackson Daniel Rippner. First and last child of Jason and Rachel Rippner, a moderately successful writer(under the name James Edward) and a librarian. Now, my childhood wasn’t terrible, per say, just interesting.

When a day was particularly hard, unusually unsatisfying, Dad turned to beer. He’d only drink two or three cans, but he’d never had much of a threshold for alcohol. When he drank, Mom did, too. They’d crawl into bed or onto the table, or even the floor or wall—any place’d do, really—and senselessly fuck, or they’d argue—sometimes, Mom would pass out and Dad would come into my room, rant at me or beat me—only three times did he fuck me in her place. And only after I turned ten.

But he’d only drink once or twice a month. And he never remembered what he’d done.

Until I was ten, I went by Jack. Jack Rippner. Once I truly realized the significance, I went by Dan.

When I was thirteen Dad came into my room again, completely trashed. Mom had passed out on the couch. “Jackie,” he slurred, stumbling over to me, where I had lunged to my feet as the door swung open. I watched him coldly; I had decided, merely a week before, that he would never fuck me, never touch me, again.

I rarely kept my promises back then, but when I chose to—I really kept them.

Like when I was nine I promised my teacher—Mrs. Wilson, an old, kind woman, who I really wished was my long-lost grandmother and that she’d take me away—that I would start trying harder at school. I didn’t just try, didn’t just pass—I began excelling. I went from worst to best in less than two weeks.

I swore to myself at age thirteen that my father would never lay a hand on me again. And the only person I never lied to was myself.

My father was the first person I killed. I bashed his skull in with the metal bat I’d stolen from school and hidden under my bed. By the time I finished he was unrecognizable. I won’t describe his corpse for you—use your imagination.

Second was Mom. I stabbed her, fully in thrall to bloodlust. She didn’t wake—I still haven’t decided if I’m happy about that or not.

I gathered together clothes, money, and jewelry, vanished into the night—at thirteen I became a killer, a cold-blooded murderer—surely, I thought, stealing away from the house, somewhere there was a place for me, a place for children who kill.

The third person was some man in some bar five months later. I sat at a table in the back, draining water after water, contemplating where to go, what to do, which face to wear. I used my helpless boy in need of mothering mask to get food out of a waitress. I used that particular mask many times after my parents died.

Marilyn brought me a burger and fries with a chocolate milkshake and told me it was all on her. I gave her my brilliant Oh, thank you so much, ma’am little boy smile. She patted my shoulder and hurried back to her tables.

I wolfed down my burger and dipped the fries into the shake, eating them one at a time. I could feel the eyes on me, not a new thing—men always watched me, even back in my old life. Delicate, frail, big blue eyes—at age ten I learned to use it to my advantage, after the first time Dad fucked me and became the enemy.

I licked my fingers, pandering to the watcher, then drained my water, standing and shooting a smile at Marilyn before walking to the bathroom.

I had learned a lot in five months. Learned lessons I sometimes regret now, but still can’t see a way around.

I never took pride in whoring, but survival was necessary. And sated men paid well, not to mention what I stole from them as they or I left.

I knew the man would follow me out of the bar. I would wait for him. We would walk around the back or I would get in his car. Either way, it would end the same. It always did.

I recreated the theft of my virginity every time, for money. I let them, and that made the difference. That, and the money, made it bearable. Helped me stand it.

I stepped into the night, slipped like a shadow from the bar, took a deep breath, waiting. I padded over into the soft glow of the moonlight, centering myself. The door banged shut behind me, the stench of alcohol hit me, a large hand grabbed me shoulder, and I realized quite suddenly this would be a perfect recreation of the first time. Down to the last futile punch and begging cry.

And it was. He ushered me to his car, one gigantic hand clenched around my neck, tight and warm—I didn’t struggle, not yet. I needed to conserve my strength, to be ready.

He pushed me across the driver’s seat, always holding onto a part of my body, constantly ready for my defiance. I slouched shotgun, his hand resting on my knee. I didn’t look up from my clenched fists, didn’t glance at him. “My parents are waiting for me,” I said softly, the worst lie I’ve ever told.

I could feel his smirk in the air between us, and hear it as he responded, “Stick to fucking, boy. You can’t act worth shit.”

One of many mistakes on his part, not that he lived to know it.

He drove for nineteen minutes and thirty-five seconds. I counted each down, the waiting getting to me. He didn’t play music, didn’t move his hand from my knee, didn’t speak. After that first attempt, I didn’t break the silence again. He pulled into a driveway, coasted up into the garage of a medium sized house. He got out of his car, pulling me with him. Finally I looked up at him.

Tall, maybe six three, wide and strong. Black hair, green eyes, tanned skin, and from the way he moved, a fighter. He smirked, noticing that I’d looked at him.

“Name?” he asked, hand on my shoulder so fast someone else might not have seen.

“J-Jack,” I answered, stuttering, still using my terrified child mask.

“I’m Robert,” he said. “You’ll scream it soon.”

I had no doubt of that.

I looked back down at my fists, didn’t bother watching the house as he forced me through it. I’d have all the time in the world to leave, and I’d take his valuables with me.

I won’t detail what happened in his bedroom.

Despite all my preparations, I slipped back three years, became young Jack, first time fuck, horrified, scared little boy who couldn’t understand why his father hurt him so much. I sobbed and begged and cursed and fought—to no avail. I was five four, a kid on the run—he was six three, a man in perfect shape, probably somewhere around thirty-five. In no world could I have won.

But after, when he was sated and lethargic, I had my chance. And I took it.

Five months isn’t a long time, I know, but I’ve always learned quickly. I shut away the pain, locked it away, and slipped off the bed. I silently walked through his halls, looking for the kitchen.

My parents had named me after one of the most notorious men in history. Shouldn’t I prove myself worthy?

It wasn’t until I’d found the kitchen that the nausea hit me full force. And the pain came with it, a tidal surge that forced me to my knees. I gagged and bile rose in my throat—twice he’d raped me and I fought to the last, and goddamn it, I swore to every god I knew he’d die for that. Like my father. Like my mother who let it happen.

Resolved, I forced the pain away and stood. I could break down later, after it was over.

I chose a butcher knife. And I earned my name.

-----

Five years passed. I wandered from place to place, killing and fucking for money. I took a special pleasure in ending the lives of rapists.

I soon had a reputation in the dark underbelly of the world; the high-ups knew my name. They tried to keep tabs on me, I learned later, but I killed too sporadically, and not always the same way. Here a stab to the heart, there a shot to the head, once I ran someone over—I was a chameleon, changing my killings like my masks.

Rapists, though, after Robert, were always ended with a metal bat. Beaten, and on the edge of dying I carved them up.

I never felt regret, not for anyone I killed. Not for Mom, not for Dad, sure as hell not for Robert—and after, the money chased away all guilt.

Does that make me a monster? No—I think it makes me a sociopath.

At age nineteen a man approached me as I ate in Norman’s, a little hole-in-the-wall long since closed down. He slid into the chair across from me, in jeans and a T-shirt, hair wild. I glanced up, met his cold brown eyes, and smiled pleasantly. “May I help you?”

He didn’t smile back. “Are you Jack Rippner?” he asked, voice almost colder than his eyes, if that were possible.

I didn’t react, didn’t reach for my knife. “And you are?”

“I represent a company that is interested in you, Mr. Rippner. My superiors have a very lucrative proposition for you.”

I set down my burger and sipped my water. “Not interested,” I replied, standing and smiling at him again, then walked out, prepared for anything. He didn’t follow.

A week later, it was a woman. I listened to her whole spiel, bought her a sundae, and said again, “Not interested.”

Her hazel eyes were kind as she told me earnestly, “You don’t understand, Jack. They will not let you work for their enemies. You will become a target, have a price on your head.” She touched my hand, entreated me, played me like a harp. “Come in with me; just listen to them.” She smiled prettily. “Please?”

I knew she was conning me and I didn’t fall for it. But I decided to work with them. I’d been a killer and whore for six years. Now I didn’t need to sell my body and I had resources.

I swiftly rose through the ranks, made a name for myself. I killed quickly and slowly, painfully and painlessly. I never showed emotion, never smiled or frowned.

Smith, the head of the company, told me I impressed him with my icy, emotionless eyes. Also, he said in the greatest confidence, I terrified him because he had no idea how far I would go, what I could do.

Later that year, after I learned he liked to fuck little boys, I took his own pocketknife and carved out his heart.

I left no evidence and no one suspected me.

If there is one thing I regret from my two-decade career of murder and sex, it is my actions during the Keefe job. I became too emotionally involved with Lisa, let her spunk and beauty cloud my judgment. A pen to the throat, however, will awaken anybody.

We both vanished after that. Her body will never be found: dismembered and burnt to ash, scattered to the wind. Keefe, as I’m sure you heard, died later that month, a car crash.

And, yes, the company caused it.

And I? I disappeared back into the darkness from whence I came. I couldn’t return to the company, but I had survived before I joined them. I’d enough money squirreled away to last a lifetime. They searched but I clung to the shadows and didn’t kill for two years. Even with their vast resources and staff of thousands, they couldn’t find me; soon they lost interest and turned to other things.

Lisa sometimes fills me with longing: she was the first person I ever truly empathized with. I hunted down her rapist last year—my first kill in half a decade. I explained to him exactly what the punishment was for—castrated and roasted—and he died sobbing, pleading for forgiveness.

Do I regret killing Lisa? No. Do I regret what could have been? Yes.

Now, my dear, tell me: how did you track me down? Really? Well—can’t have such a loose end hanging about.

Don’t worry. It won’t hurt.