"You, my dear, have the soul of a writer."
I cringed before glancing at him with a scowl. "You mean the soul of a poet?"
"No. God, no. You're the furthest thing from a poet. Whereas a poem has the capability of designing a truth endowed with ribbo...
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FUCKIN' FANGBANGERS
"God, Jesus...Allah? Buddha?" At this point, the young blonde man's voice began to crack with thinning desperation. His eyes burned with tears of frenzy; this could not be how it was supposed to end. "Fuck...Scientology?Zeus?The lion from Narnia? Please, if any of y'all can hear me, I need help." He slapped the dashboard of his truck in frustration, howling with impending doom.
Jason Stackhouse didn't sign up for this shit. A dead woman handcuffed to some kinky chains and hooks hanging from the ceiling, blue lips and pale skin and not fucking breathing. He was torn between crying or screaming, and a scratchy wail ripped passed his lips as he repeatedly punched himself against the crown of his head. "Stupid! Stupid!"
He wasn't sure what was happening. He never was. He constantly felt like he was going about life with his eyes closed, arms out and hands desperately groping for anything at least halfway recognizable. There were holes in his brain, he was confident of that. As Jason Stackhouse saw the clarity and intelligence in the eyes of those around him, he couldn't help but continually compare it to how he'd blindly choke against the ever-expanding walls of oblivion; dumb, blind, and stupid. His mind was a constant whirlwind that threatened to rip him off the face of the earth and go screaming across sky like a young comet, and now those same loose wires or missing bolts or the absolute rot in his brain was about to tear him from the cords of existence and sink him towards the underbelly of society—where he knew he'd never be able to survive.
Jason couldn't go to jail; he was far too pretty. As much of an ass man that he was, his own ass was strictly off limits.
Maudette wasn't right. He told himself that, over and over. That girl wasn't right, and Jason was simply caught in the middle of an unfortunate situation. Wrong place, wrong time. Having sex with vampires? Letting them bite you? It was a clear sign of mental illness, as far as he was concerned. This wasn't his fault. None of it was. So what if he was the one who had technically caused her to stop breathing? That red-headed broad already had a death wish, as far as he was concerned.
And yet...despite the chaotic bewilderment that overtook his mind and sense of reason, he knew that that particular argument wouldn't hold up very well in court. As much as Bon Temp hated vampires, Jason couldn't deny that he wasn't necessarily one of the most beloved citizens inside the county, either.
So, he screamed again. Another sharp clip against his scalp, his fingers lingering a moment to pull at his tousled hair.
Then he slapped open the dashboard, grabbed the half pint of Jack Daniels he kept hidden, shuddered at the harsh after-burn, stiffened his upper lip, and turned the key in the ignition. He drove slowly out of the mostly empty apartment lot, then sped down the freeway until he was deep inside the harsh encapsulating shadows that harbored the swamp he grew up in.
