Chapter Nine

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This chapter was written by Bebedora. We talked about an idea that wanted to show how far Jim had fallen, and she ran with it. I think it captured him perfectly. Thank you for everything you've done, sweetie. Love you, Wilfred.

Chapter Nine

Stardate 2255.72

The unfamiliar sheets made Jim's back itch.

He groaned and threw an arm over his eyes, shielding them from the bright sunlight. Stretching his tense muscles, he rolled over to find he wasn't alone. A woman lay next to him, sleeping. Makeup smeared and the aroma of stale perfume and sex wafting off of her, Jim had a moment of panic.

He had no idea who she was.

His mind flitted back to the night before. The booze, the cigarettes, the way she looked at him before pulling him into the ladies' room for a quick blow job. They had somehow managed to make it back to...wherever the hell he was. A quick look around the room told him that they had at least had fun.

Clothes strewn about, a bra hanging off the bedside lamp. An opened box of condoms sat on the nightstand next to an empty whiskey bottle.

At least we were safe...I hope.

The woman moaned softly in her sleep and turned over on her side, no longer facing him. Jim went to gently shake her shoulder, but stopped himself before making contact. He decided to make a getaway instead.

Leaning over her quietly, he noticed she had fallen back to sleep, her eyes flitting back and forth underneath her lids. Slowly inching himself away from her, he slid off the bed and tiptoed across the room, searching for his pants and shirt. He spied his jacket thrown across the back of a chair as he pulled his trousers on.

After donning his shirt, he shrugged on his leather coat and padded towards the door. The knob squeaked as he eased it open, and the woman shifted on the mattress.

"Jamie...don't leave yet."

Jim fought the nausea threatening him.  

Don't you dare call me that.

Nobody does...

Not bothering to answer her, he slunk out of the room and into the hallway, grabbing his boots and keys as he left.


The voicemail icon blinked on the living room comm screen. Ignoring it, Jim walked up the stairs of the Kirk family home, his boots clunking on the dusty wooden steps. He never bothered to clean them—it was only him in the house, anyway.

He shed his clothes, desperate to get the stench of the previous night off of his skin.

As Jim stepped into the sonic shower, he rubbed his aching neck muscles. He knew the warmth would help. He activated the cycle, as hot as the failsafe would allow and let the heat begin to penetrate his weary body. The top layer of skin, dirty from a night of passion and drinking, vaporized off into the air of the stall.

But it didn't make him feel any cleaner.

He stood there for several minutes, pressing his hands against the smooth walls to steady himself. He closed his eyes and took a few cleansing breaths. When he opened them again, Jim could tell the sun was beginning to set. The purplish glow of dusk filtered through the window of the bathroom.

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