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Chapter 17 - Jackson

Chapter 17 - Jackson

The drive had been excruciatingly long and his body ached from sitting in the cramped compact car as the various cities and states whizzed past his window, each one so different and yet exactly the same as the last. He was almost there now, it wouldn't be long, just a few more hours to go before he reached his destination.

As the highway tapered off into a bumpy rural route, Jackson pulled over to work out the dull pain in his back which had intensified on his trip as the seconds stretched into minutes, the minutes into hours, and hours into days. When a quiet roadside attraction - a botanical garden he had seen numerous signs for - appeared just past the Florida State line, he veered off. He parked the rental car and took the cobblestone path on foot, ignoring the bold foliage and bright colors the many advertisements had boasted. The tropical flowers and plants native to the area went unnoticed by him, as well as the smattering of visitors enjoying the warm, sunny day. He was preoccupied with the past, the situation of the present and the possibilities of the future and what it might hold.

He leaned against an old tree, towering with age, and retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, ignoring the No Smoking signs posted every few feet. Slipping one out, he perched it firmly between the V of his fingers and brought the slender cylinder to his lips. He flicked a lighter to life, holding it against the tip and taking a deep inhale as the end started to burn. The smoke filled his lungs, the sharp tang obliterating the mounting tension between his shoulders. Not that he was nervous. Jackson was never nervous. It was the teetering on the edge that had him agitated, the edge of a plan that was finally in motion. It was the high he got every time he strategized, right before the moment he went in for the kill.

As the cigarette dangled from his lips, Jackson found his racing pulse was beginning to slow and a relaxing tingle settled in the back of his neck, working its way throughout his body. The entire ritual of inhaling and exhaling felt therapeutic to him. It helped calm his nerves, which at the moment were unraveling under the anticipation of what he knew was about to come. A long awaited retribution, three years in the making.

I've waited so long. . .

Slowly he exhaled, watching the plume of smoke swirl in front of him, snaking its way through the humid Florida current. As the branches of the sycamore sighed high above, he took another hit off the habit he had no intention of quitting, enjoying the quiet meditation. Things might not be quiet again for some time. Who knew when the next moment of peace might come?

Death. . .

Jackson had never killed anyone before but he'd certainly considered it, many times in fact. When he was just a young boy, he'd dreamed of killing his father. Watching him succumb underneath his own hand, the life sliding out of him like the smoke from his cigarette. Making him pay for the world he'd been subjected to. As an adult, he'd imagined what it would be like to take care of the lazy hangers-on who used his success for their own benefit. The mediocre acquaintances who clung on to his knowledge, his position, his money - even his own wife had been guilty of that. But could he really blame her? It was the nature of the weak to rely on the strong. Growing up, he'd had no shortage of admirers and lovers. People were drawn to him, like moths to a flame, and had been ever since he could remember. 

Jackson realized early on how easy it would be to lose control. In junior high, he'd been so upset with a fellow classmate he'd stalked him through the crowded school corridors with every intention of killing him. Luckily, the kid had been swallowed up by the crowd. But the feeling stayed with him and he knew he would have to practice self-control harder than most.

It wouldn't be difficult to take the life of another, not if they deserved to have their life taken away. And certain situations definitely called for that measure. The trouble was there weren't many people willing to do that, to take the law in their own hands if and when it was necessary. People were just moving objects, nothing more nothing less. Where was the justice after his son had been murdered, the flesh of his flesh? There had been no justice. The man who had killed him wasn't even in jail. And his wife - she'd barely received a slap on the wrist.

The legal system had failed, but he was more than willing to remedy the situation. And it wouldn't be a problem, he was certain of that. It wouldn't be difficult at all to fall within The Wilson's good graces, to get as close to them as any person could get. Earn their trust and respect. Jackson was a canny man, confident and wise, and people liked him, he had that gift. It was, in part, the secret to his success. A healthy dose of charm - and desire. The starting point of all achievement is desire. And he had the desire, more than enough. It was his independent way of thinking that put him ahead of the rest, that and his ability to rise above irrational emotions. Remorse wouldn't hold him back.

Not that he was a bad person - he was generally good. He always donated ten percent of his salary to various charities. In business, he was a generous provider of healthy yearly bonuses and he even sponsored a child in an underprivileged country, providing clothing and food and academic supplies. No one could accuse him of not giving back.

Jackson took one long, final drag, then pressed the scorching tip of the cigarette into the soft fold of his palm, amused by the sizzle against his bare skin. A searing sensation shot through his hand but he didn't care. It wasn't the first time he had inflicted pain to disrupt the monotony of life, and he was certain it wouldn't be the last. Occasionally he needed the discomfort to remind him he was still alive.

He twisted the cigarette until the smell of burnt flesh reached his nose and then took a deep breath, allowing the charred scent to fill his lungs. Satisfied, he flicked the butt to the ground and stared at his palm, watching with fascination as the wound began to seep, knowing the next time he had blood on his hands, it wouldn't belong to him.

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Hello and welcome to Secrets and Lies! If you enjoyed this chapter, please leave a vote/comment. 

This chapter is dedicated to Wattpad writer @Kritey! She's writing a short story called  Cold Warmth. You can check it out on her profile page! Thanks, Krittika!

I don't know . . . Jackson sounds like a sociopath to me! What do you think?

This week I would like to thank readers in Thailand, Brazil, Slovenia, France, Greece and Italy! Thank you for reading. :)