surprise lmao. i haven't graduated yet it's just school vacation week and i'm bored.
JESSIE
Being a single mom and an insomniac has to be a punishment for something. I wasn't always one, I slept fine most of my childhood and most of high school, but after Connor was born, honestly I don't think I've had much sleep since. It was normal at first, I had a baby, he needed constant attention, that was that. And then it never came back. I would wander the house at all hours of the night, play on my phone, read a book, anything to try to coax myself to sleep but nothing worked. I even tried melatonin supplements but something kept me up. Stress, I assume.
That's what everyone told me. Insomnia from stress. Insomnia from being in an uncomfortable environment. Insomnia from overthinking. Insomnia in general.
Then I changed houses.
I ended up at the Barn. I ended up with His old friends. It's a story for another time.
It's easier to be an insomniac at the Barn. Pitty is too. So is Kazian. They play cards at random hours of the night and when I started wandering around in this house instead of my old house, they seemed to be alright with letting me join in on a few games.
Tonight they aren't downstairs and when I check their rooms, Pitty is curled up tight around his boyfriend, Ian, and Kazian is laid out haphazardly on his mattress on the floor of his room.
Half of the staircase creaks but being in this house for this amount of time means I know which stairs do and where to put my feet on them. I skip every other, stay to the edges, then, the back board on the last stair before placing one foot on the very side of the floor by the wall of the kitchen.
I creep around by the counters, then hop up on one of them, knowing the floor in front of the kitchen sink is too creaky to be trusted.
The pipes are the loudest thing about the whole maneuver, they groan slightly, shuddering in the basement before spitting out a little water into my cup. It's an old Pepsi can with the top removed. It would be stylish if this weren't a poor household. That's common with a lot of things here. Using old t-shirts as rags is 'upscale' and 'recycling' when it's in a rich person's hands. When it's here, it's just another symptom of poverty. Putting clothes out to dry on the line through the living room is energy efficient and cutesy in a rich person's life, here it just means that they don't have a dryer, that they can't afford one.
I settle down on the counter, placing my lips on the edge of the metal cup. Something flashes in the alleyway outside of the kitchen window.
Headlights.
That was one of the first things that Kazian told me upon my arrival to the Barn. Beware of robbers. Beware of shootings. Beware of harm. Beware of police. Beware of anything that you do not know like the palm of your hand and yet you can still get hit by your own fingers.
Carry a knife. Keep Connor hidden. Keep your eyes on your shoes so you know where to place your next step.
I slide off the counter, setting the cup in the sink and picking up a dirty steak knife.
Stand your ground. Don't fall easily.
I grip it backward, blade facing behind me from the fist at my side.
Hold a knife like this, it's stronger, you can punch someone with that hand, you can stab and slash easier. Holding it up will keep you safer.
I step away from the side door, a tall looming figure approaching it.
It's locked. It should be fine. It's locked.
The pipes groan again, a drop of water falling from the faucet.
My ears start to ring, splitting my head and making my skull ache.
I step away from the door, backing up against the far counter and ducking down behind it.
The door shakes, a flash of metal showing through on my side. The house creaks, something slides through the lock and clicks.
I back further behind the counter.
The door falls open, the looming figure now on the inside. It's too big to be human, nearly ducking under the doorway.
I scramble further behind the island, no longer able to see the figure.
The floor squeaks under silent footsteps and I can feel my heart in my throat. My hands shake around the knife, making it hard to grip.
The movement stops.
The pipe drips again.
I press my back into the cabinets.
I'm going to get killed.
In a flash of motion I see a hand fly out and hit the lights and then the mass is in front of me, holding out its arms to stop me from attacking.
Its eyes are dark, flicking over my body as if evaluating my danger. I don't pose much to it, I'm tiny, slow, only armed with a gross knife.
"Jessie Kingston?"
Its voice is harsh, deep, haunting, almost like it's bouncing around within a cavern instead of addressing me in a dimly lit kitchen.
I drop the knife and scramble backward, socks slipping on the tile.
"Wait, wait, Jess, it's Jorgen, you know me, it's Jorgen, from high school," he pulls his hat off from over his eyes and I stop moving, back against a table leg. "I didn't mean to scare you, I'm sorry."
I keep quiet, staring at him.
Jorgen. As in Jorgen Hadley.
He's at least a half foot taller than the last time I saw him, his shoulders broader, body filled out with age, his cheeks aren't sallow and pale, his under-eyes are still dark but don't reek sickness. The tone of his shoulders is eerie from its familiarity, the ache of his voice still serving its control seven years later.
I'm shaking, breathing too shallow, all of it. I don't know why.
He crouches down, heavy boots stable against the floor that didn't allow me any traction just seconds ago. The boots are tied up past his ankle, tightly wound with laces looped around the tops once. They're well worn, tread soft around the corners but still holding firm on the tile.
"Hey, you're alright, you're good, I got you pretty bad, I know," he reaches out a hand and when I don't move, holds it gently right in front of my mouth and nose. He retracts, standing up again.
I can't seem to move or speak, just stare and try miserably hard to slow down my breathing. My mind is racing, reeling with the adrenaline rush of his arrival and trying to scumble my reaction to seeing him again.
He presents me with the same cup of water I had moments ago, "drink. Slowly. Take a deep breath between each sip."
I watch him closely, lifting it up to my lips.
Sip.
Breathe.
Sip.
Breathe.
"Good," he comments, "are you feeling alright? Lightheaded? Anything?"
I shake my head.
"Good, good," he stands again, leaning over and turning on some of the rest of the lights.
There's an alarm going off upstairs and Jorgen, as smooth as silk, lifts himself up to sitting on one of the counters. I stay against the table leg, unsure of my shaky ability to stand, wanting to keep sipping water and ignoring that that is Jorgen Hadley.
It can't be. There's no possible way it is. They didn't tell me much about him, telling me they'd make him explain the details.
There's no way that the stick-thin half-drugged guy I knew in high school is the one now sitting on the counter in front of me. No way that he's the one that got kicked out of St. B's. No way he's that guy.
He's watching me, evaluating, calculating. His eyes are still dark with heavy eyelashes, but instead of being dull, they're sharp, scary, almost.
"Morning?" Kazian sticks his head downstairs, exhausted, clearly, but confused, "why are you on the floor?"
I point at the counter.
"Jorgen!" Kaz leaps at Jorgen and smacks his back before grabbing his head and giving him a good shake.
"Hi Kaz," he shoves his friend, slipping off the counter.
"How's the peg leg holding up?"
Jorgen shrugs, "you know, about as good as it can." His eyes flick back to me, concerned but curious.
"Listen, buddy, Pitty's got this nasty ingrown toen-"
Jorgen smacks the back of Kaz's head, "I'm not here to play frontier nurse."
"C'mon man, it's gross, you like gross stuff."
Jorgen gives him what I read as a joking glare, head knocked back in disbelief, "fine, fine, I'll give it a look."
I stand up off the floor, loosening up my arms and taking my empty water container back to the sink. My knees are weak and loosely uncomfortable but I force myself through it. Do now, process later.
It's too early in the morning for this. I thought I was going to meet Jorgen a month or so from now, when I have more time, when I'm not as stressed out, when I'm better rested, when Connor's out of school. I didn't think that the end of the NHL season was this soon.
Or, I didn't comprehend that he works with that schedule. I didn't put that together.
And now he's here.
***
i felt like I should keep up the tradition of having none of the chapter numbers the same book to book so this one is roman numerals. anyway meet Jessie.
also fun fact wattpad says 'jorgen' is spelled wrong because it doesn't recognize it. (the accurate spelling of Jorgen is Jørgen but I won't talk about that. yet)
-rabid