Author's Note: I am so sorry everyone for the late update. I was on vacation (it was lovely except that our car broke down very inconveniently) then my computer started sending out weird mails to everyone who's ever been in contact with me. Even I knew then that it'd gotten a virus. So I've just shut it down for the time being. SO, risking everything I still went in, Rambo-style, and fetched what was most important: this story. To post. For you guys.

On a more serious note, on to things that really mean something (I mean RL, blech): from now on it's new stuff. What I was talking about were to come when I started reposting this a while back. AND this is the second last chapter. I hope you'll like it.

Love, Nicolina.

::

Chapter 12. Every Beginning Is A Consequence, Every End Is A Beginning (Interpreted Paul Valery)

"Oh my God! Miss Reisert! What are you doing up? Someone… help! Come on, I've got you. You need to get back to bed now."

More voices intermingled.

"What is it Helen? Oh, shit… WE NEED HELP HERE!"

The letter.

I tried to get up, but my legs just wouldn't obey me and my head spun so bad that I wasn't sure what was up and what was down anymore. Bile rose and sank in my throat and I salivated and coughed, gasping from the strain on the damaged tissue. Pressing my hand to my chest, I made an attempt to ease the pounding pain from the wound. I couldn't recall one single moment in my life when I'd felt so ill, still my thoughts clung to one thing only. The letter.

Hands helped me up from the floor and I winced as my body was twisted in odd angles from their efforts to get me back to bed. They were chattering excitedly and the room seemed to fill with people. All I felt were rough fingers and pain and a buzz in my ears. The letter!

"Pa…" My tongue wasn't cooperating. "Pap…er." It came out as a croak.

"What's she saying?"

"Pape are?"

"Honey, what do you need?" They tried to push me down, presumably on the bed, but I fought to stay upright and stretched my arm towards the far corner of the room, to somewhere by the window.

"Pa…per." I whispered.

They looked in the direction I was pointing and the same soft voice repeated: "Paper? Did you say paper?"

I nodded.

One of the women let go of my arm and walked across the room, picking up the crumbled letter from the floor.

"Is this the one you mean?"

I nodded again.

Not until she'd given it to me and my hand had closed hard around it, did I allow myself to fall back onto the bed. They tucked me in and I closed my eyes, fighting the urge to throw up.

"Are you in pain? You're sweating."

"Pain," I rasped.

"This will make it easier on you, honey."

I soon felt the morphine start having effect, it slowly swept me away on its wings and diluted the sharpness of the ache in my chest until it was only a dull reminder of its previous high. And with the disappearance of the physical pain, even the aching in my heart eased a little. Not even managing to cuddle up in a fetal position, and just barely aware that there were still people in the room, I drifted.

'I want you to come with me.'

No!

I squeezed my eyes shut hard, choking on the tears that threatened to spill from my eyes. I couldn't allow myself to go there. I hadn't cried once since I came out of unconsciousness; hadn't cried for Keefe, for my dad, for Jackson, or for myself. The sorrow was clutched into a ball of agony inside my chest. I didn't feel like I had the right to mourn.

::

A bird chirped cheerfully, and I woke with my tongue stuck to my gum and a massive headache. My eyes hurt, and even without opening them I knew someone had pulled the curtains apart and that the sun was shining blindingly into my hospital room. I also knew that same someone was sitting right next to my bed.

I knew him well. I knew his scent. I knew his breaths; in, hold it a moment too long, out with a slight huff. I knew the sound of thin paper rustling, of pages in a news paper being turned. I managed a half-smile in his direction. Instead of speaking, I just made a very alien clicking sound.

I tried again. "Wat…er."

I felt a hand behind my neck and the cold rim of a glass to my lips. I tilted my head forward and drank greedily. I nodded when I was satisfied and the glass disappeared.

"Don't you have anything better to do, Dad?"

"Honey, I have absolutely nothing better to do than to sit by your side. I won't leave until you're strong enough to physically kick me out of here. Mom says hi by the way."

My lips twitched. I couldn't complain about his devotion.

"When're they gonna prosecute you and put you in jail so I can have some time alone?"

I heard a snort. "Very funny, Lisa."

Turning my head towards him, I opened one eye just a crack and glanced at him. "I always seem to think it is."

"You never filed charges."

I could barely hide the grin. "Why should I?"

"I'm glad you feel that way."

"You're a silly old man, but I love you, Dad."

He turned serious and mouthed: "I love you too." Still too ashamed to say it out loud.

"They told me you were up. What happened?"

"Ah, you know-" I made a vague gesture with my hands in front of my chest. "I just got bored with lying in bed all the time. I wanted to see the world outside and I wanted to just… live a little." Lying still came easily. Funny how it is, that it can be so easy to lie to the people closest to you, and yet sometimes a stranger can see right through you.

I clutched my left hand harder, crushing the little piece of paper even tighter. The only little piece of evidence I had of his existence. I could hand it to the cops, I could burn it, I could frame it and put it on the wall… or… if I clutched it like this for much longer, I could make it disintegrate under the pressure of my clammy fingers. I smiled at my father at the same time as I let go of the letter and smoothened it out on the bed next to me, covering it under the sheet.

We continued with our little morning ceremonies while my headache slowly subsided. Dad brought me tea and toast. He read the news, the main sport events, and the letters from the readers out loud to me and we commented on the awfulness of the world, the results and on how silly people could be. We kept it light, small-talking. All the while I felt that I was such a lie and by far the most insane person on the planet. Because I knew what I had done. I knew what was inside me. Who I was now. Who he had found.

Dad and I hadn't talked about what Jackson had been doing in my hallway that morning. We hadn't talked about what Jackson had done in my room in Dad's house the night before that either. I hoped that he assumed that he'd been there threatening me and that it hadn't been such friendly visits as it had been. That was how I had explained it to the cops anyway. Gathering everything that had happened, and the fact that he'd had a knife at my throat the only time my father saw him, they had no reasons not to believe me.

It still hurt, thinking about it. It hurt tremendously. I'd given him everything, my body, and my soul. And he was the last person I ever wanted to see again.

I hadn't believed… that he'd really be a murderer. That, after all we'd been through, after all the revelations, the closeness, the time we'd shared… that he'd still be that man. I couldn't reconcile with that fact, I couldn't melt together in my head the images I had of him as tender and real… with a man who had murdered Keefe in cold blood. I couldn't because he imprint he'd made still refused to release its hold on me. I swallowed hard as I listened to my dad's voice, remembering Jackson's hands around my throat, how he nearly killed me. I was still bruised, the discolorations tinged greenish and yellow, paler with every passing day. The chase around the airport was only a week and a half back. No! It was I who was delusional. He was dangerous; that was the only truth I needed to hold on to.

'I want you to come with me.'

Get out of my head!

I didn't want to want that, but the thought of not taking him up on his offer, of never seeing him again, felt like ripping out my heart. Didn't that make me just as bad as him? As bad as a murderer?

"You look so tired, sweetheart. I think Nurse Angela will come in here and give me her evil stare if I don't pack up and leave."

My dad's tender voice pulled me back to the hospital room. "Aw, you don't have to leave," I rasped. The truth was that I was terrified of being alone with my thoughts. They hurt. I watched him get up and start packing his things. "I'm in pain, Dad."

I lied. Today I wasn't. At least not physical. I just wanted to sleep.

His look was so filled with compassion that it almost made my chest hurt for real. "I'll tell them on my way out."

I smiled weakly. "Thanks."

::

"Will you be all right, sweetheart?" Dad set the bag down on the floor and closed the door behind him. I stared at the spot on the floor where I had fallen, where I had been when I had caught my last glimpse of Jackson. Dad caught me staring and misinterpreted my clenched jaws. "Your mother was here for days and cleaned it up after the police were through. We didn't want you to have to come home to that mess."

I looked up at him and managed a smile. "Everything? Tha- Thanks. That's… very sweet." I wondered if she had noticed the crumpled, sweaty sheets in my bedroom that must have reeked of sex. My cheeks turned hot and I bent my head, hoping he wouldn't catch me blushing and ask about it. Mom hated to clean. She had probably just grabbed them and thrown them in the garbage if I knew her correctly.

Dad shuffled his feet and looked uneasy. He was standing almost at the exact spot where he had been when he had shot me.

"I'll be fine, ehm, I'll call you later," I said, trying not to jump with impatience. I longed desperately to be left alone.

"I know you want to have some alone-time but at least let me help you unpack and get you a coffee or something." He took a couple of undetermined steps into the hallway.

"Dad. I'm fine." I said softly. I laid a hand on his arm to stop him. He knew me well enough. I really needed time alone. A lot.

"Are you sure?" he asked. I sighed and his lips twitched. "Sorry," he added hastily.

I peeled off my shoes without bending down, straightened and inhaled. I wanted it to smell like home, but I hadn't set foot in my apartment for almost a month and it didn't. It smelled dusty, unused. Then I turned to my dad again. "Yes, I'm sure. I'll call you tomorrow. You can invite me over for dinner."

His eyes turned glassy and he blinked several times. "Leese," he rasped, his voice filled with emotion.

"I know."

When the door had closed behind him, I leaned my head back and stared at the white ceiling, allowing for the first time the onslaught of memories and images to fill me. Jackson on the plane. Jackson chasing me, his hands around my neck. Jackson giving me his jacket. Jackson telling me that I was stronger than I thought. Jackson kissing me, touching me, holding a knife to my neck. My dad holding a gun, trembling. Jackson silently begging me to forgive him when I lay bleeding on the floor. Charles Keefe in the hotel lobby, smiling, handsome and powerful. Charles Keefe's lifeless body under a white blanket on the news. A lonely sunflower in a white room.

And finally, finally I allowed weeks of held-back tears to flow freely. I inhaled deeply, shakily, and then I fell to my knees, wailing in pain and despair for forever before I clutched my chest and got back up, coughing when my damaged lung protested against the treatment. On trembling legs I steered my steps to the bedroom. Yeah, the sheets had been changed. A pang of disappointment took a swipe at me, but then again maybe this was for the better anyway; that I couldn't even choose to bury my nose in the white fabric, hoping to catch his scent still, hoping that some of our love-making would still remain. On a whim I went to the kitchen and looked in the garbage bin. But it was empty. With slow steps I went back to the bedroom.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and just waited, listened, breathed. Nothing had changed. Nothing inside me. Nothing on the outside. I was still the same. My heart still hurt. I still longed to see him just once more. Needed to see him, needed to hear him. I wanted him to tell me that it wasn't true, that it hadn't been he who had killed Keefe in the end. That it'd been his associate. But I knew better. Of course it had been him.

'let the little lamp in your kitchen window shine'

It sounded so simple. But that wouldn't be just a little signal to him to come up and chat. If he came it'd be fast. In. Bag. Out. And my life would have changed forever. Again. Was I really ready for that?

::

The days went by. Initially, I was a broken doll, weak and tired, but I grew stronger. At sleepless nights I took rounds to the kitchen, making tea, staring at the small yellow - unlit - lamp in the window, glaring at the innocent little button that would light it. It looked like a little unstable stick of dynamite. Just one flick with a finger and it would ignite an uncontrollable series of events and blow up everything I knew. I left it untouched.

A week turned into two and I paid my first visit at the Lux. I was still paler than usual and walked with measured steps because the scar tissue hurt when I stretched it and, even though I hated to admit it, I was still easily tired. Everybody came rushing to greet me. No one mentioned Keefe. My stomach was in knots the whole time and I sighed with relief when I stepped into my car and drove home.

Three weeks after my release from the hospital, I had a doctor's appointment, and on the way back I drove past the airport. It wasn't really on my way home; that was stretching it. With hesitating steps, I entered the arrivals terminal and just stood there for a long time, watching the people rushing by, thinking that every face I saw could be him. I wondered where he was right at this moment. What he was doing. Did he think about me? Was he confused too?

I doubted that. He had probably continued with whatever sickly business he was supposed to be doing, thinking nothing of it other than to finish his next job. I wondered how he could be so indifferent to the people he damaged. I wondered how damaged he would have to be to be doing this.

I wondered why I couldn't stop thinking about him.

I wondered how damaged I was.

"Miss, are you lost? Can I help you?"

A male voice snapped me back to reality. A security guard had approached me and was smiling kindly at me.

"Oh, no, no. I was just leaving." I flashed him a wide smile and turned my back to the lively terminal and to all the memories. I knew they'd come back tonight nevertheless. They haunted me in my hallway, in my bed, whenever I looked at myself in a mirror, and when the still-raw scar tissue over my latest wound itched.

The fourth week I was a prisoner of my own mind. The long nights found me standing with my nose pressed against the chilly window glass, staring out at the street and the park four stories down. If he would be able to see the light, then he had to be making rounds to check if I had lit it or not. Wouldn't he? I paced the kitchen, the hallway, the bedroom, the living room, and then back into the kitchen. Every other hour I changed my mind. I'm not going with him. That'd be insanity. I'd leave my job, my family, my home, and for what? What could possibly replace the life I know and have built? What would be better? I didn't think he loved me. Love is something precious, something fragile yet strong, and something beautiful. I didn't think this man was capable of love. I couldn't think of anything within him as 'beautiful'. Powerful, yes, manipulating yes, thrilling, intense, and magnificent, yes. Just not 'beautiful'. Not sweet. Not tender. Not caring.

I didn't think I loved him either. And still my heart ached. It ached so much that I could barely breathe. It wasn't rational. I held my finger on the lamp button every other hour. Every night. Every other hour, every night, I beat myself, clenched my fists, thought about Keefe, thought about murder, thought of a murderer. Every other hour I decided that I was not going.

Twenty-seven days after I had been released from the hospital, I almost threw the lamp out in a fit. I was not going. It would be insane.

Twenty-eight days after my release I rushed to a calendar, counting the days in frenzy, suddenly afraid it'd be too late, afraid that I'd have missed the window of opportunity.

Twenty-nine days after my release I took long walks, avoiding my home. I called my dad and my mom and talked for a long time about nothing and everything.

I dreaded the night. If I didn't go with him I'd never know. It'd kill me. He'd itch inside me and I wouldn't ever see him again. If I went with him, then I'd be a wrecked woman, a lost case. And that was just how I felt - like I'd felt for a very long time. I'd been so good at acting as if I got over the rape, the humiliation and the fear. I'd smiled and played along for so long, and then he came along and tore everything down and found me. The real me. Or was it I that found myself when I refused to give in to him and his threats?

I had to see him. If I lit the lamp he'd come and I could just see once him before he disappeared. Just that.

'Mom and Dad.

Don't look for me. I had to go.

It'll be all right and I'll let you know when I've found what I'm looking for. I love you both. /Lisa.'

I fiddled with the paper. It wasn't like I was going to use it. I was just toying with the idea.

I looked in my closet and in my drawers. In case of a fire, what would I save? I picked out a couple of pants, a skirt, some sweaters, blouses, and underwear. I looked at the backs of the photo albums in my bookshelf. But there wasn't going to be any fire, was there? I pulled one out and began flipping through it. Ghostly, unreal images of my life. Of how it had appeared up until recently. My heart pounded. The sun sunk rapidly. I didn't have to make up my mind tonight. I'd still have tomorrow. And it wasn't like I was going anyway.

I picked out a few photos, my toothbrush and a couple of facial products along with lipstick and mascara.

The sun had set completely. I turned off every light in the whole apartment and sat in the dark, only seeing contours in the faint light from the streetlamps outside.

I thought of not going with him. And cried.

I thought of going with him. And cried.

I would hurt people.

I couldn't not go.

I rushed to the kitchen and turned on the lamp. Its light spread a circle of yellow on the floor and wall, its image reflected in the window. I stared at the doubled lamp while I panted as hard as if I had run a thousand miles.

I went back to the chair in the dark living room and waited. The urge to rush back to the kitchen and kill the lamp overcame me several times, but I stayed. A long time had passed in complete silence when I finally got up and looked at a watch. It'd been four hours since I'd lit it. It was one a.m. A flutter of panic in my belly wondered if he wasn't coming after all.

I woke with a start from the faint pink light of dawn. The sun rose rapidly, announcing a new day. I darted up and looked at the watch again. He didn't come! Had I miscalculated the days? He changed his mind! He had changed his mind and I'd made a total fool of myself. My stomach clenched. I felt sick. Had he smirked at me, out there on the dark street, before he'd revved his engine and sped off? I rushed to the kitchen and turned off the damn lamp.

The whole day I tried to feel relieved. I hadn't had to make the decision. It had been made for me. My heart sank. Again a decision had been made for me. Like always.

I spent the afternoon curled up on my bed. I couldn't eat. My stomach was in knots. Later, I called work and made plans for my return. I knew I sounded cheerful. I was good at that. All the while I saw Jackson before me. I couldn't see him cruel and violent anymore. I saw nothing but his soft smile and his glittering eyes. I touched my lips and remembered how he'd kissed me and how good it had felt.

When the sun set I turned on the lamp again and waited. I knew he wouldn't come, but I wanted to know that I had made a decision, no matter what the outcome.

At eleven o'clock I heard a rustle outside my door and then two knocks.

I almost fainted. I stumbled when I rose from the chair and my heart beat so hard that all I heard was the blood whooshing in my ears. Before I opened, I put my palms against the door and inhaled. Then I unlocked.

"Hey," he said, looking at me, then into the dark hallway behind me, then back at me again. He looked exactly the same. His eyes were wary and he regarded me for a moment before he glanced behind him and stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind him.

I couldn't stop staring into the bluest of blue and my heart made unhealthy leaps in my chest.

"Hey," I say, clearing my throat after because that sound had been merely a croak. "Why didn't you come yesterday?"

"I had to know you weren't pulling some stunt, like calling the cops." He paused and pulled his fingers through his hair. "I wanted to see if you'd turn it back on again… tonight"

"And you know now that I didn't call… anyone?"

He nodded and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yes."

I took a small step back and studied his face. "The thought never crossed my mind, Jackson." I wanted to touch him, to see if he was really standing there, but I didn't dare.

He raised an arm and laid his hand on my chest, his palm over the newest scar, the wound that had come so close to killing me. My heart sped up almost painfully at his touch. "How have you been coping?" he asked. "I thought you were going to die… I called 911… but I hesitated. Then I thought it wasn't fair if you'd die, just when…" He turned quiet. "You lit the lamp," he stated and dropped his arm to his side.

It was my turn to nod silently.

"You ready to go then?"

I turned and headed to the bedroom, fetching the trunk on the bed. Then I looked around me, taking in the room, the life that I was leaving behind. Then I walked back out to him. "Let's go."

"I never really thought…" He didn't finish the sentence; instead he raised one arm towards me. I stood still with a pounding heart, my cheeks hot. Stroking some strands of hair away from my face and tucking them behind my ear, he then let his fingers follow my jaw line before it dropped to his side. "You don't look particularly happy, Lisa."

"I have no idea what I'm doing," I said and stepped into my shoes. I hesitated. "Are- are we on the run?"

He snorted and then smiled widely, the sight making my belly clench. "I'm never 'on the run'. We should leave soon, but no, no one's after us. At least no one's after me." He raised one eyebrow, still smiling.

"Oh, wait!" I pulled the note I had written to my parents out of my jeans pocket and smoothed it out on the little table in the hallway. "Me neither. Not yet," I said.

He nodded and took the trunk out of my hands, slung it over his shoulder, and gave me a half-smile. "Not yet. Come on." He started towards the door, but then he stopped again and turned towards me. "I have no idea what I'm doing either."