![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
This ficlet is my contribution to Jack Alpha-Bits for Gen Fic Day. A dark fragment of Jack's stream of consciousness in Abyss. PG-13 for canon torture. 368 words.
Random, I can't thank you enough for helping me get this right.
B is for Blood
rich and cloying, the copper taste of blood
overlays all senses
turning hearing into muffled murmurs, his sense of smell clogged by memories of
Charlie not Charlie no no no
blood coats his tongue.
pinned against merciless metal mesh
he blinks blood away and watches that crystal vial tipping, spilling
droplets hang, then dart across the room
searing breastbone, burrowing deep to flay nerve endings
and Jack wants to scream, but the blood runs into his throat, gagging and choking.
gravity at his back, dragging him down, down,
is this how Cromwell felt when he plunged into the black hole of the Gate?
Carter would tell him if he's still falling, still feeling.
Jack is falling now, falling, failing, blood seeping everywhere but into his veins,
his heart pumping, frantic to find
the blood that pools beneath that small body, and Sara is somewhere, sobbing instructions on the phone, and Charlie's gasping breaths have him scrambling to stop, stop it, stop the blood that paints his hands and arms as it drains...
another acid droplet splashes his cheek,
scalds inwards, and the blood trickles faster now.
a voice rumbles somewhere to the right, above him, and Jack doesn't want to listen
he wants this to stop, he wants to stop the blood that flows and thickens and keeps
Charlie. Charlie. Charlie.
his tormentor asks questions, and questions,
and no one tells you that the devil loves all that glitters and is gold
and holds her hostage
or that there will never ever be relief
manicured hands, fingering the vial, playing with it
tilting it then straightening, a threat and a promise
but the promise is hollow, because even if the last blood drains away
and it will, just like Charlie's
it will just start again.
again and again and again.
"Daniel," he tries to say
but he can only mouth it, because his vocal cords are torn from screams and acid
and ebbing strength
"Daniel."
Daniel.
he doesn't know if the word is plea
or prayer, or profanity
but as his vision dims to black
and he gasps one last bubbling breath
and his heart stutters and fails
he knows that he only wants this to end.
Random, I can't thank you enough for helping me get this right.
B is for Blood
rich and cloying, the copper taste of blood
overlays all senses
turning hearing into muffled murmurs, his sense of smell clogged by memories of
Charlie not Charlie no no no
blood coats his tongue.
pinned against merciless metal mesh
he blinks blood away and watches that crystal vial tipping, spilling
droplets hang, then dart across the room
searing breastbone, burrowing deep to flay nerve endings
and Jack wants to scream, but the blood runs into his throat, gagging and choking.
gravity at his back, dragging him down, down,
is this how Cromwell felt when he plunged into the black hole of the Gate?
Carter would tell him if he's still falling, still feeling.
Jack is falling now, falling, failing, blood seeping everywhere but into his veins,
his heart pumping, frantic to find
the blood that pools beneath that small body, and Sara is somewhere, sobbing instructions on the phone, and Charlie's gasping breaths have him scrambling to stop, stop it, stop the blood that paints his hands and arms as it drains...
another acid droplet splashes his cheek,
scalds inwards, and the blood trickles faster now.
a voice rumbles somewhere to the right, above him, and Jack doesn't want to listen
he wants this to stop, he wants to stop the blood that flows and thickens and keeps
Charlie. Charlie. Charlie.
his tormentor asks questions, and questions,
and no one tells you that the devil loves all that glitters and is gold
and holds her hostage
or that there will never ever be relief
manicured hands, fingering the vial, playing with it
tilting it then straightening, a threat and a promise
but the promise is hollow, because even if the last blood drains away
and it will, just like Charlie's
it will just start again.
again and again and again.
"Daniel," he tries to say
but he can only mouth it, because his vocal cords are torn from screams and acid
and ebbing strength
"Daniel."
Daniel.
he doesn't know if the word is plea
or prayer, or profanity
but as his vision dims to black
and he gasps one last bubbling breath
and his heart stutters and fails
he knows that he only wants this to end.
Tags:
no subject
Daniel.
he doesn't know if the word is plea
or prayer, or profanity
Wow...
no subject
And I'm especially pleased you liked that bit, because it was the very first lines I had; I built the rest of this around it.
no subject
no subject
no subject
very dark (appropriate for the week of holloween!) but very well done!
no subject
Yeah, this can't be anything other than dark, but I'm glad you liked it all the same. :)
no subject
no subject
no subject
Oh, this is beautiful. Poor, poor Jack.
manicured hands, fingering the vial, playing with it
tilting it then straightening, a threat and a promise
but the promise is hollow, because even if the last blood drains away
and it will, just like Charlie's
it will just start again.
It's not so much prose as poetry. Dark and disturbing, yes. But beautiful.
no subject
no subject
Because in the end, it's always about Charlie for him.
no subject
And yes, I thought of Jack flashing on other people's blood - the botched op in East Germany, the reporter in Secrets, Daniel with his chest blown away - but it all came back to Charlie. Stark and always, always there.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Still, the writers did a superb job of showing us just enough horror to more than fill in the rest of the blanks.
no subject
You did a great job continuing from the episode. I could see this all happening after he hallucinated Shalin and was well on his way to insanity. What a nightmare for poor Jack. Very in character for poor Jack.
no subject
And yes, poor Jack was well on his way to insanity. I'm glad this worked for you.
no subject
no subject
no subject
God, Jack! My heart just *aches* for him. Even in his most painful, horrifying moments, nothing is worse than losing Charlie.
no subject
no subject
...
(Really nice foray into poeticism, here, Fig. But. Ow.)
no subject
I hadn't planned to do Abyss, but Jack didn't give me much choice. Thanks for liking it - or wincing, anyway.
no subject
Charlie's death has always been Jack's weak point and this tapped right into that. To me, this would be the point where Jack knew if he had to experience that again, he'd say anything to avoid it imcluding give up Ba'al's slave's name.
Very Nice.
no subject
no subject
Excellent, if brutal. (But then that's how the Goa'uld should always have been, not comedy Ba'al.)
I also thought the way it kept coming back to Charlie.
Poor Jack, who will never really be free.
Very well done.
no subject
Oh, YES. Just that.
And thank you - this is the way the Goa'uld should be, without question.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Thanks again for your kind words. I'm very glad you liked it.
no subject
Inspired and brilliant!
no subject
no subject
Wow!
::meep::
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
It's so painfully beautiful.
no subject
no subject
I love how you wrote this using words that describe pain, anguish, fear and despair, evoking feelings within me that somehow mirrored Jack's, albeit to a lesser extent. Poor Jack! I've always thought that there was no way anyone could express the agony he must have gone through, yet these simple, broken thoughts and sentences spoke louder than real words could ever do. Absolutely beautiful!!
no subject
I think the only way to even try and approach it was through broken fragments, because Jack himself was pretty broken, by then. I'm really glad it worked for you!