jack-domain

Jack never planned on being an incovenience but jack-being, perhaps all being just is. Justice. Knowing being is knowing nothing but the horror, the horror of one's self against another. Contrasting horror, the horror of the self against the suspect perfection, the horror of another; she can be nothing less than perfect, even in imperfection -- refractions, indiscrections cloud things, but the horror remains. Perfectly.

Off in the distance... The smell of rotting fish contaminates the neighborhood. Except there; where she stands. Standing contrary to, completely against the nauseating odor that signals Jack has made it home. Lemon oil, coconut oil, sweet intoxicating vanilla -- she stands for something. She stands against Jack. She is determined to destroy him. She is opium. More potent.

This space belongs to Jack.
He tries his best to scare her away, to deny her access, to push away, to push the limits. Still, she remains.
This space belongs to Jack!
He'll take as much as he can, like too much chocolate cake, too much sashimi. Still, she remains and this is the root of horror now -- that she becomes too quickly the queen of jack-domain, incorporated into Jack's terrifying empire.

In the cold New England autumn air so crisp and wintry though the leaves have not yet turned, Jack is more apt to wait for tragedy, assuming that it will emerge out of the horror, carried skyward with the smell of rotting fish, toward the other, the already, always perfect other.Jack wonders, waits for this to develop … Patience, patience ... For the crypt to be opened like his mouth … For his mouth to open and introduce the conclusion of the meeting, the confrontation. Jack is a sucker for his own patience, the insufferable waiting for the end.

…THE END…

The smell of something rotting - an egg, a body, fish, something - fills the air. On smelling this profanity, she tugs Jack's elbow, squeezes his arm. A gesture that is not performed out of affection; rather, she tugs and squeezes out of fear and disgust. Always.