09-30-2013, 08:56 AM
It was a precarious bar stool, and one leg was half an inch shorter than the others. An hour ago when he crawled up on it, Jensen wasn't exactly confident its design was a feat of master engineering. It was no surprise he ended up on the floor.
He found something soft laying alongside, and after a few moments of pawing at it, he realized it was his jacket. It was an old thing, but otherwise clean and mended. He'd always been a sharp dresser. His side of the closet was more elaborate than his wife's when it came to that sort of thing. And more organized, he recalled fondly. She was the brains of their operation, but Jensen knew how to fold a mean pair of socks.
Sometime in the moments between Tony crawling down beside him and what came next, Jensen realized the painful truth. He missed his wife; she was his best-friend, after all.
Then. Something happened.
It was a combination of blunt force and burning fire crammed into his skull all at the same time. His throat dried. His heart seized up. But his eyes, his eyes fixed upon Tony with sheer horror.
He clawed at it himself, fearful and instinctive, but his head was too blurred to concentrate to force it into control. It was like a dream too disturbing to remember, and yet, all-consuming at the same time.
He barely heard Tony's call for assistance. One moment he was overpowered with force and the next it withdrew. And he didn't know if it were real or a figment of his own demonic possession, but deep in his gut, he knew it was all too real. Tony's overbearing presence took on new meaning.
Jensen scrambled on the floor shuffling away from Tony as fast as he could. Eyes wild with fear, he put his hands up in some heroic attempt to surrender to the truth of what he was and so halt their approach like he were some radioactive bomb about to contaminate everything.
His back hit the bar's foot rail. "I swear to you! I won't touch it again. Please!" His begging mumbled fast and incoherent. The room shuffled in and out of focus.
He squeezed his eyes shut and threw his palms to his face. He didn't even know what he was bargaining for. To be left alone? Or to get what he deserved?
He found something soft laying alongside, and after a few moments of pawing at it, he realized it was his jacket. It was an old thing, but otherwise clean and mended. He'd always been a sharp dresser. His side of the closet was more elaborate than his wife's when it came to that sort of thing. And more organized, he recalled fondly. She was the brains of their operation, but Jensen knew how to fold a mean pair of socks.
Sometime in the moments between Tony crawling down beside him and what came next, Jensen realized the painful truth. He missed his wife; she was his best-friend, after all.
Then. Something happened.
It was a combination of blunt force and burning fire crammed into his skull all at the same time. His throat dried. His heart seized up. But his eyes, his eyes fixed upon Tony with sheer horror.
He clawed at it himself, fearful and instinctive, but his head was too blurred to concentrate to force it into control. It was like a dream too disturbing to remember, and yet, all-consuming at the same time.
He barely heard Tony's call for assistance. One moment he was overpowered with force and the next it withdrew. And he didn't know if it were real or a figment of his own demonic possession, but deep in his gut, he knew it was all too real. Tony's overbearing presence took on new meaning.
Jensen scrambled on the floor shuffling away from Tony as fast as he could. Eyes wild with fear, he put his hands up in some heroic attempt to surrender to the truth of what he was and so halt their approach like he were some radioactive bomb about to contaminate everything.
His back hit the bar's foot rail. "I swear to you! I won't touch it again. Please!" His begging mumbled fast and incoherent. The room shuffled in and out of focus.
He squeezed his eyes shut and threw his palms to his face. He didn't even know what he was bargaining for. To be left alone? Or to get what he deserved?