Second Time Around

AN: This isn't really in my usual vein of storytelling, but oh well. If you don't get the not-so-subtle references to the identities of the two characters, then the story won't make quite the same impact, but neither am I going to explain. ;)

"I never really understood you. I suppose it's too late to try now."

Jude glanced at the other man--the room's only other occupant--from the corner of his eye. Even with only his peripheral vision he could see that his company was listening. Maybe he wasn't listening intently, but he was certainly paying some heed to Jude's words. Of course, that was just the sort of man that Jess was. Always listening. And for once Jude was grateful; this time, Jude wanted to be heard.

"I don't think I ever really wanted things to come to this. Or maybe I did, and just didn't want to admit it to myself. That seems like something that my mind would try to pull, you know. And now, I have to admit that I'm sort of glad that things have happened this way. It just seems right, don't you think?"

Again Jude glanced the other man's way, this time with a slight turn of the head to more fully take in Jess's response to his words. The other man, with head lowered, shifted slightly but didn't verbally reply. It didn't matter much. It was enough for Jude to know that Jess was listening.

"Yes," Jude replied himself, "it is right. After all, this is the way it was done in the old days, more or less." He cast the other man a wry grin before continuing. "Maybe not perfect, but close enough. It's the thought that counts, after all. You used to be so fond of saying that, and I guess, in a sense, it's true. Sometimes it's the intent that really matters.

"I guess I can admit it now; somehow, I always pictured you like this. From the first day we met, and you decided to . . . take pity on me. I hated that about you, you know--your pitying stares. I was in charge. I was in control. If I received stares, they were usually frightened ones. Sometimes they were angry, sometimes even murderous. Lesser men might have hated those sorts of stares, but I didn't. I was used to them. I relished them. But I hated your stares--hated your pity. Your glances were always the worst, maybe because they were so honest. I didn't want your pity. . . . And I won't degrade you by giving you mine now."

He paused then, and glanced about the room as though looking for something in particular. His gaze scanned the cement-block walls--thick and looming beneath the low ceiling. He took in the various items that sat scattered around the room, mostly propped in corners or stowed away along the outer edges in a vain attempt to keep the room looking neat. One always should tidy up for company.

Finally Jude's gaze came upon just what he was looking for, lurking in the gloomy shadows beneath the skeletal staircase. The object was small but menacing, and Jude lifted it slowly, with a vague respect for what he knew it could do.

"It's no Spear of Destiny," Jude joked with evil humor, "but it'll do."

Then he turned to Jess. The other man didn't seem to be watching Jude's movements, nor, apparently, had he noticed what Jude now had in hand. And truthfully Jude couldn't fully blame Jess for his inattention. After all, with a number of nails hammered crisscrossing though each palm, Jess could hardly have been in very good humor. The pain, Jude thought with some relish, had to be excrutiating.

Jude paused then, eyeing his company. The hammering, he thought, had been the most difficult part. Not emotionally. In fact he had felt very little at all as the sharp instruments had dug further and further into the screaming Jess's hands with each swing of the hammer. No, it hadn't been emotionally trying. Physically though, it had been taxing; enough so that he had, some way through, begun to doubt that he could finish. It would have been easier, of course, had he simply knocked Jess out beforehand, but Jude hadn't wanted that at all. No, he wanted Jess to be conscious though it all. Right til the end. And of course Jess had struggled as Jude had lain home the first of the nails. And the second. And then, when the single nail in each palm hadn't seemed enough, Jess had struggled vainly though the third and fourth. After that Jess hadn't struggled much, and Jude hadn't bothered to keep count as he continued hammering nails into his friend's palms.

There had been more blood than Jude had expected.

In the end it had been worth it, though. Seeing Jess nailed firmly to the board--a heavy one that Jude had secured to the cement wall himself--was satisfying in a way Jude hadn't imagined. And now Jess's arms were forced wide, in a grotesque parody of openness and friendship. To Jude, it seemed far too fitting.

Jess had always been a good friend. Too good, maybe. Jude felt as though he didn't deserve Jess's friendship, and he hated feeling that way. Worse yet was the feeling of inadequacy he always felt when next to Jess--the feeling that no matter how good he was at something, Jess would always outshine him. Jude loathed feeling inadequate. And worst of all, Jude knew that it was all true. Compared to Jess, Jude was proven lacking in every matter; he was shown for what he was, and that was undeserving, insufficient, and most of all, utterly lacking in authority.

It was best, Jude thought, to simply get rid of the problem.

He cocked the gun.

That small sound seemed to echo in the basement room, and it was by far enough to finally draw Jess's confused attention. The man's eyes seemed slightly glazed, and Jude wasn't sure if Jess was looking at him, or at some point just beyond him.

Jude couldn't stand the thought of being ignored. Not at this point. Not by him.

He raised the gun, and noted with grim satisfaction that Jess's uncertain gaze followed the motion.

"You have no idea," Jude spoke, now that he was sure that he had the other man's attention, "how difficult it has been for me since we met. Always standing in your shadow, so to speak. I used to be in control of my life, in control of everything. I knew what the world was about, so to speak. Or I thought I did. I was perfectly content to live that way--in charge of my life and always knowing what was around the next corner. Life was predictable. Life was neutral, just like it should be. Everyone listened to me, because I knew what I was talking about. I was in control."

Jude realized that he was speaking through clenched teeth, and had to remind himself to relax his jaw, to ease the tension from his neck and shoulders.

He never lowered the gun. The barrel was aimed at Jess's heart, and from only a few short feet away, Jude knew that if he fired now he wouldn't miss. Something, however, didn't seem right. It wasn't the way he held the gun, or even the gun itself. It was, he decided, where he was aiming that was wrong. Curiously he shifted his aim, allowing the sights to wander aimlessly over Jess's form. The other man's eyes watched the movements, and Jude paid more attention to Jess's worried expressions than to where the gun was actually being aimed.

Then something seemed to fall into place, and Jude stopped moving the gun about. Jess lowered his head once again, tearing his gaze away from Jude.

Jude didn't like to be ignored.

The sound of the gun firing was nearly deafening in the small space. Blood colored the wall and pattered softly to the floor in the resounding silence following the shot. The bullet had torn easily though Jess's side, and any fight that the man might have had left seemed to have disappeared all together.

Jude wondered if he was dead. He tried to feel something--anything--for what he had done, but there was nothing. The vague concern he had had beforehand--the worry of being caught--had disappeared. Remorse? There was none. Pleasure? No. Hatred, fear, anticipation? All gone.

Jude wondered what he had truly killed with that single shot.

He dropped the gun--he had no further need for it, anyway--and headed numbly for the stairs. He climbed them slowly, without any real desire to leave, but neither having any desire to stay. That emotion, too, seemed to have gone. He reached the top of the stairway unimpeded, but paused there, as if considering glancing back. Just once.

He didn't look back.

He opened the heavy door--the one that would keep anyone from finding the body, at least for awhile--but as he stepped out of the room a quiet, nearly indiscernible voice drew his attention, if not his gaze.

"Jude?"

There was no pleading in the tone, and no accusation. Perhaps, Jude thought, Jess felt nothing either, any more. Perhaps Jess was just the same as him.

No. Jude shook his head. They were nothing alike.

"Jude?" the weak voice spoke again. With great effort Jess said, "I forgive you."

Jude paused, but only briefly. His response, he realized with some surprise, was the utter truth. ". . . I knew you would."