He pours himself a cup of coffee and stares out the window at the falling rain, watching it run down the colored leaves of fall, spilling them onto the street like blood, the water running with red and orange and gold, beautiful as it disappears down the drains.

The coffee's lukewarm since he made it hours ago and it's got a strange burnt taste to it, or it would if he could taste anything. He's turned off his feelings, his senses. He doesn't really see the beauty, just knows that it's supposed to be there, described in flowery words and evoke something inside him. Sadness or something.

He's accustomed to the pain now. In fact, it's the only thing he feels anymore. The only thing he sees. He can bypass everything in a room except the one thing that will remind him sharply of her, and then he'll feel it flare to life like a parasite inside his body, gnawing away at what little is left of him.

She used to stand at the window and stare out, smiling about something she'd learned or discovered that day, turning to smile at him, the wattage on full blast until it shone into the darkest parts of him. He's all dark now. Like overexposed film or burnt toast. He'd laugh, if he could remember how, at the analogy, how in every aspect of his life he sees things in the terminology of both their lives and wonders which one she'd pick. Ooh. I like that.

He leaves the kitchen and wanders into the dining room. Her mom didn't leave much behind to remember her by, but they got the good china when they married. Bessie had wanted Joey to have it, to have that lasting connection. Bessie had managed to move on with her life and knew that somewhere inside Joey'd always be that thirteen year old girl, howling her rage and sorrow at the moon. Sniff. Wow, I think you just made me feel sympathy for DeadMotherCard Potter. No mean feat. But it's not what hurts in this room. And he doesn't see it, since it's not there; those pale, fragile white dishes lined in gold with etched black lilies arced across the top of them.

He sees the table that they found together in a thrift shop, debating every scratch, every mark, making up stories over the four weeks of arguing. This scratch was caused by a diamond ring being dragged over it as the woman writhed in pleasure. This one by a wine glass thrown in an argument of epic proportions. They'd never used a tablecloth, preferring to wonder about the marks and make a few of their own. His fingers trail over a particularly long scratch, the one than runs the length of the table, the one he knows the origin of by heart. I want to say that the scratch stories feel more like a Pacey/Joey activity, but I could (unwillingly) see Dawson and Joey doing it, since he's Mr. Creative Storyteller and whatnot. Gag. I love that it's charming when it's Pacey and geeky when it's Dawson. I'm so "bias."

He sees the coffee cup smash before he's even aware it has left his hand, staring at the dark stain spreading down the faded wallpaper. He isn't breathing hard, isn't overcome with anger. Just letting loose some of the burning pain inside him. Quick release, like the sting from a whip or the first stab of pain when the knife pierces the skin. The white ceramic of the mug crumples on the floor, huddling away from him. "Nothing to fear," he whispers.

The carpet is still seeped in coffee when he walks out into the living room. There were good times here, he's sure. He remembers them vaguely as well, like they happened in another lifetime to another person.

The room itself is stripped bare, the carpet gone, the walls gouged out. He'd punched his fist through one of them, which led to the remodel. There were paint cans at one point lined up against the wall like tin soldiers, the colors hidden from him and threatening looks whenever he joked that he was going to peek. They're gone now as well, thrown out unopened.

A few steps more and he's in the hallway, the frames hanging haphazardly, the pictures long gone. The glass of one of them is shattered, the ripped fragment of a picture still clinging tenaciously in the corner behind the sliver of glass that still exists. This was another place where it really felt like Pacey, because he (at least in fic) is prone to violent outbursts. I like that it's actually Dawson, since I think we've been shown that he is definitely a violent-prone person. In fact, I find him scarier than Pacey in that respect, because his displays are less predictable and less controlled than Pacey's. One expects Pacey to freak out, given the right circumstances. Dawson projects such a calm (as in, "non-fighter") aura that when he freaks, it's totally out of left field (Hello, boat race). It kind of supports the whole story you're building to here.

The door to the master bedroom is standing open and he stops, staring into it with narrowed eyes. He can still hear the rain pounding down on the roof, beating a staccato rhythm that matches the irregular beat of his heart. He's suddenly thirsty, but the thought of walking back through the morass of memory is overwhelming, so he simply stands there, unwilling to move.

The bed is stripped, the brand new mattress still wrapped in plastic, perched on the walnut frame they'd found the same place they'd bought the table. The whole set up had been an anniversary present to themselves. She'd stayed home from work, waiting for the deliverymen. He'd called and laughed with her as she complained about how long they were taking getting there, about the bane of 'we'll be there sometime between nine and five'. He'd taunted her with some of the things he intended to do to her to break the bed in.

When he'd come home, the bed was set up, unmade, in their bedroom but the rest of the house was empty. Her clothes were gone. The dishes were gone. The dog was gone. There was a note, but he'd dropped it inside the wall and hadn't bothered to fish it out of the mess of drywall. He assumes that a rat or mouse has taken it and made it into some sort of nest somewhere in the dank basement.

Maybe the paint is in the basement.

He leaves the bedroom and heads back to the kitchen, to the door beside the pantry that he keeps locked. There's a sense of foreboding that he doesn't quite understand and he wonders if there are memories down the steps that he doesn't want to think about either. He shakes his head and laughs, the sound high pitched and hollow as he fishes the key out of his pocket and unlocks the door.

The steps are steep and the light is dim. He wonders if he has a flashlight or a brighter bulb, forgetting to wonder as he reaches the bottom step. Boxes line the walls, stacked neatly, all labeled in precise letters. Black marker stands out darkly against the pale cardboard and he smiles and nods. Everything exactly as it should be. He moves deeper into the room to the old root cellar, the second level to the basement. This door is locked as well.

Reaching up above the door, he finds the key and unlocks it, feeling suddenly flooding back to him. Sadness and love and anger and hatred and betrayal and desire. All of the memories are in the house above, but the emotions are here. He steps into the room, the overwhelming stench barely noticeable, despite the fact that his eyes are watering, his nose running. It's just like crying, he thinks, smiling to himself. *shudder*

Her hair still clings to her scalp even though the skin is falling away from the bone. Her nails are broken and dried blood colors them. Her flesh is marred with scratches, deep gouges where she raked her nails into the skin. He wonders if she sucked at the blood when she was at her thirstiest. He imagines that's what she did, although he knows he could watch the tapes if he really wanted to know. Bleargh.

He brushes her cheek, smiling tenderly as another piece of flesh falls away. Her eye sockets are empty, the rats, he decides, knowing they must have a way in. He looks at the dark hair of the body next to hers, his eyes narrowing. The rats have always had a way in.

He'd found them asleep on their bed. His new bed. - Pacey had a new bed, too? With the reference to the bed above, this makes it kind of confusing. Her bags were packed, her things loaded in his car, pulled around to the back of the house out of sight of the neighbors. They'd obviously decided that one last fuck you to him was necessary, which had been their big mistake.

Their last mistake. Eeeagh. I have such the major heebie-jeebies from this story. I can't spell the sounds that are coming out of my mouth.

He'd gagged Joey, chloroforming her with film chemicals. It had scared him, afraid he might have knocked her out for too long, for good, but she'd awoken eventually. She'd awoken, he smiles, screaming. He'd hit Pacey with a leg from the coffee table, stunning him, but not killing him. Dragged him through the house, down the steps. He'd shoved him in the room with the rats then gone back for Joey.

The dark strands of her hair had been so silky in his hands as he'd yanked her down the stairs. He'd set up the camera. That part was easy. And when she woke up, he was watching. So he'd gone in and prodded Pacey until he'd regain consciousness, her screams the only sound in his ears. He probably didn't even have time to comprehend her babbled cries before he'd stabbed him. I want to go hide under my bed right now.

It was funny how much it was like the movies. The knife slid in like his flesh and sinew was creamy butter, the blood splattering and hitting Joey's pale face. For a moment, he considered splicing the footage into Sea Creature from the Deep but decided not to. A new movie was a much better idea.

He wasn't dead. He'd made sure not to hit anything vital, wanting the pain and agony of a slow death for him. He wanted Joey to watch him die. He'd realized as he'd slipped naked into shower to rinse off the blood that he'd have to endure romantic assurances and lies, but he knew that, in the end, it would be worth it. She'd give up on him as he died and bled around her. She'd denounce him and beg for mercy. For her life. Ugh.

He remembers the first time she spoke his name in a normal tone. The hysterics were gone, her voice was almost gone. She looked up at the ceiling, maybe knowing that he was watching.

"Dawson? Please let me out, Dawson. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He'd almost fallen for it, but he'd waited and she'd eventually started screaming and lying again, telling him that she never loved him, that she'd always been in love with Pacey, that he was just the means to an end. Good. If she had to die like that, at least she told him off in the process.

He presses the tip of his shoe against Pacey's body and rolls him over, away from Joey's remains. One blue eye stares up at him, pale and lifeless. His clothes are stained with blood where Joey had tried to stop the bleeding and failed miserably. Not true, he chuckles. He'd stopped bleeding eventually. Sob. It's so gross I almost forgot to be sad.

Bending down, he moves Joey slightly, adjusting her body so that she's facing the camera, her hair spread out around her like a halo. Rigor mortis has long since come and gone and, even though he has to suffer with the world around him believing that his loving wife left him for another man, he knows the truth.

He knows she'll never leave him.

He glances at the pile of bones in the corner. Joey had stabbed the small creature with one of Pacey's ribs that it had been chewing on. She'd fed off of it for almost a week. A pity really.

He did miss the dog.

I do think the dog thing is over the top. I don't think that Joey, no matter how dire the situation, would ever actually eat her dog to survive, especially knowing that Dawson was out there putting her through this for his enjoyment. If anything, I'd just have it so she'd killed the dog to keep it from eating Pacey and/or her. That way you don't have to change the ending line, which is appropriately light and icky.

My delicate sensibilities aside, this was very well written and creepy. I'm scarred for life, but I was entertained. You may have a future in the true crime genre! Jeez, is there anything you can't do?

3/20/00