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Everything Jake. #622. Saturday Matinee. Kiani's Gift (yeah, this is in continuity, so you better read it, it's not that long...) Jake opened his eyes, slowly. Close your eyes, she told him, how stupid is that? To his mild surprise, she wasn't there anymore. The kitchen, in which they were sitting enjoying "Sleepytime" (or was it Sleepytyme?) brand tea and having a heart to heart was empty. Jake shook his head. There no was gift, not that he could see, anyway. He looked around, stretched his aching muscles, and sighed deeply, as if he'd been asleep a long time. Might`ve been, he thought. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure that even happened. Weird shit like that seems to happen to me all the time. Having a conversation with a bald chick, getting hit by a car, fighting with my uncle Matrix style, all this had happened, and yet, not. Jake then noticed that there was two cups of tea on the table and one of the had a thin pink outline of lipstick, not a shade that his sister would normally choose. It was more the color his mother would have favored. He shook his head again, and then noticed that he was sleeping for a while, it was now three thirty in the afternoon. Three hours I was out, Sleepytime (tyme?) my ass, more like coma induced tyme. He remembered the conversation clearly, and felt horrible about flipping the fuck out. Why did he lose his patience? Started to yell? You do know it was your mother's favorite... right? Right? I have a gift for you, but I can't tell you. Jake got up, picked up the dishes, and placed them in the Pepto colored sink. Cold tea washed itself down the drain, and Jake watched with sleepytime eyes. What is going on with me? All this shit, right now, it's just too damn weird. Maybe it's all in my head. Maybe the writer part of me has finally taken me over. Maybe I've never left here, that college, Hector, Jenkins, they all just exsist in my imagination, that I'm in some padded cell somewhere happily drooling myself away as I create these happy little illusions. Mecca, Faith, Kelly, Mercy (sigh), all just figments of my very active and insane little mind. Quck. The couch in the living room (or, as his sister liked to call it, the "jake's perverse game room", in which Jake had retorted back he was surprised that a waitress would know what "perverse" meant) sighed as Jake plopped down in the middle of it. It struggled a little, then gave in. The TV was still on, and the game was still on pause. Oh, crap, Jake thought. I hope I didn't burn Auron, Rikku and Yuna into the screen. He pressed the "Start" button in the middle of his black PS2 controller and continued his turn based fight against another one of seemingly endless creatures he had to capture in the Calm Lands so he could get some of the best items. He played for two more hours before he turned it off, not even checking the television screen to see if he had burnt it with his party. He had not. He stretched again, yawning heavily. I should not be this tired for not really doing anything. I mean, I had a nap, right? He stepped outside into warmer than usual Christmas Eve air. The smell from the sulfur match being lit was replaced almost instantly by the sweet, sweet smell of his Parliament. The concrete outside was cold to his feet, but that's one must sacrifice to enjoy the taste of Carbon Monoxide. I have a gift for you. Close your eyes. He watched the smoke rise and get twisted into nothingness into the air. The sky was blue. No White Christmas this year on Long Island. Gift, what did she mean by gift? He had felt stupid, when he closed his eyes, but he did. And he was out for three hours. And there was no gift. Or was there? The table. The tea cups were on the table, with the one with the lipstick stain. But was there something else? Something else on the table? He inhaled, deeply, and released. No. There wasn't. Or was there? Something, something like-- --a letter-- A letter? Did she write him a letter? Folded in quarters and left on the table? He would have seen it, he was sure of that, but in his mind's eye, it was there, plain as day. He put out his butt in a flower pot with a long dead flower and brought the butt inside with him. He went right for the kitchen, and there, on the table, was a note folded up with a green glass bottle holding it down. That wasn't there before, he tried to tell himself, weakly. He tossed the butt into the trash, and opened the note. There was female writing on it, with a drastic curve to the left. She must be left handed, he thought, wrongly. It was short. Jake- Take this only when you need to, it might help you answer some questions. I cannot make more, what you have there must last as long as you need it to. Use it sparingly, use it wisely. I'll be in touch again, but it's getting dangerous to. Do not speak of this to your "uncle" and your trainer. Do not, I insist, let anyone else drink this, it could be very dangerous. Please trust me. --K What the heck could this be? He swished it around in the bottle, which he could barely see through, even up to the light. The liquid looked dark and thick, he didn't like it. He unscrewed the top and smelled it, it smelled like fruit punch, a very thick fruit punch concentrate that might need water. He shrugged. What the hell. He brought the bottle up to his lips, and noticed how cold it felt. He took a very small sip. Nothing happened. Oh well, thank's for the fru-- If you use your powers, your sister might die. You have a link to her. We're not sure of what it is or how it happened, but it's there. If you use your powers she will get sick and if you use them a lot she might die. I must never, ever, use my powers. Something released in the back of Jake's mind, a vice he didn't know was grasping him so hard. He knew instantly what it was. It was like a little voice in the back of his mind had finally shut up. The phone then rang, and Jake looked at it, smiling. He held his hand out, mumbled something from Empire Strikes Back, and the phone came off it's hinges and carried itself across his kitchen. The link was broken. But for how long? "Hello?", Jake asked in the receiver, and a familiar voice answered.    
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EVERYTHING JAKE is TM & (C) 2000-2011 by Mike Rosenzweig. | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
