The Price Of Her Mercy

JACKSONI speak coldly to Aurora as I hold her hands and slowly take them off my cheek. My heart aches at the sight of the tears running down her cheek.She pulls out a soft piece of tissue that sits atop the dressing table and slowly wipes it off.She gets the message.“Sam will drive you home,” I add with a cracking voice, looking away.I dread the thought of being robbed of the chance to fight this fire with a bigger inferno, but according to Jerry, it’s for my own safety.“Jerry! Where to now?”“Urh! Your coastal estate, the one at Sunrise Bay.”“Sunrise Bay? That place is… remote, and filled with local people. The area is so dry, and most parts are undeveloped. I’d be surprised if you had any internet over there.” Her tone reeks of disgust and distaste. Of course, it doesn’t fit her lifestyle.“Can I at least have a few things packed up?” I question Jerry, who’s standing at the door, tapping his foot consistently with folded fists.“I’m afraid not. Every second matters. I’ll leav

MIRAI hate that I have to smile through all that because I need the paycheck, and most of all, I hate that I can’t afford to quit; it’s my only way of balancing the bills.By 10 a.m., my back aches, like I’m carrying the whole world around, and my patience is already as slim as a sewing thread.Hank asks me to re-mop the entire kitchen floor even though it’s already neat, just because he catches me leaning against the counter for a few seconds. It’s as if he’s always after me. I don’t know.“I don’t pay you to rest,” he snaps. “I pay you to work!”Jason whispers, “Fuck him! I think he’s competing for something.” I let out a soft laugh, but the laughter doesn’t fix the exhaustion. It doesn’t fix the fact that my pay envelope is too thin, and it also doesn’t fix the fact that my paycheck isn’t coming in a week.I scrub the mop across the tiles till my shoulders ache, trying not to shed a tear because I know that when I start, I won’t stop that easily. Besides, I’d rather walk home, eve

JACKSON Ding ding! I press the little bell on the table in my room. I’ve drained the tub, wrapped myself in the white towel. My hand, still bleeding, leaves trails of blood as I step into the silence of the room. My eyes squeeze, my brows curl at how fast the response comes. It’s like someone is waiting just outside my door in case I need anything. I turn toward the door. “It’s open!” I yell. “Yes, sir,” she says softly as she comes inside the room. “Were you outside my room?” “No, sir, but I came as soon as I heard the bell. We’re obligated to meet your every need till you leave. Oh, shit! sir, your.. your hand is bleeding. Let me quickly get that for you.” “Yes, that’s why I called for someone, but before you begin, pour me a drink.” I gesture at the drink with my finger, pointing to the table to ensure she knows what I want. “What’s your name?” “Faye, sir,” she responds under her breath. “Let me ask you, Miss Faye,” I lick my lips as I say in a flirty manner, looking rig

JACKSONPathetic. That’s what I feel like. A loser. I’m a man with the world at his feet, and billions in the bank. Still I’m reduced to chasing after a woman who’s probably already moved on to the next party, the next photo op, the next trophy.I stare at the phone for a while. It sits in my hand, the black screen reflecting my own tired face back at me. My chest tightens. I squeeze it hard in the delusion that it might break, but it doesn’t.I shove it into the drawer and close it a little too hard. The sound echoes through the room. I tell myself that it’ll all be okay eventually.A part of me believes it, the other part, not so much. I keep inhaling and exhaling as I squeeze the edges of the drawer, so tight that I can feel my veins trying to escape my skin. Face down.I can still hear Aurora’s laugh in this room, faint but clear. The high, lilting sound she makes whenever she wins something. An argument, a bet, or my attention. She loves to tease me for eating too slow. She says

JACKSON The bourbon was cheap; it’s the kind that burned through going down and leaving smokes in my chest. Smoke came out of my ears and nose and I welcomed the burn.I pour it down my throat, one glass after another, and line them up like girls on the counter. One, two, three, four, and by the fifth, my eyes were already glassy. The world had almost faded. It softened up enough that I could now pretend. Pretend I wasn’t the headline of a false scandal. Pretend I wasn’t alone in emotional turmoil. Pretend Aurora’s silence wasn’t an answer in itself.The jukebox pours out another country ballad about trucks going bad and heartbreaks again, the same chords keep cycling on repeat. It’s torture. I hate country music. Always had. I felt it was sung out of true experience, which made it too earnest, too bare. But tonight, as it cut me open, I let myself bleed. It sounded like the truth, and I was a little too tired to argue with the truth. Or anything else.I rubbed my bandaged hand ove