Dear Jack

Prologue: 2011

~.~

If you're a fellow Jack's Mannequin fan, the title is likely a dead give-away as to where this story is going. This was actually the second story I started writing when I came back here, well over two years ago. I never posted it. I never finished it. It's another over-done Mondler storyline. But, I've decided to post it. And finish it. Well, finish the in-between, since the beginning and ending have been sitting here for years. And since Mr. McMahon released his new album today, I figured, hey, what better day to post it?

Don't make too many assumptions; we all know what happens when we do that… ;)

~.~

I swear I didn't mean for it to be like this

like every inch of me is bruised

-Jack's Mannequin, Bruised

~.~

She stared at him from across the kitchen. The moonlight from the window was the only thing illuminating the otherwise dark room. She couldn't see his eyes clearly, but knew that the lifelessness in her own was reflected in them. Vibrant blue no longer met vibrant blue. Both pairs of eyes were somehow much duller now. Jaded, perhaps.

He blinked three times, quickly. He was blinking back tears; she knew this by now.

Her eyes hit the floor, no longer wanting to see her own pain reflected in his eyes. She could swallow her own pain, hold back the tears, steady her hand, steady her breath. But she knew that one more second of staring into his eyes was suicidal. One more second, and her thin walls would break down. She couldn't have that. It wasn't good for her; it wasn't good for anyone.

Their once perfect dream home now seemed so…painful. So lonely. So dull. So lifeless.

Mostly painful.

This wasn't supposed to be how this story, their story, panned out. Not at all. Not. At. All.

She heard his shaky breaths from across the room. He knew what was coming; she knew what was coming. She tried to convince any muscle in her body to work, so as not to drag out the process any longer than absolutely necessary.

So, she slipped the ring off her finger, setting it on the kitchen table. She heard his breath catch in his throat; he was trying not to cry again. She didn't make eye contact, but instead turned toward the door. The doorknob, though, seemed to pose a problem. She couldn't make herself turn it. She stood, glued to the tile floor in front of the door, counting her breaths, still in control of her emotions.

The counting, though, distracted her from his approach.

"Mon."

It was a statement. A plea. A request. Love. Reaching out. Twenty-some years summed up in one syllable.

Slowly, her face turned towards his. Only her face, though. And only slightly.

Feeling his warm, uneven breaths on the back of her neck, smelling the familiar smell of his cologne mixed with the ridiculous apple scented shampoo he insisted on buying, seeing, only out of the corner of her eye, the pain in his eyes, it was suddenly too much for her to handle. Her keys slowly slipped from her fingers, dropping to the floor with a deafening thud.

And her walls came crumbling down.