In Bloom

Chapter 6

The weekend had passed uneventfully, as Jackson prepared to start his new schedule on Monday. Mark had spent the weekend flitting in and out of his house, bringing clothes in, demanding that Jackson “look his best” for following Mr.Bloom around. All of which made the writer roll his eyes and let out soft scoffs. He kept reminding the editor that he wasn’t there to make an impression or friends, he was there to work.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t dress nicely!” Mark shouted as he threw another blue button-up at the writer. At this point, the younger man didn’t know how many supposedly different shades of blue he’d tried on, but he knew it was easier to go along with Mark when he was like this than to fight him.

“You’re right,” Jackson said through a tight-lipped smile. He didn’t know why he was starting to feel nervous, it was just a job after all, but something about knowing he would be spending time with the unique CEO was unnerving. Stripping off the shirt he had just put on, the writer tossed it on the couch absent-mindedly, much to Mark’s dismay.

“Ahh Jackson!” He cried before rushing over to grab the garment and shake the nonexistent wrinkles out of it. “You can’t throw things around like that! You’re going to mess these up before you even wear them and they cost you a fortune.” Walking over to the clothing rack, he pulled down a hanger and tsk’d the entire time, making his displeasure more than clear.

“How much did you spend on all of this?” The younger asked with a raised eyebrow, knowing full well it was going to be an exorbitant amount.

After a loud screaming match between the two friends about how much Mark had spent and what was actually a reasonable price for a shirt, the editor had agreed to take them all back, except for a black mandarin collard shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans. The outfit looked amazing on the young writer, and after much convincing on his friend’s part, decided he could splurge on clothes, just this once. He paired the outfit with black combat coots and checked himself out in the mirror, “damn Mark,” he huffed in slight disbelief, “I guess you do know what you’re doing.”

“Wow Jackson, that was almost a compliment,” he laughed as he walked up behind the other and picked at a few small pieces of fuzz. “You look great,” a soft smile crossed his lips as he looked at his long-time friend. The elder could practically feel the jitters coursing through his friend, “you’re gonna do great,” he said softly as he placed his hands on the other’s shoulders. He would never admit it out loud, but Mark was a little nervous about this too. It had been a long time since Jackson had written his only biography to date, and it didn’t go well the first time. But he felt it would be better this time, something about Christopher’s personality made the editor feel optimistic.

After the two had dinner, Mark lectured Jackson about getting a good night's sleep, and the two walked towards the door. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you tomorrow?” The elder asked for the hundredth time since he’d gotten there.

“I’m positive,” Jackson smiled as he attempted to push his overbearing friend out of the door. “I’ll be fine Mark, I promise. It’s just a job and he’s just a person. Remember?”

The editor nodded and put one foot over the threshold, “don’t forget, you can always call me if there is trouble. And make sure to use your manners, and don’t close yourself off from him, and make sure you ask all the questions we came up with, and-”

The younger cut the man off by placing a finger over the other’s lips. “I get it, Mark.” The writer smiled and placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I know you’re worried after what happened last time, I am too.” His eyes darkened slightly as he thought back to the only biography he’d written. It was traumatic, to say the least, but after their face-to-face, with Mr. Bloom, he felt that this time would have a better outcome.

The men finally said their goodbyes and Jackson waved as Mark pulled out of the driveway. Turning on his alarm system and making sure the doors were locked, the writer let out a heavy sigh and walked into his bedroom to faceplant on his bed. He let out a soft growl, whether it was out of frustration or sheer exhaustion at this point, he was trying to sort out the tornado of feelings whipping around inside his head.

Part of him felt ready, excited even, to start working on this new book; however, another part of him was skeptical. Despite what he’d seen the other day, there were still hundreds of malicious rumors that hung off of Christopher Bloom’s name, and where there were rumors, there was bound to be some truth behind them.

The man turned his head to the side and let out a deep sigh, “maybe I really am making a mistake,” he said to the silence that was becoming more deafening with each passing second. Nothing seemed like an appealing distraction and normally he was almost giddy at the chance to defy his editor, but sleep sounded like a pleasant escape from all the thoughts humming around his brain.

Dragging himself off the bed, Jackson let his muscle memory take over as he got ready to sleep. Soon he was nestling himself under his blanket, reaching out only to turn off the light. Just as his fingers reached the switch, his phone lit up with a text. Rolling his eyes as he picked the device up, Jackson just knew it was from Mark, probably rambling on about how to dress and how to behave. The writer huffed as he unlocked his screen and opened the notification.

It was from Mark, but to his surprise, it wasn’t about any of those things, it was words of encouragement. [You’ll do great tomorrow! Remember, you’re the most published author under 30 and he ASKED for you specifically :)].

The younger smiled at his phone before setting it back down; if he replied, his friend would surely tear into him for not being asleep already. He reached up and finally turned the light off, letting the darkness envelop him as he willed himself to sleep. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for Jackson to be pulled into the dream world, and suddenly he was standing in a library.

He looked around at the old books that lined the dark wooden shelves. The eerily familiar green carpet caused him to raise his eyebrow. The whole place seemed familiar actually. Jackson looked out the windows into the stunning garden; it was a beautiful day and a smile came to the man’s face. But, just as he’d let his shoulders slump with relaxation the sky went dark and the entire room became shrouded in shadows.

A loud crash from behind one of the shelves made the writer move before he could tell his feet to go. He ran through the rows of books, their normally pleasant smell turned sour in his nose as he rounded the corner to find the source of the noise.

“Stop! Please! I only did what you asked!” Jackson looked in at the scene unfolding before him as his dream turned into a nightmare. A large man was standing over a partially hidden figure, but the writer knew exactly what was coming next.

“You don’t know how to do anything! You insolent little f**k!” The figure’s words were filled with venom as he picked up a vase. “You can’t do anything right,” the figure scoffed as he shifted the vase from hand to hand. “You’ve ruined me. Do you know that? You ruined my f*****g LIFE! DO YOU SEE WHAT YOU’VE DONE?!” The room filled with the roar of the man as the smaller one quivered in fear, “but don’t worry vermin, I’ll make sure you never see anything ever again.”

With a spine-curdling laugh, the evil figure smashed the vase, full force into the cowering man’s face. The screech of pure agony that left the small figure made Jackson’s blood run cold. He tried to run over, to stop the attack before it got worse, but his feet refused to move. He was stuck, even his voice failed as he yelled at the man to stop. He was just an observer, nothing more, and nothing was going to change what was happening to the small figure.

The large man moved and light poured onto the man on the ground. Jackson wanted to look away, he wanted to shut his eyes and only open them when he could be awake and out of this hell, but they stayed glued to the younger version of himself, now bleeding on the floor. All at once, the room went completely dark; all the writer could hear was the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. He willed himself to wake up, but to no avail; he was trapped.

A soft beeping started in the distance and the man wasted no time as his feet pounded in the darkness carrying him closer to the sound. As the sound got louder, he heard soft mumbling, voices! And one he recognized as much as he would his own, Mark. “Is he going to need more surgeries? Will he even be able to see again?”

Jackson could hear the panic in his friend’s tone as he spoke to someone. Another voice flooded his ears, only this one sounding clinical, “as of now, Mr. North won’t require any more surgeries. However, we won’t know the full extent of the damage until he wakes up. I’m sorry.”

He heard a set of footsteps leaving the room and it was at that moment Jackson realized he was now in control of his body. “I’m so sorry Jax,” the writer could hear the tears in his friend’s voice, but couldn’t speak to comfort him. His throat felt like it had been rubbed down with a ball of razorblades from the inside, but luckily, he felt the comfort of Mark’s hand in his. He pulled all of his strength together long enough to give the man a gentle squeeze. “Jackson?” The elder said, questioningly until the younger gave him another soft squeeze. “Jackson! Oh my god!”

An exhausted smile crept onto Jackson’s face as he tried to open his eyes, but something was holding them closed. Panic shot through him as he managed to bring his hands up to his eyes and felt the soft material of hospital bandages. The younger man began desperately clawing at them, he needed to see Mark’s face, he needed to know what had happened, but his friend kept trying to pull his hands away before shouting, “Nurse!”

The writer suddenly shot up in bed, his bed. Soaked in sweat and panting, Jackson brought his hand up to his eyes and rubbed them before reaching over and turning on the light. He blinked a few times before everything came into focus. It had been a long time since he’d had that dream and the overwhelming emotions hit him all at once as he felt the small scar that was hidden in the corner of his eye. Tears began to fall as hushed sobs racked his body, “you’re safe Jax,” he whispered to himself with a thick voice, “it was just a dream.” He hoped he could convince himself of that long enough to calm down, but even the writer knew he couldn’t trick his subconscious that much; after all, it wasn’t just a dream, but a horrifying memory.