about the furthest constellations of our souls Who: Bysshe & Jackie. What: Jackie brings Bysshe the dog he asked for. When: During spring break. Where: Middle of the woods. Warnings: Animal abuse and death, gore, Bysshe being an asshole. Status: Gdoc, complete.
Bysshe waited impatiently in the middle of the woods for Jackie's arrival.
It was weeks after the formal; their one night together had not changed much in their relationship, except perhaps making Jackie a little quicker on the uptake when Bysshe had instructions for him. He spent most of his time working on the book from Sciarra, his translations of interest but not especially pertinent to his research; he was not yet through one quarter of the book, though, so there was hope.
Now, though, he stood with notebook in hand, a plastic bag hanging from a wrist, and a dog bowl. He wished there was a more controlled environment to perform this particular experiment, but beggars could not be choosers, and he very much found himself in the poor house in this scenario. Leaning back against a tree, he pulled his dated flip phone out of his pocket and texted Jackie again.
where are you?
The reply came in seconds: omw, followed by a picture of a monstrous mutt of indeterminate breed -- though its blocky head, brick shithouse stature, and thick black fur suggested a pit bull and labrador mix -- with its mouth open in a panting grin. It was still wearing a cheap collar from an independent shelter. Written in Sharpie, directly on the cheap red plastic, was a name: Derek.
The pair could be heard long before they were seen. Derek came crashing through the underbrush, pulling Jackie along at the end of his leash. Jackie was smiling far more than was reasonable given the circumstances. He was panting fit to match the dog, but had somehow managed to keep his lit cigarette perched in the corner of his mouth.
"We're here," he said, as if such an announcement was required. "Bysshe, meet Derek."
Bysshe's only response was a frown. If he'd been honest with himself, he knew Jackie was ill fitted for this task; he was given to emotional attachment, and far too easily, but Bysshe was shorthanded when it came to physical assistance.
He stepped forward, putting a hand out for the dog to sniff.
"I take it he's used to people?" He had no desire to be bitten in the course of this experiment, though Jackie's easy handling of the animal spoke to its simple nature.
"Yeah, he is. Just got too big. The lady at the shelter said his old owners dropped him off 'cause he was eating too much." He reached down, roughly ruffling Derek's scruff. They both moved closer to Bysshe: one out of curiosity, one out of a desire that had only grown of late. Jackie sidled close enough to brush his shoulder against Bysshe's; Derek sniffed his hand, then licked it with the massive pink flat of his tongue. "No aggression even with cats and little yippy dogs, they said. So what now?"
Bysshe put the dog bowl on the ground; Derek immediately went to sniffing it, his paws scrabbling against the dirt in excitement. "Hold him back," Bysshe instructed, giving Jackie no other background as to what they were doing. He quickly made a mix of dry dog food and cheese wraps, placing small, white pills in the interior of each roll of cheese. Once he was done, he pushed the bowl out to where Derek could reach it, and rose to his feet.
"Why Derek?"
"Why not?" Jackie shrugged, petting Derek again as the dog wolfed down massive bites. Food, cheese, and pills were all gone in a few moments, and neither hound nor helper were the wiser. "I didn't name him. I just took the collar when I took him. Easier that way, you know? And anyway, if he already answers to it, he'll be easier to train with it. Changing an animal's name when it's already gotten used to it always seemed weird to me…"
He ashed his cigarette, watching Derek sniff all around Bysshe's shoes. "He's kinda cute in a dumb way, right?"
Bysshe made no reply, instead eyes intent on the animal before them. Having consumed the bare meal Bysshe laid before him, Derek started rooting around in the dirt, presumably looking for more. Crossing his arms over his chest, Bysshe walked around and away from Jackie, observing the dog's movements for a few long, slow moments. The dog slowed as well; where only a few minutes before, he'd been charging through the brush at Jackie's heed, and now was snuffling through leaves and dirt for anything edible, it was clear he was swaying on his feet.
Bysshe frowned, making a completed circle around the canine, watching and waiting to see what would happen.
"Bysshe?" Jackie's pleasant mien was rapidly disappearing. A sense of dread was taking its place, indicated by a steady slumping of his shoulders. He sucked down lungfuls of smoke as he waited for this dread to culminate in something real. Suspicion nagged at him, but he dared not believe it. "Bysshe, c'mon…"
"I told you to not get attached." He reached for the cigarette in Jackie's mouth, taking a puff himself as he watched the dog begin to convulse. It seemed to fight some invisible force, frothing at the mouth as its arms and legs no longer knew what to do with themselves. Bysshe knew the drugs that had killed his mother might react differently in an animal -- hormones were like that, no way to account for variety -- but he was less curious about the physical reactions than he was the effects on the animal's brain.
Derek rolled into the dirt, spraying leaves and sticks as he kicked, eyes rolling as it looked for some source of help that would not be forthcoming. Jackie could not pull his eyes away. It felt cruel somehow, to look away while a creature that had trusted him suffered this fate. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his shoulders hunched around his ears, as though he might somehow disappear into himself. He shuffled closer, frowning as he stared down at the dog.
"Sorry, Derek."
The dog met Jackie's eyes as it squirmed out the last of its life. Its gaze never wavered, and its eyes did not close as something went out of them; something that some might have called a personality, others a soul. Bysshe was already digging into his bag, pulling out other items for this occurrence.
"Help me flip him over," Bysshe instructed, needing the dog on his belly. He produced a large saw, set the bag down, and then put the saw on the bag as if to protect it from dirt and other unwanted items.
Jackie did not care in the least for how this experiment was shaping up. But Derek was dead, and there was nothing for it now. He stepped around the dog, to the opposite side of his friend. With some exertion, they managed to place the dog as Bysshe wanted.
"So now will you tell me what this is for?" Jackie asked. His voice was thick as he worked to hold back unshed tears. "I mean… I think I deserve a little answer, at least…"
Bysshe moved his hands carefully, avoiding the froth around the dog's mouth, feeling dead flesh move beneath his fingers.
"Hold his head up," he instructed his would-be assistant, ignoring his questions, at least for that moment. Bysshe plucked up the saw, and started to lay it at different angles against the dog's head. The gestures made Jackie's stomach churn, though he obeyed all the same. He gripped the creature's massive jaws, crouching in front of the dog to let its thick chin rest on his knees. He held it tightly, and his gaze returned to Bysshe.
"Seriously though," Jackie pressed. "Why are we doing this?"
Bysshe had the saw at a perpendicular angle to the dog's head, and sighed at being questioned again. He did not stop, pressing the blades of the device down into Derek's fur. His mind cast back to the formal, the dream he'd had, the memory of his mother's death playing out in front of him. The added pain of losing Jackie. It softened him, enough to offer a reply.
"I need to examine a brain that's been oxygen starved by opioids," he replied, and without waiting for further reprisal from his associate, the saw bit down into Derek's flesh. Blood welled to the surface, spraying Bysshe's hands a little, a few drops landing on Jackie's clothes. He pressed down harder, bits of dark fur joining the blood spray. The dog's head wobbled with the motion, turning back and forth as Bysshe attempted to saw.
"I need you to hold him still," Bysshe said, removing the saw for a moment so he could grab at Jackie's hands and pull them up, settling them on the dog's dead yet still warm jowls.
Bile rose in Jackie's throat. He turned his head, unable to watch Bysshe reposition his hands. He tightened his grip, but could not bear to watch. So recently his hands had run through that fur, had petted that sweet, dopey face. He fought down a fresh wave of nausea, looking pointedly at Bysshe, as though his friend's determination might somehow bolster his own as it flagged. He wasn't sure when he had begun crying, but he heard it in his own voice when he managed to speak.
"This is about her, isn't it."
Bysshe paused for only a moment, changing the angle of the saw to move in a semi-circular pattern around Derek's head. Flashes of white -- bone-- were starting to show through when he stopped and put the saw down entirely, instead content to peel back the remainder of the skin to reveal the skull.
"I don't know what you mean." His tone implied a red 'stop sign,' danger if a person were to progress along that given path. The flesh of Derek's scalp flopped over Jackie's hands, the red, gory interior bouncing slightly. Bysshe picked up the saw again, and set to work with fresh purpose.
Jackie leaned over and down, gagging as limp flesh laid across his fingers. He was almost proud of himself for not succumbing to the overwhelming nausea, but any pride in himself was eclipsed by sadness and frustration.
"Yeah you do," Jackie insisted. "I was there. I saw it, too. I don't know how, but I did." He gripped the dead dog's skull tighter still. His bitten nails dug into cooling flesh and heavy, hard bone. "I won't tell anybody, Bysshe, I swear. Just… what are you trying to do?"
He cut through another area of bone, moving along in his circular pattern. He'd reached a halfway point, a malformed crescent winding its way around Derek the Dead Dog's head. A similar shape was made of his mouth.
"I told you, I need to study a brain that's been killed by a drug overdose." The sawing continued in silence, broken only by the sound of birds and falling branches. "You saw how she died. I won't know what I'm dealing with until I have samples, tests, studies..." Of course, that wouldn't account for the long year she'd been in the ground, rotting, or what embalming fluid might have done.
But one step at a time, just as he continuously applied one saw stroke at a time, cutting deep into the bone.
"What you're dealing with?" Jackie's voice betrayed his disbelief. He turned his blood-spattered face up to Bysshe, looking beyond the now tattered corpse in his hands. "What's that supposed to mean? There's got to be a report somewhere, right? Do you need to do this?" A cold sweat had broken out across Jackie's forehead. "I mean, if you need… closure or something, I don't know… Lyle's probably got the autopsy stuff, why can't you just look at that? I don't…"
Jackie sucked at his teeth. It might have been his imagination, but he was suddenly, completely sure he had swallowed a bit of bone. Bone dust, at least. He tried again. "I don't see why you need to do this..."
Bysshe stopped, completely. Settled on a knee, the hand holding the saw leaned on his bent leg as he fixed Jackie with an admonishing look.
"Because I need to see if it can be reanimated." His glare was full and unflinching, waiting to see how Jackie would respond to this piece of information. The only other person he'd told was Sciarra, and there he'd been surprised to not be outrightly rejected. Here he'd thought Jackie would simply comply, but it seemed things would not be so simple.
Jackie's mouth moved, but words eluded him. He blinked up at Bysshe, studying his face, but there was no hint of teasing or mockery there. He saw only utter sincerity, and a determination that at last silenced him altogether. He nodded, looking back down to the flayed and broken skull before him. He gripped it more tightly, his spidery grip splayed along its jaws as he held it still for his friend.
Bysshe waited a moment longer still, but Jackie's doubling down pleased him more than he could put words to. Without another response, he put the saw back to the bone, and began to chew through the material anew. The circle continued in a rough fashion around the dog's skill, until it seemed to pop up like a can under a can opener. Bysshe tossed the saw down, and lifted the small piece of bone until the raw, pulsing pink-red color of the brain was exposed to the air.
"Hold still," he murmured, though unconsciously he had a thought that Jackie needed no such instruction. He went into his pack and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves and a tupperware jar he'd absconded with from the kitchen. Sliding the gloves on and popping the lid off, he went back to the dog's open skull and gently lifted the mass of the organ from the brain pan and into the tupperware. Jackie watched every motion with rapt attention; focusing on Bysshe rather than himself seemed to have given him focus, and once again the dog was just another dog.
As he was packing it up, he glanced momentarily back to the dog. "We'll need to dispose of it."
Jackie nodded. "I can burn it," he offered. "Pick the bones and stuff out after, spread 'em around the woods." He still cradled the dog's empty head, resting it against his thighs. Blood had begun to soak through the denim; he would burn his clothes as well once this was all done. "If you think that'd work. You don't have to stay for it, either." He nodded toward the neatly packaged brain. "I'm sure you've got… stuff to do."
Bysshe nodded, continuing to pack the brain he'd so carefully removed from its home. "Good. Get rid of it and then go home." It was implied that further instruction would come later; Bysshe concerned himself solely with undoing the gloves and packaging them up. Then he carefully set about the task of putting the now-filled tupperware container into the bag along with the saw in such a way that nothing was damaged or jostled.
Jackie said nothing. He slid out from beneath the dead dog's great head, setting it down on the forest floor. Then he rose, rummaging through his pockets for another cigarette. There was blood still on his hands; it left sticky fingerprints on the end of his cigarette and on the patterned plastic of his lighter. His hands still shook, but he got his cigarette lit on only the third try.
"Okay, Bysshe," he said. His voice was small; it sounded even younger than his years. "I'll see you around."
Bysshe gave no more than a grunt coupled with a nod, rising to his feet and slinging the bag over his shoulder. He took a few careful steps, testing the way he'd stacked his precious cargo; once he was certain that he'd done it correctly, he took off at a much faster pace, leaving Jackie and his now dead dog behind.