(THE GIRLFRIEND USER, I NAMED HER JUANITA BTW - CREATOR)
May 24th, 1989.
Memory never returned in order.
It came in flashes.
Nightclub bass vibrating through concrete.
Neon smeared across tile.
Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
Men in white suits falling one by one.
Jacket moving forward without hesitation.
A locked door.
His girlfriend bound to a bed — pale sickly skin, a scar on her nose, scars on her wrists.. She looked utterly traumatized, it was clear what the Russian Mobsters were doing to her, considering she also wore only white lingerie.
Jacket was frozen in the doorway.
Ropes cut.
Arms clinging.
Jacket held her like she mattered the most, even after she told him:
“Oh god... please don’t!”
“Yeah... just get it over with... I knew it would end like this...”
“Why don’t you finish what you’ve started?”
The rear exit swallowing them both.
The memory never showed what might have happened if he had been too late.
It never showed the Don Juan mask being hidden away.
The greenish-brown horse mask had once belonged to another life.
Another name.
Another purpose.
After Jacket rescued her, Juanita never wore it again.
She tucked it into the back of the closet.
Then she forgot about it.
Or tried to, it wasn't like she could tell Jacket that she was trapped by 50 Blessings.
The apartment was quiet.
Neon seeped through thin curtains, painting the walls pink and violet.
The television played softly.
Juanita sat on the couch, blanket over her legs.
Jacket's jacket was draped over the back of a chair.
His shoes were in the middle of the hallway.
His gloves were on the table.
Juanita stared at the mess.
Then sighed.
"Jacket."
No answer.
She looked toward the kitchen.
He was standing by the sink, washing blood from his hands.
The water ran red.
Then clear.
Juanita looked toward the hallway.
"Your shoes."
Jacket glanced down.
Then toward the hallway.
Then back at her.
Silence.
"Move them."
He exhaled through his nose.
Juanita raised an eyebrow.
After a moment, Jacket walked over and moved them.
She smiled faintly.
"Thank you."
He returned to the kitchen.
Juanita shook her head.
Some things never changed.
Later, Jacket sat beside her on the couch.
The television flickered across his face.
He looked tired.
Juanita leaned against his shoulder.
His arm settled around her almost automatically.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The apartment was quiet.
Safe.
Juanita's gaze drifted toward the hallway.
Toward the closet.
The Don Juan mask remained hidden behind old clothes.
Jacket had never seen it.
He had never asked.
And Juanita had never told him.
Her gaze returned to him.
Jacket was already watching her.
His eyes softened.
"What?"
He shook his head.
Nothing.
The television continued to show whatever channel it was on.
The mask remained hidden.
For tonight, that was enough.