His Trophy | Jerome Valeska

forty six

She was not an angel, Jeremiah had realised as he slowly came back to himself. The girl sat by his lap on a stool, her hands were gentle as she started to wipe around the restraints he was held under. Jeremiah tried to speak to her again, but all that came out were spluttering groans. She would look at him with wide eyes, her cheeks wet from the crying. 

The architect tensed his weak jaw as she continued to rub water over his open wounds. She  wiped away the blood of his brothers blows, leaving behind sore and stinging skin. Even wincing brought him immense pain, he wished he had something to bite down on. He knew it wasn't her fault that he was in pain, he still couldn't help silently damning her for it. She remained quiet throughout it all. Only the sound of the rag sloshing in the basen she was given echoed around the room with Jeremiah's ragged, short breaths. He pulled his eyes away from her and looked up to the light hanging from the ceiling, thinking silent prayers as he started to go over the situation he had found himself in. 

He had given up the codes, yet his brother had kept him alive. That must mean there was either more information they wanted from him, or Jerome was going to spend a long time killing him. He gulped at the thought, the movement sending out a jolt of discomfort. But if he wanted him to suffer, why was this girl cleaning and tending to his wounds? Why have someone who showed sympathy and kindness to him if he was supposed to be executed? It didn't seem like Jerome's style to provide aftercare to his torture victims. 

Jeremiah looked back to the girl. She was looking right at him. She had dark blue eyes which seemed to burn into him, the look was unsettling. She seemed to be scanning his face. He could tell she was holding her tongue, that she was trying to communicate silently. But in a blink, the panicked gaze had gone and she stood, pulling the rag out of the bowl to start washing his face. The cold water was surprisingly refreshing for him, despite the stinging pain. She ran the cloth over his swollen eyes and lips with great care. Now that she was closer to him, he could hear her breathing. It was as short and shallow as his own. 

She was scared. 

"He wants to make you mad," her voice was so quiet, he almost thought he had hallucinated it. 

She met his eyes again, this time there was a glimpse of desperate determination shining through them. 

"I can help you," she whispered again, before stepping back to the bowl to ring out the rag. 

Jeremiah didn't say anything. He just continued to watch her re-fold the piece of cloth in her hand. She moved closer to him again and delicately tapped his face to remove the excess water. She was about to say more but the sound of the door cracking open caused both of them to lock up with dreaded anticipation. The girl finished drying his face and turned to look at who had entered the room. 

Jerome's presence seemed to suck all of the air out of Jeremiah. His battered and swollen body seized at the sight of his twin brother. The girl seemed to fade from his vision as he fixed his gaze onto his captor. He only saw her again when she approached Jerome, her hands were clenched into tight fists. She walked to the door, Jerome grabbed her wrist and whispered something to her. Jeremiah couldn't hear anything that was said, his panicked heartbeat deafened him. The girl looked back at Jeremiah, their eyes locking. Something about her gaze made Jeremiah understood that she was trapped like he was. 

Her words started to make sense as he watched her shake her head in response to Jerome. He watched her intensely as Jerome let go of her hand and ran a finger up her arm, his evil twin asked another question, to which she nodded. Jeremiah watched her leave the room with cold dread. As the door closed behind her, his gaze set back on his brother, who had watched the girl leave. It was when the door clicked shut and Jeromes gaze turned back onto Jeremiah which caused the architect to choose; the girl was offering him a way out, he could either go along with her plan or give into the terrifying reality that his brother would send him to his grave. Jeremiah  decided that he didn't want to give Jerome the satisfaction.

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Rory stepped out of the cold room shaking, Jerome's touch still burned against her. When she had entered, she was certain he had heard her promise. She swallowed heard and rubbed her arm, trying to remove the strange tingling sensation Jerome had left in her. She felt sick. 

"Were there any colours?" the gravelly voice of Scarecrow shocked her and she flinched as she looked to meet the strange criminal's gaze. This villain was surrounded by the same warm glow of embers, unlike Jerome's wild neon green which seemed to grow and consume, Scarecrow's aura remained close to him, crackling and wriggling. She hadn't directly looked at any of Jerome's gang, more out of disinterest than with fear. She had always wanted to keep her eyes on the bigger threat. 

Rory shook her head. She swallowed again. Despite the costume, she didn't feel afraid of Scarecrow, ever since she had visited Lola, something about him seemed to tell her that she didn't need to worry about his madness. She looked away and down to her feet. 

"Do I have to wait for him?" she muttered, wrapping her arms around herself. 

Crane simply nodded. 

Rory walked further away from the door and turned to lean against the opposite wall. She tried to collect her nerves to the best of her ability but she couldn't help feel exposed in front of Crane and the two lacky's which were leering at her. It was strange to feel the effects of her curse on other people - she could tell that the three men were all somehow fighting against the effect she had. 

She had become so used to Jerome's madness that she had forgotten she had this effect on most people. She had also forgotten that most people who suffered from her presence weren't as possessive as her husband, and that most of the time, those who were mad, would see her as some kind of untouchable figure. 

Rory shuddered, rubbing the arm Jerome had touched. She had known Jerome was different from the rest of them, even when they had first met. He seemed to captivate her as much as she did him. When she had ran away she always thought it was love shared between them, a love which was shattered when he decided to kill her ex-boyfriend. But as she stroked her arm, her fingers tracing where his had touched, she thought that maybe it was her own madness which had drawn her to him.