*/ i'll look after you.

[maxwell jude clarke]

In his own humble, yet surely sound opinion, Maxwell Clarke had felt as though he'd accomplished a lot in the span of a few hours. Especially with his aching back, and what he thought was the hint of arthritis in his bones. He braved the initial pain when he woke up from his luxuriously large bed and pulled himself into an upright position, glancing blearily over at his clock on the wall. Since it all looked like a black and white smear, he reached over for his thick-framed, Costello-esque glasses and put them on, blinking once or twice until his vision was clear. It was about noon, which made the corners of his mouth tug down into a slight frown - yes, it was a Saturday, but Max usually started his weekends just as early as his weeks. He liked to get up in the morning, coax his body into a jog around the neighborhood, shower, and then commence with the rest of his day, which entailed some homework, and general relaxing. Sometimes he tended to his hobbies, such as golfing or reading the change in the stocks, all things that a seventeen year old boy should have no interest in. When people affectionately called Max an "old soul," they meant it. He was wise beyond his years, old-fashioned in his mannerisms, and absolutely positive that he'd inherited the body of an elderly person (even though that was widely untrue).

He sighed and went into the shower to start his day, already thrown off because of the late hour. When he was finished, he changed into a simple outfit and let his curls dry as he tidied around his room, even going to make his bed. The Clarkes were wealthy enough to have a team of hired staff to take care of such trivial matters, but that meant nothing to Max. He liked to be independent, and he'd never leaned into the wealth that he'd grown up in. It was a miracle that he'd remained so humble, but it had grown to become a part of his personality. When he was finished, his Blackberry began to buzz on his bed and he picked it up to check it, wondering who it could be. To his surprise, one of his old friends was BBMing him and asking him to come hang out with him. Max hadn't heard from this guy - Damien - in such a long time, and he'd thought it was for the best; while they had been close in freshman and sophomore year, they drifted apart over the summer due to Damien's increasingly bad habits. Yes, Max would drink and smoke cigarettes with him, but when it came to the heavier things like cocaine and marijuana, he refused to take part in it. The things he was doing were bad enough for him with his diabetes already, and he wouldn't even dare to add hard drugs into the mix. Additionally, the idea of going to jail for something like that was absolutely repulsive to Max. He was an organized young man, very focused and driven on where he wanted to go in his life. Nowhere on his life-map, drawn when he was only 5, did it say 'time in jail.'

The young man shrugged and decided to accept the offer, and drove over the few miles to Damien's house. They actually had a pretty good time, laughing and reminiscing on their old antics together over a few cigarettes and a glass of Aboslut vodka each. This was the kind of thing that Maxwell truly enjoyed, a laid-back time where he didn't have to do much but sit and relax. It was then, when Max was about to leave at around 6 p.m., that Damien said something in passing that disturbed him. "Man, before you go, you should check out this great girl they have around here." He smirked, running his hands through his sandy hair before continuing. "She's not expensive - well, not at least to people like us. And man, is she good in bed." Maxwell's eyebrows shot into his hairline. A prostitute? He personally disapproved of the practice and stayed as far away from it as possible - he had morals and dignity, and pitied the poor girls who were forced into such a terrible profession for a living. "What's her name?" he asked cautiously, careful not to show any hint of eagerness. Damien should in no way believe that Max wanted to be with a prostitute. "Jezebel Montague," came the reply, and a stream of words after that, but Max heard nothing but the name.

Jezebel Montague. No. There was absolutely no way this could be true, not even in some sort of sordid, twisted scenario. The young man knew Jezebel, she was a fellow classmate and as rough around the edges as she was, she had a heart of gold. It took a little while to crack her, but Max never pushed - he knew she'd come around in time. His heart thudded to a stop in his chest and his eyes widened, his jaw tightening instantly. "I have to go," he said tersely, and without even a goodbye he strode out of his friend's house and into his car, shoving the key into the ignition and starting to dial her number on his phone as she did so. Maxwell called four times, but there was no response - each went to voicemail, which left him frustrated. He sent her a few clumsy texts, but to no avail, and with each failed attempt he felt anxiety and anger spike in his veins. "Damnit, Jezebel!" he swore loudly, jerking the car into life and speeding out of the driveway, driving faster than he'd ever gone before. Max couldn't remember the last time that he'd been so angry, but there was also cold fear that was numbing him, down to his fingers which were clenching the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles were white. He was all but flooring the car, desperate to get to her house and prove that it wasn't true. He wouldn't let it be true.

Ten minutes later the expensive car skid to a halt outside her house, in Central Briggs. He didn't come to this part of town often and his parents would not be pelased that he was there, but he had more important things to worry about. Dark brows deeply furrowed, Max jogged to the front door and knocked forcefully; he was caught off-guard when the door simply swung upon under his touch. Why would the door be open at this time of night? His suspicion mounting, he took a few steps inside the familiar living room and then caught sight of her father, who simply said "Close the door behind you." The curly-haired teen refused, his hands clenched into fists that were shaking with restrained fury. He took a few steps closer, and finally got a clear view of what Mr. Montague was doing - he had stacks of money piled up and was counting them. This was far too much money for someone of their social class to be making, so where did it come from? Nothing was adding up. He heard a loud thud from upstairs and his head snapped up momentarily, but as soon as the noise died down his chocolate colored eyes were burning holes on Mr. Montague again. The older man, figuring that this was a stubborn, hornier-than-usual young customer, looked up from his duty and smirked over at Maxwell. "Look kid, she's busy.." His gaze lingered over Max's diamond studded watch and dogtags and his interest piqued, so he eased his tone. There was the potential for real money, with this one, so he had to treat him well. "She's tired, and.. occupied, at the moment. But if you wait another hour, she could be yours for the rest of the night, and -"

He never got to finish his sentence. During the entire time that he was talking, Max had pieced everything together. As disgusting as it was, Damien was right; Jezebel's father was sitting her, selling his daughter's body for money.. the thought sickened him, so much that his stomach had twisted itself into painful, fiery knots. Maxwell swung his fist hard, hitting Mr. Montague square in the jaw and knocking him to the floor. "You sick, disgusting son of a bitch," he shouted, unable to control himself as he landed hit after hit, until the man was begging him to stop. "Do you listen to her when she asks you to stop?" Max spat coldly, kicking him in the stomach once more for good measure and knocking the air out of his lungs so he would hear no more complaint or begging for mercy. He felt nothing toward the man but an encompassing hatred, which continued to set his entire body on fire. Maxwell diverted his attention to the stairs and bounded up to Jezebel, taking them two at a time until her bedroom door was in sight. He prayed that it was somehow unlocked, and luckily enough, it was - he burst right in, to a scene that he'd never forget in his entire life. There was Jezebel, tears streaking her face as an older man pinned her down, kissing her and.. having sex with her. Against her will. Her entire body was stiff, but he was stronger - he had paid, so he would get his satisfaction. Wordlessly, Maxwell shoved the man away from Jez, so that he tumbled to the ground in much the same fashion that her father had. "What the FUCK?" the man yelled, standing up despite his nakedness, but before he could say anything else he was knocked down again, this time for a while. Max hit him with all the force that he had in his body, and thankfully it was enough to keep him down long enough for him to get her out of there. "Filthy," he snarled, then took off his leather jacket and tossed it toward Jez. "Put something on, now." The command was barked in a flat tone, unusual for the soft-spoken young man, but he meant it. He was going to make sure she was safe, and that she'd never have to suffer through that again.

He turned around for the sake of her modesty, still every bit the gentleman, and once she'd thrown on a pair of sweats, shoes, and a t-shirt with his jacket on top, he took her by the hand and pulled her down the stairs as quickly as possible. He pointedly ignored the sight of her father, sprawled on the floor and bleeding, and lead her out of the house and to his waiting car. When she was seated and buckled in, Maxwell sped out of the neighborhood and toward his home. His mind was racing as fast as the car, if not faster, completely overwhelmed by everything that had just happened. It seemed so surreal, yet there she was, shivering and keeping her gaze away from him. Max's jaw tightened again, his dark eyes narrowed in the silence between them, and then finally he spoke. It wasn't as if he'd even be able to find the right words to articulate the painful way that his heart had broken, just by seeing that. And even now, his heart was still aching at the way she looked so tiny, so fragile, a word he'd never even think of using for her. Things had changed so rapidly in the span of a single day, more than he could have ever imagined. "Fuck, Jez. How long?" The simple question hung in the air, and when he didn't get an immediate response he spoke up again, in a louder voice. "Jez. How long?" His tone was strained, the anger flaring in each and every syllable. And behind it all, there was an undeniable sorrow that she'd had to suffer this, and he could have helped her all along.

IF I DON'T SAY THIS NOW, I WILL SURELY BREAK .
tag - - - jezebel scarlett montague

[jezebel scarlett montague]

Sometimes, things wore you to the core. Sometimes, you were rubbed so thin that you felt like you might break. And sometimes, there were things in your life that crushed you. Crushed you until you couldn’t breath, couldn’t speak, couldn’t function. Jezebel Montague was to this point in her life. She looked at herself in the mirror everyday, and what did she see? A filthy heathen. Dirty, broken, unfixable, graceless, fallen. There was no end in sight to the depravity in her life, and all she wanted was for it to be over. It felt as though her back was breaking from her heavy heart, and Jezzy wanted to rid herself of the feeling. It was all she wanted, to feel free and weightless, and to for once be able to have some semblance of hope. When she was outside sometimes, she’d see a bird or some sort of animal and just feel so insanely jealous. They had something that she felt as though she could never have - freedom. Freedom to live without hindrance, to soar or to scavenge with no one to tell them how they were expected to conduct themselves or force them into anything they didn’t want to do. Freedom, it was a part of Jezebel’s dreams. However, every second her eyes were opened to the real world, she lived inside a nightmare. That particular Saturday was supposed to be a ‘day off’. Her father always, out of his extraordinarily good nature, tried to give her second Saturday of the month off. She supposed she was supposed to feel grateful, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel anything other than depression that morning as her eyes opened, gazing out her window into the early afternoon. She sat up slowly, running a hand through her hair, and throwing back the covers of her bed. Dark eyes caught a glance at her legs, bare because she slept in only underwear and a tank top, and a sick feeling spread in her stomach.

Bruises from the night before dyed her skin black and blue, on her inner thighs. She clenched her eyes shut, realizing at that moment how her body ached more than usual. Most of the time, Jezebel’s ‘customers’ didn’t batter her, but last night had been a rare case. He had hit her when she had balked before he entered, put off by how rough he was. She glanced at her arms, noting the fingerprint bruises on her forearms. She shook her head again, wrapping her smaller hand around her arm, her fingers pressed lightly to the mark on her skin. Jezzy would give anything to run away, in that moment. Run away, and never look back. But even as the thought entered her mind, she ushered it out. Last time she had tried that, her father had just found her again, and she’d lost her third and last child in a miscarriage. The depravity would not end. At least, her father had told her when it had happened, she didn’t have to worry about getting pregnant anymore. Words meant to comfort in their own, horribly sick way, had only proven to make her more depressed. Jezebel didn’t know how much more she could take of this. The girl got up off the bad, walking stiffly over to the bathroom, turning on the hot water and stripping off her clothes, getting inside. In the shower, she scrubbed. She scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed harder. In some way, she figured that if she scrubbed hard enough, she’d be able to make herself clean again. That she wouldn’t be as corrupted as before. But sadly, that would be something that would never happened, no matter how much she exactly wanted it to. Jez turned off the water, standing there for a moment, thoroughly pulled within herself, when she heard a sharp bang on her bathroom door. ”Jezebel!” Her father yelled at her, tone rough and angry like it always was when speaking to her. ”Hurry up and get dressed in something appropriate. You have a customer coming in an hour.” Jezebel’s heart sank. No, not that day. She needed a day to herself… she needed a day for escape. Tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, she wrapped her towel around herself, stepping out of the shower and throwing open her bathroom door.

Jezebel walked straight out of her room and down the hall, to the kitchen where her father most likely would be - what she hadn’t counted on was her ‘customer’ being early and in the kitchen with him, while she was wearing nothing but a towel. Jezebel froze, swallowing, ”Jezebel, this is -.” But her mind had already tuned it out. She was already struggling to go to her special place in the back of her mind, the place she always went whenever men where wanted her in the bedroom. Jez walked into her room, closing the door and allowing her towel to drop as she grabbed the lingerie her father told her to wear. She hadn’t pulled on the underwear or strapped the bra on yet when the man opened the door to her room, grabbing her and pushing her down onto her bed, lips urgent and desperate on her own. Everything was reflex by now. Her body knew what to do - it was on auto-pilot, while her mind was safely away other places. She got through the first couple men of the day much like that, and soon the light coming in her window was fading. Night time. Only one more customer, then she was done. Her relief caused her resolve to weaken just enough that she couldn’t pull it back into place quickly as the last man walked into the room. He was older, strong, and he looked angry. Jez felt a flare of fear in her, and it flashed stronger when he grabbed her roughly by the arms, so hard the grip alone would leave bruises, and kissed her. When he pulled back, his hands roughly scratching at her back to unstrap her bra, her lips were swollen and she was whimpering by the way he very literally crushed her to him. She pulled away, murmuring, ”I don’t think today is a good day…” But the man would have none of it. He took her by the shoulders and shook her violently, ”I’m getting my money’s worth, you worthless bitch.” He hissed, shoving her back against the wall, causing a loud bang to reverberate around the house. Jezzy tried to force herself to that special place of hers while his hands roughly roamed her, scratching, digging, and gouging her soft skin.

He kissed her again, biting down on her lip so hard it drew blood, and she cried out. He slapped her roughly across the face for the sound, before slamming her down on the bed, pulling her panties so hard that they tore. He held both of her flailing arms back with one of his hands, the other hand moving to his belt and pants, unbuckling and pushing them down. Roughly, painfully, he entered her, and tears began to stream down her face. Her body shook, tense with the sobs that racked her body as the friction between herself and this stranger mounted as his movements grew, if even possible, rougher. Jezebel wasn’t exactly sure what happened next, but one thing she knew this man was still mounted on top of her, and the next he was being flung across the ground by a familiar looking face. Shame overwhelmed her, masking her fear and her pain for a moment. Maxwell. Maxwell Clarke, at her rescue, seeing her at her very worst, in a way she’d want no one to see her, especially not him. She curled up slightly, in too much pain to do anything else, her face still wet, cries still coming from her as she flinched as Max’s fist connected with the stranger’s body, sending him reeling to the ground and not getting up. She flinched again when Max tossed his jacket at her, and she shrugged it over her shoulders, wordlessly doing as he told her. A t-shirt, sweatpants, and boots - all just items laying on the floor, discarded from the night before. She pulled them on quickly, before walking towards him with her hugging herself. Her dark hair was tangled and matted, a mess, and her face was red and a bruise was already forming on her left cheek where the man had hit her. Her breath came out of her in shuddering gasps, the sounds small and barely noticeable but seeming so impossibly loud to her. When they walked past the kitchen, her eyes found her father, sprawled on the floor, bloody. Her wide eyes went from Max to her father, and she felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. Then, next, it was fear. She’d never seen Maxwell this angry, and it scared her, especially in the state she was in.

Jezebel Montague followed her knight in shining armor to his metal steed, getting in the passengers seat and snapping on the seatbelt, still very pointedly silent. Max pulled out of the driveway, and the silence between them stretched longer still, impossibly long. Her face was turned slightly out the window, her body language tense and pained as she curled in on herself, her lower half and every other place the man had touched aching extremely painfully. Her body was shaking, but she didn’t notice, and her face was wet with the tears that were still silently falling. She raised a hand to wipe her face, wincing slightly, before flinching at Max’s angry voice. She looked over at him quickly, then look away, her body simply burning with shame. She didn’t answer right away, which led to Max repeating the question in an even more strained voice. She bit her lip, looking down at her lap before whispering a tortured voice, ”Five years. For five years.” She confessed, for the first time to anyone or anything, and it made her feel even more dirty than she had before. There was no way Max would be able to look at her after this. No way at all. Surely he would see how dirty and unclean she was now. No one would take her, no one would keep her safe. Infinitely, she was alone. She supposed it was something she was going to have to get used to.

status: done.
clothes: here.
notes: DDDDDDDDDDX
muzak: you found me, the fray

[/justify]
[/size][/blockquote]

[maxwell jude clarke]

For as long as he could remember, Maxwell had led a very comfortable, sheltered life. He'd always had two parents to love and protect him, and as far as he was concerned they had raised him in a most excellent manner. They'd provided just the right amount of discipline and encouragement, and because of them he had grown into the person he was today. There had never been a moment when he'd been unsure of their love, or where he couldn't find them when he needed them. The stability in his household was something he took for granted, because he couldn't even imagine there were families where parents were much different from his. It wasn't as though he wasn't aware that there was suffering in the world, or maybe even in a few houses down, but he never dwelt on it for too long. The Clarkes were affluent and kind, and between the money and the guidance Maxwell had grown up with everything he'd ever wanted and more. He didn't want to think about the personality he would have developed under a different pair of parents, or different method of parenthood - he was so blessed to have the background that he had been born into. Even to this point, his life was one of comfort and bliss; the blows the that the world might have blown him were continually cushioned by wealth and security.

What angered him the most was the fact that Jezebel was just on the other side of town, and her life was so drastically different from his. Instead of a safe place to lay her head down at night, where she could feel like she could be at peace, her home had literally become a living hell. Nobody, Maxwell thought, should ever have to feel that way. Especially not her. They were just kids - what did they know about the world? From her point of view, it was probably a scarier, darker world than what he was facing, that was damn sure. The fact that Jez's father had dared to take her innocence from her made him so angry that his blood was practically boiling in his veins. The overarching sensation in the pit of his stomach, however, was sorrow. He was sad that she couldn't find an escape from that nightmare, that she had no choice but to return to it over and over again. He wondered what it felt like, to be trapped and near asphyxiation. This was the cruelest of things she could have possibly been subjected to, and Max wished with everything in him that he could just take it all away, that he could make her forget everything. He wanted to make her forget every bad touch, every drunkenly spoken word in her ear.

Piece by piece, it was all starting to come together for Maxwell. He saw that there was a reason for her irritable behavior. Every single time she snapped at him, called him a name, or told him to fuck off, she was just trying to shield herself. To her, everyone was the enemy. How could she ever trust again, after what she was forced to endure on a daily basis. Jezebel had become the hard, harsh person that she was because she was scared. Max had always been gentle with her and would continue to be nothing but careful, but now he was even more cautious. She was fragile, and the last thing he wanted to do was be the person who broke her completely. He wasn't even sure that the damage she'd sustained physically and mentally could be healed, but he was going to try with everything he had. He wasn't the kind to give up, and especially not on a girl like Jezebel. Despite the negativity she had toward herself, he saw her in a different light - to him, she was positively beautiful. She shone in the little moments they had together, like when he made her laugh unexpectedly or when she hit him for being a little too ridiculous. If only she could see herself the way he did.

For now, the night was winding down to an end for the two teens. They had both seen too much, heard too much to even comprehend, and so they let the silence swallow them. Maxwell couldn't stay angry forever - it was not, by any means, his strong suit - so eventually his grip on the wheel loosened and his jaw relaxed. He took a few deep breaths, reminding himself to stay in control of the situation. The way that Jezebel was shivering besides him was an indication of just how scared she was of what had just happened… and of him. The corners of his mouth tugged down into a frown and his brow furrowed deeply, but he refused to speak again until she gave him the answer that he was looking for. It seemed like it took her an eternity to speak, but she did; the way she phrased the words was so soft and so pained, as if she wished the steady, low thrum of the car's engine would drown her out. Five years, she said, and he felt as though time had stopped. Five years. "Five years?" Max choked, balking at the thought of it. She had been twelve years old when her father began to sell her body? She should have been playing with friends, not being forced into a man's rough embrace. He could feel the anger mounting again, but he didn't want to lose his temper in front of Jezebel. Not when she was this upset and shaken. "Five years?" he repeated softly, the question falling from his lips with a sigh. Max turned his head so his chocolate eyes could meet hers, indescribable sadness there. He didn't even need to add any more words.

He wanted so badly to say, why didn't you come to me? Why didn't you trust me? Why didn't you tell anyone? As fast as these questions occurred to him, he shot them down, however; it was not as simple as that. Her father might ha threatened her, and she more than likely felt as though there was no one to turn to. She and Max were close, but maybe not close enough for such a big secret. Maxwell pulled up into the Clarke's grand driveway and unlocked the car's doors for hers, waiting until she exited so he could lock them again. He remained silent, the picture of the shame on her face lingering in his mind. Jezebel had nothing to be ashamed of, she wasn't in the fault. None of this could even be blamed on her. He shoved his key into the door and opened it with more force than usual, allowing the large, ornate sides to open and give way to the main hallway. The house was something of a dream, he would admit - his parents had designed it themselves, and it was very reminiscent of a Victorian castle. Mrs. Clarke stepped out from the kitchen, her dark curls sweeping her shoulders and her brows quirked with worry. "Maxwell, I was worried. You weren't picking up and…" She trailed off abruptly at the sight of Jezz, faced bruised and hair messy, and then looked again at her son for an explanation. "Mom, this is Jezebel," he replied tersely, giving his mother a look that told her everything she needed to know about the situation. "Hi dear. Come with me, let's get you cleaned up, okay? You can borrow some of Max's clothes for the night." Mrs. Clarke gently laid a hand on Jez's slight shoulders and lead her upstairs, to take care of her.

When she was out of his sight, everything seemed to seep out of Max at once; his shoulders slumped and his hands began to shake, but from what he didn't know. Mr. Clarke appeared shortly, having heard the conversation, and simply clasped his son on the back. In a low voice, Max told him everything, and Mr. Clarke nodded. "You did the right thing," he replied, and then gave him a little advice for the rest of the evening. After their conversation ended, the young man dragged his tired body upstairs and to his room, where he simply collapsed on his bed after taking his shoes off. His head sunk into the pillows, he examined the blood on his knuckles and tried to focus. What was the next step? Where did they even go from there? What if he did the wrong thing? What if he hurt her? Max sat up and sighed, running his hands through his curly hair before simply cradling his head in the silence. When he heard the door creak open, he did not move from his position but said, "Come in, Jez." The long night wasn't over still, and his heart continued to break and break again.

IF I DON'T SAY THIS NOW, I WILL SURELY BREAK .
tag - - - jezebel scarlett montague

[jezebel scarlett montague]

There were a lot of things that Jezebel could have said about her life before it had turned into her own personal hell. She remembered as a child, just being happy. She had been your average little girl, dreaming about kissing toads to have them turn into your magical prince and losing herself in her imagination for hours on end. Her own little world that she created was one she almost liked better than the real world, and in a way, she had always been sad to leave it. But when her mother would offer to take her to the show or take her to the park, all was right in the world, and she was perfectly happy with reality. Her imagination had always gotten the best of her, even then. She remembered the time when she’d learned to stream words together to create sentences, and sentences together to create stories. That secret, imagined world in her head was no longer just hers – it was down on paper, and she often showed it to her mother who was amazed at the work a young child such as she could create. Her mother had always encouraged her, while her father often showed her that he couldn’t care less; she’d set her stories down in front of him, and her father would glance and say, ”That’s great, Jezebel.” In an extremely uninterested voice. In truth, it had hurt her, but she still loved her daddy anyway. He was busy, she knew, with all of his business friends. Besides, her mother never ceased to rain praise down upon her, so with that, she was satisfied. Her dreams had been big, and despite the cold shoulder she got from her father, she knew that one day she would get exactly where she wanted to be.

Her mother had taken her dreams, helped her mold them and shape them. When she died, she took them all with her. Her father then formed new dreams for her – dreams that instead turned into something a lot like nightmares. Her life took such a drastic turn, to have all innocence taken from her at such a young age. She’d never had a chance to just be a normal teenager. There had been no sweet sixteens or sleepovers, no birthdays parties or first dates. Instead, Jezebel spent all of her time pushing people away so they wouldn’t get an in on her secret life at home. There were no special first kisses, romantic first times, or first dates gone awry. She had missed such an important part of what made teenagers who they were. Instead, she simply graduated from child to a human being who had seen the very worst of the world. Jezebel knew that it was the very worst. In all the stories she read about in the news papers, she heard bad things about other people out in the world. Natural disasters, famine, drought. Call it selfish, but she just knew none of them could compare to her own personal hell, at least, not to her. She’d go home each night after spending hours in the library doing the homework she knew she wouldn’t be able to get done at home, and she’d be tossed into her bed by yet another man, wanting another piece of her that she was not willing to give. She was laid raw each night, vulnerable and exposed in the worst possible way, and it was leaving it’s marks on her. How could it not? She was cold, bitter, angry with anything and everything. It took a special person to even get inside this cold shell she’d built around herself, to keep other people out. No one deserved to suffer like she did, and that was all they would do if they knew about her world.

Yet somehow, try as she might, she couldn’t keep Maxwell Clarke out. His gentle demeanor and wore her down far quicker than she ever could have expected. She let him in without even thinking, without even realizing it, and she couldn’t say that she regretted it. In all the time he knew her, Max was able to give her a sense of security she couldn’t find anywhere. When she was with him, he made her feel safe and secure for the time. But of course, that sense of security was shattered whenever she left his presence, whenever she returned to her life at home that was all about fear and pain. No matter how safe she felt with Max, and no matter how badly she wished that he would come and he would protect her, she would never have wished this upon him. While she was grateful that Max had saved her, Jezebel knew this was something that wouldn’t ever leave him, in more ways than one. She could tell by the way his jaw was clenched, fingers tightly wrapped around the steering wheel, that the image of another man roughly on her would never leave him. And she also knew that now he had helped her, had saved her, he was more involved than he could ever realize, than she had ever wished him to be. When Jez told him how long she had been in her father’s grasp, and when he had repeated back to her, she simply sank into her seat even more, burning with shame. She was dirty. Unwanted, unloved, only good for one thing: sex. Of course, she’d met that realization a long time ago, but Max was only just now seeing it. Her shaking subsided as they pulled up the road to his house, the feeling of being safe overwhelming her. But there was still an gnawing sense of panic. Silence had fallen between the once more when she had told him the length of her captivity, so what was he thinking? When she looked at his face, she only saw sadness, and that made her shame rise to a startling capacity. It reeled in her, causing every limb to burn and ache even more. She shakily climbed out of his car, head ducked down, afraid to look at him as she walked forward. Her legs felt like jelly – it took everything in her not to stumble and fall when she was walking up the stares and into his home. Jezebel flinched when she heard Mrs. Clarke’s voice, her eyes widening and her breath leaving her in a startled gasp, the look in her eyes very much like the one you would see in a startled deer’s.

However, the woman’s calm, assuring voice quickly soothed her suddenly tense muscles, and she followed after the older woman without looking at Max. Her knees still wobbled, and her heart pounded in her chest, and her body was finally beginning to feel the effects of the man who had hurt it. When Mrs. Clarke led her into the bathroom, Jezebel felt drained. The older woman seemed to be able to tell, and gently helped Jez undress, before helping her into the shower. The warm water granted her some more energy, revitalizing her body slightly. The girl took the soap and scrubbed. Scrubbed everywhere, scrubbed so hard that when she was done her skin was a glistening pink. And still, she felt dirty. Jezebel clenched her eyes shut, reaching a hand out to turn off the water, her shoulders shaking again as she tried to suppress all of the emotion rising up in her. She shouldn’t have come here. She shouldn’t have involved Max and his family, who were only too willing to take her in. Jezebel knew she would only be a nuisance to them. She wasn’t good for anything, wouldn’t be a positive contribution to the life they’d established. And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to keep thinking such things when Mrs. Clarke opened the door to the shower and handed her a towel, wrapping it around her and setting her down on a chair, combing the knots out in her hair as Jez slowly, painstakingly, dried herself off. The woman’s kindness was her undoing. Within seconds, Jez felt tears welling up in her eyes and falling. Soon, her entire body was shaking with the sobs that seemed to come straight from her ever weary soul. The woman wrapped her arms around Jezebel, and she turned her face into her chest, wrapping her arms weakly around her waist and crying herself out. She hadn’t cried like this since she’d lost her last child, years ago.

Finally, she stopped crying. Mrs. Clarke’s kind eyes watched her as she shakily stood, taking the clothes that had been laid out for her with a very tiny, grateful smile. Nothing needed to be said, not yet at least. But for some reason, she felt comfortable with Mrs. Clarke. She reminded Jezebel of her own mother, and it disarmed her totally and completely. Mrs. Clarke left her alone to get dressed, letting her know that Max was in his room if she wanted to talk to her. Jezebel dressed, dried her dark locks out a little more, before leaving the bathroom. Max’s t-shirt was soft against her skin, and she took in the comforting smell as she walked to his door. Jezebel paused, staring at it. Max surely wouldn’t want to see her, want to face her. Why was she here? Still, she needed to thank him. She raised a hand to gently knock on his door. His voice came to her, inviting her in, and she stepped inside, biting her lip, glancing over at him on the bed. She walked forward, not looking at him, playing with the hem of his shirt. Suddenly, Jez’s mouth went dry. She was at a complete loss as to what to say. She opened her mouth, then closed it, the silence between them stretching as shame once again washed over her. Finally, in a soft and tentative voice, one that he would never had heard from her, at least not often, ”Max… I… just wanted to say, uhm… thank you. For taking me.” Her voice cracked, and she fought back the tears that welled up again, raising a trembling hand to her face to wipe the tears away before they fell, before he could see. Burning with shame once more, she looked over at him, then away, before whispering, ”I’m so sorry.” Her throat closed, and she clenched her eyes shut, the tears falling once more as she swayed on the spot.

status: done.
clothes: here.
notes: it sucks.
muzak: nothing.

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