william forsythe

10

On July 22, 2005, Rob Zombie’s THE DEVIL’S REJECTS was released in theaters!

10

They are going to feel the pain and suffering of every last victim. They’re gonna crawl on on their hands and knees, and they’re gonna beg me for mercy. But all I’m gonna have for them is pain. Pain and death!

Don’t Take A Picture

a zimbits alternate meeting au inspired by || ~4k words || ao3

Jack’s appreciating the serenity the empty street offers him tonight after a harsh loss earlier. He should be in bed, really. Sleeping, preferably. But when his brain is going in circles the way it is…

He likes the cool air on his skin. He likes the way the streetlights hit the pavement and then fade away. He likes the smell of the river on the gentle breeze.

He becomes aware that someone else is on the street with him. Walking towards him with a phone out, held aloft and pointing to where he sits on the bench.

He sighs out and looks away, hoping he’ll be ignored.

The person stops walking. He can hear the silence following the stop of their tread-tread-tread on the pavement.

It happens, and he gets it, truly. People like to have proof that they saw him, even if they saw him doing something as ordinary as sitting at night by the water.

He looks back over, then away quickly. The man’s phone is still out.

Jack’s known for being courteous with fans, but tonight he’s not in the mood.

“It’s been a bad day.” He doesn’t raise his voice. It’ll cut across the dark easily. “Please. Don’t take a picture.”

He feels crappy about saying it but he’s learnt that sometimes, you have to put yourself first.

The man looks behind him, as if in doubt Jack was talking to him when there’s clearly no-one else around. The man lowers his phone but doesn’t put it away.

“Sorry.”

Jack can’t make out much beyond the silhouette. The stranger is back lit, having stepped almost beyond the ring of the nearest streetlight.

“I, uh… wasn’t taking a photo though.”

Jack knows what people look like when they’re trying to be subtle about capturing a picture of him. He knows what they look like when it’s blatant, too.

“You don’t have to lie,” Jack says, with some hardness in his tone, his exhaustion having thinned his conversational filter.

“I wasn’t,” the man answers, with a bit of bite.

Jack looks away from the man, unconvinced.

“Sir, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable that I—”

“It’s fine, just—” Jack sighs out again. “Sorry I said anything. You should go to wherever you’re heading.”

“Actually,” the man starts, then cuts himself off with a hand to his mouth.

“I’m…” The man bites his lip, then shakes his head. “Actually, yes. You’re right. I’ll just…” he points in the direction he was heading earlier.

Jack watches him as he walks by, noting that he’s still gripping his phone tightly. He glances at Jack as he passes, and Jack realises the man is older than he thought, having based his guess on voice and stature.

Jack watches until the figure has walked past the next streetlight, before he turns back to watch the lazy movement of the water. He breathes in deep, holds it, lets it out again, trying to find his earlier appreciation for the night. In, hold, out. In, hold, out.

It’s not working. He sighs out and stands up, stretching out his back before resigning himself to walking back to his apartment and trying to find sleep.

He hasn’t gone far at all, just around the next corner, when he comes across someone. He realises very quickly that it’s the same man from earlier that night. Again, he’s on his phone, tapping repetitively at his screen.

Jack frowns and crosses the street so he doesn’t have to walk by him directly. When he gets close enough though, a sound carries through the night.

Crying.

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