Blonde on Blonde
Stone walls do not a prison make, and prisons don't make stone. No, they make clay – clay that Jack can mold and shape and form to his specifications.
Sharon Lesher – no class, no breeding, no blonde hair. But that's fine, just fine. Jack's a sculptor, an artist, a god, and he can make this little ball of white trash clay into anything he wants. He can make her into Samantha.
Of course, he doesn't tell her that, right after he's turned her cheap, trashy bedroom dreams into a handcuff horror show. Oh no. He tells her he likes her spunk, that he can mold it into talent.
The truth is so very different. Because she has nothing, she is nothing. Just a self-centered little whore with dime novel dreams and those white cotton socks that turn on cops and guards and the kind of losers who see prison as just a way to avoid paying rent and child support.
Not Jack. His tastes are more refined.
She's afraid of being lonely.
She has no idea. She's not only alone, she doesn't exist.
At first they fuck. She expects it and he tallies up the pros and cons and screws the con, because slicing her up the middle is the best way to begin the lessons – the lessons of cutting and tearing into worthless meat and turning it into beauty. He squints and the bottle blonde hair becomes silk and the features of her face become graceful instead of coarse.
Push, pull, thrust. She groans and sweats and moans and it's all like the pornography he watches unmoved and unhard. He thinks of pigs rutting in a sty and he squints harder, imagining it's Samantha and they're making love and listening to the anguished death throes of Chloe. It's she who is moaning and shrieking while her mother comes with Jack inside her.
He remembers not to waste the finer points of his skill on a peasant like Sharon. Instead, he dreams of the poetry he could write on Samantha's skin.
The only dream Sharon ever has is about it. Jack should know better than to think that a woman afraid of the truth could ever be truly worthy. But he is stubborn and demeans himself.
Of course, time passes, and knife completely replaces penis. Jack laughs as he remembers those old psychological saws. Sometimes a cigar is just a machete, isn't that right Dr. Freud? Sharon gets all worked up about it from time to time, but a couple of hours in the closet usually cools the heat of her libido. Bitches, after all, do have their cycles, and like all cycles, they fade.
And time keeps on passing.
She isn't Samantha and she never will be, and he feels a frustration annoyingly reminiscent of Sharon's clockwork lust. Hair and clothes do not now and never will make the woman. He's a god and he should have known this.
Right now, sitting by a kitchen table in a former firehouse is the woman who should be here, the one who should be by his side – creating and destroying and carrying their glory to the high heavens where by all rights they should dwell.
He is a god and can play many roles. Now he is Judas and, without asking for a single coin, he leaves his failure trapped behind the walls of her own personal hell. She began in a cage and she will end in a cage.
Sic transit Sharon Lesher.
From now on, Jack will be the god he was meant to be and will never again waste his gifts on inferior mortals. He will be patient, he will bide his time, and he will have the one true Samantha.