Bronwen O’Connor
“Brain Injury”

 Bronwen growled in annoyance, ducking down her head and sitting down on a bench as Annika circulated the gallery room. For a while she sat looking quizzically at a representation of the Goddess Athena murdering a hunter who had spied upon her while she bathed. What seemed like ages later, she felt the distinct feeling of being stared at cease at about the same moment someone sat quietly down on the bench behind her, back turned to her. She edged away a little bit, out of habit, but as she did, she caught sight of the person’s hand out of the corner of her eye. A small pewter ring, with crude notches filed into it was well seated into the large pinky finger.

She felt her chest seize up instantly as alarm bells jangled in her head simultaneous to a flood of unwanted memories bursting forth in her brain in a torrent of visions, scents and smells. Spilled blood, madness and violence. 

Jagger.

Bronwen stood up abruptly and made a beeline for Annika, grabbing her hand and dragging her out of the room in one fluid motion. Annika sputtered and protested as Bronwen strode down the stairs, not ceasing in her intensity until they were well out of the Trafalgar square, past the oppressive gaze of the marble lions on the fountains, and almost into Oxford Street.

 Annika finally stopped and threw Bronwen’s grip off of her arm.

“What are you doing?” She yelled. “I realize you absolutely do not appreciate the skill that goes into oil painted scenes of Jesus and Judas, but that is no reason to lose control of your temper!”

“We’ve been there for four fucking hours!” Bronwen yelled back. “It was time to go! I couldn’t take any more of that bullshit!”

“Why the ridiculous exit? Honestly, you seem to lack a civil bone in your body sometimes.”

“We had some unexpected company, I thought we should make a timely exit,” Bronwen sniffed. Her nerves were still jangled from the surprise, and she was somewhat surprised to feel her heart pounding in her chest.

As fearless as she was, and had always been…Jagger freaked her out. There was no other way of putting it.

“I need to sit down,” Bronwen said, paling as she clenched and unclenched her fists. Annika’s eyebrows shot up as she reached out and put her arm under Bron’s.

Jagger was perhaps one of the biggest mental suppressions she’d ever fostered after meeting anyone. The minute she’d set eyes upon his, was the minute that she’d been introduced to the shocking sensation she could only equate to what fear must feel like.

She’d met him in the basement of Riortan’s Catholic Church, as he’d come forth out of the darkness, wading through a sea of flimsy wooden church chairs to sit in the middle of the room, looking up at her under the glare of a single bulb reflecting on the darked out basement windows.

“You will work with Jagger,” her Uncle had gestured, as the man sitting before her surveyed her carefully. She’d been truly just a girl for that mission, having just turned 18, but was still pretty much wild and out of control, a force to be reckoned with, even then. The only difference was that her Uncle had decided she needed to repay her training debt, the only idea he could muster to keep her going in one direction at that time instead of five at once; none good.

“She’s a pretty piece of flesh,” Jagger had said lecherously, reaching out and cupping her elbow, turning her around before she could jerk her arm out of his hand.  His voice was deep and mellifluous in his amusement, but it rolled over her like the fetid breath of a reaper. He had craggy features, she guessed him to be in his mid to late thirties, and dark brown hair. His eyes were nearly white blue. She recalled as she took a sidelong glance at him that someone had once said to her ‘only the intrinsically mad have white blue irises.’ Her Uncle had sighed,

“She’ll do for the job. You’re both to do the reconnaissance until we find out this traitor’s identity. The only thing we have now is that he resides somewhere in the ministry. He needs to be stopped indefinitely-- he and his men are doing incredible damage.”

  “Er, not to sound like a twat, but what’s the cover?” Bronwen had asked. Jagger snickered.

“Well…” her Uncle had started, scratching his cheek and avoiding eye contact with her, “we’re sendin’ ye both to the Ministry to become Belfast’s next happiest married couple.”

Jagger roared with deep laughter and slapped his knees with his huge hands, as Bronwen turned a shade of red and glared at her Uncle. He shrugged his shoulders and gave her a hapless grin.

“It makes sense,” she replied lowly. “They have to show us the works, help us plan the wedding day. We get a good look inside at all the buggery priests, to see which one’s our target.”

“It needs to be done within 3 weeks,” Jagger mentioned.

“Well, guess I’d better find a dress then.”

She’d been so stupid, hadn’t perceived him for who he really was, what he was capable of. She doubted in retrospect, that her uncle had even had a clue about who he’d decided to deal with for this particular issue.

Annika’s hand was warm and dry in hers as they sat on the bench, Bronwen with her head between her knees.

“I need a smoke,” she mumbled, fumbling around and putting a cigarette to her lips. She reached into her back pocket, her hand not finding a lighter, but folding around a small piece of paper. She ripped the note open and read it, her vision swimming.

“You look more beautiful with each passing year Bronwen. Thanks for the light. Love from you-know-who.”

She gasped. At that moment, a blast ripped through the National Art Gallery across the street, smoke and flames roiling out of the front entrance. Dimly as she watched the cloud from the explosion roll upwards out of where the pinnacle of the front entrance used to be, she heard people screaming, the clatter of panicked footsteps. She watched as people started stumbling and running out of the haze of flames and black smoke.

“We have to go now,” Annika said firmly, yanking her up and pulling her down into cool dark of the London Tube.

He’s alive. Here.

The next day, she was on a flight back to F1X with Annika dozing lightly beside her. All she could think of was landing at the airport in the U.S.  Suddenly all her thoughts and trepidations about being married to Shane seemed minor and insignificant. She forgot the complications arising. She didn’t think about how much she dreaded the thought of all of it, but focused rather on a past memory, her curled up in his lap with her forehead tucked into his neck, sleeping lightly as he watched TV.  The more she thought about Shane, the  more anxious she became during the flight. Good think international drinks were free and copious in quantity.

Six beers later, she began to have nagging thoughts again. Maybe it had just been a job. Maybe Jagger had been uncharacteristically kind, his presence a warning for her to leave. She snorted. Not bloody likely. Her seat jabbed into every vulnerable spot on her. She fidgeted and restlessly re-arranged her position. Flexed.  Twiddled her fingers. God, she was dying for a smoke.  

The first time they’d gone to the Ministry, she’d worn a disgustingly sweet blue cardigan, and a flowered skirt with sandals. It had made her cringe as she changed into it that morning, even more when she’d put her hair up into a tidy bun. Looking in the mirror, she’d  tried to smile, but it ended up just looking grim and unpleasant.

He’d rolled up in his blue Citroen, and she’d sat primly in the seat next to him, staring out the window in detachment.

“You look….” He’d paused, “very womanly.” He slid his hand onto her thigh and squeezed it reassuringly. She picked up his hand and flung it back into his lap like a garden slug.

“I’ll cut it off next time,” she’d glowered.”Don’t even presume for a second that you can get away with that shit with me, or you’ll be well fucking bloody mistaken.”

He’d tightened his grip on the wheel and smiled lazily, before reaching out and viciously backhanding her across the face.

“Don’t ye think for a second that ye can be all high and mighty with me lass, it simply will not work out for ye,” he laughed as she glared back at him, rubbing her cheek.

Shortly after, they’d sat before the high Priest at the Ministry, and he’d nodded his approval and smiled at Jagger knowingly as he’d laid eyes on the bruise that had blossomed on her fair cheekbone.

“Some women, unfortunately need a swift reminder of God’s wishes,” he’d chuckled, as Jagger had ruefully explained the cheeky nature of his new fiancée.

“We’d like to get married as soon as possible,” Jagger had added, leaning forward, eyes gleaming in feigned eagerness. She’d realized later that this eery gleam never really left his eyes, that in actuality, he was quite mad.

The weeks had followed with rehearsals, arrangements, and all sorts of predetermined glitches and pretensions of grandeur. He played the role of the picky groom, and she, the role of the picky bride, waiting altogether too long at the church each day or so for him to show up from a night of carousing. This in turn, gave her ample time to chat up the folks in the Ministry, who in their empathy, were always ready to provide tea, gossip, and conversation about whatever Bronwen deemed she could broach.

One day, she’d gone to find the dress. She found one she liked that was in very decent shape at a thrift store, still vibrantly white, with a hefty tear away bustle and a long train. She’d tried it on for a few minutes and had a rare moment of sobering emotion where she realized this was not necessarily a future she’d live out. Her resolve had hardened a little in that moment. She’d resigned herself to her no-doubt short lived fate a little more, and the dress was no longer a portal to some fantasy life with some other person as she took it off, but rather, the perfect white tulle vehicle to pack a lot of heavy explosive in.

The big day arrived sooner than later. Jagger had been at a pub near to the Ministry one night and had convinced their marrying parishioner to join him. The conversation had gotten fairly loose, and the identity of the troublemaker had surfaced in the older parishioner’s flapping gums and merriment.

Bronwen was up at four thirty that morning, running detonators and explosives all up the train of the dress, putting the payload in a pouch that conveniently filled the largest bulge of the bustle.  As she walked out to the car, she hefted her skirts up gingerly, and crept quietly across the grass of her Uncle’s small yard, bare feet clunking around in her combat boots as the sun peeked up over the townhouse roofs. In the car, she fastened her veil demurely around her face with a sorrowful glimpse into her dark blue eyes after brushing her hair and pinning it.

Jagger had slid into the seat next to hers and stared at her quietly, a strange expression on his face.

Over the last two or so weeks, she’d found that while he was mad, he did seem somewhat tolerable, and they’d had moments where she believed they understood each other quite well, were even friends—well as close as people like them could consider a friendship anyways. He still alarmed her in moments though, in things he said, his intent staring, and his incredibly violent nature overall. She was just a punk compared to him, a small though furious burning inferno destroying matter, in comparison to his burning super nova, a galaxy killer.

They’d pulled up to the church after a tea and biscuit for breakfast to review the plan.

Jagger bounded out of the car and held the door open for her as he gazed at her warmly, helping her out of her seat.

“Ye do look stunning Bronwen…Ye’d certainly make me happy to marry ye,” he’d said. She kind of recoiled a little from his genuine affection, and he saw it. His grip tightened.

“What about ye? I’d make ye happy, wouldn’t I?”

The enormous arch of the old church rose up behind him at the top of the steps and he was framed by the darkness of the entrance as his eyes burned into hers inquisitively.

“This is just a job Jagger,” she’d said. “Get your goddamn head on straight ye crazy fuck.”

He’d grabbed her arm and squeezed tightly. She hadn’t had any tattoos at that point, and she remembered looking down to see his dark brown hand squeezing the living shit out of her forearm before she’d looked into his eyes.

“Answer my fucking question,” he’d said simply, eyes burning into hers.

“No,” she’d said, trying to shrug off his grasp. He’d tightened his grip and pulled her closer to him. He grabbed her shoulder with his free hand and shook her roughly.

“I will make you happy, you just don’t know it yet,” he’d replied calmly. She stared at him as he let go.

“Well, ye can’t fuckin’ make anyone happy if ye get blown to fucking bits now, can ye? Don’t fucking touch me ever again, whether I’ve got fifty pounds of explosive strapped to my ass, or not.”  She’d pushed him roughly out of the way.  

Careful to avoid eye-contact, she walked  up to the doors of the church inwardly shuddering at the thought of his touch, her train unfolding gently and sliding with a hiss behind her as she went. It’d been an hour before the ceremony was to take place. In the chamber room, she quietly sat and waited. In the glow of the sunlight falling on the counter, she’d pulled out a shotgun from a sheath she’d made under the skirt and spent the next 45 minutes cleaning it in the sunbeam and silence of the otherwise dark room, dust motes spinning around her face and the veil as she worked.  A while later, a gentle knock was heard on the door.

“It’s time,” a voice had called. The organ music started to reverberate through the old stone walls of the church as she tucked the shotgun back under the folds of her skirt, opened the door, and strode out and into the door way of the chapel before the pulpit.

She focused on breathing evenly as she walked solo down the aisle, the pews filled with people she didn’t know (regular church goers they’d become somewhat acquainted with as they’d regularly been around to plan) and simple white lilies capping the ends of the ancient oak pews. At the altar, Jagger turned to behold her as she neared him. He winked, and her stomach muscles convulsed, but she managed a tightlipped smile. They stood together for a moment and stared at the Parishioner as he smiled kindly at both of them before starting into the announcing vow ceremony.

Bronwen was the first to act, as she whipped out the shotgun from her skirts and unloaded it on the parishioner, bringing the old man to his knees as he reeled backwards from the impact, his mouth a wide gaping wound of shock as he hit the ground. Bronwen turned from the dead priest and scanned the upper church boxes in the corners of the old cathedral, as well as the upper levels for any possible unforeseen guests. No one was there, and the rapid sound of a magnum going off snapped her attention back to Jagger. He had opened up on the first couple of pews filled with middle aged church goers and senior citizens. She punched him roughly in the shoulder from behind, watched as a stray bullet flew into the left lens of the bifocal belonging to a woman she’d met named Gladis, recently widowed with a heavy interest in rose gardens. He wheeled around to look at her, gun leveled at her as the keening screams from behind him grew louder in intensity.

“What the hell are you doing?” She’d yelled. He’d shrugged.

“Just fucking around I guess,” he’d replied with a small smirk. “Hey, I thought you were going to wait until the end of the vows before slaughtering that pig?”

He’d turned away from her astonished gaze then, and started taking potshots at people fleeing out into the sunlight of the street.  Bronwen quickly untied the bustle and dropped the train in the aisle.

“Let’s go,” she shouted, “we’re done here. Stop.”

He had just smiled sickly at her, and turned his attention back to a woman carrying a baby In her arms as she stumbled over the corpses that littered the aisle. He fired once. Missed. Jagger reloaded the gun and got one shot off that caused the back of the woman’s skull to crumple. She flew forward, and the infant flew out of her arms and smashed into the pew off to the right.

“Hey, would ye want to have kids?” He’d yelled back just then. She watched the child’s small fat arms wave feebly before going limp in distress. Bronwen sighed and reloaded the shot gun, pushing the shells slowly into place with her thumb before pushing the barrel back into place. Aiming carefully, she fired the gun at his heels, watched as the tuxedo pants shredded, and a crater opened up through the runner and into the wood behind Jagger.

“All right,” he yelled in surprise, “no kids?”

Both of them stepped over the long detached train, now spattered with blood,  corpses and body matter littering the white satin as they ran towards the white light of the entrance. Running down the steps of the entrance,  they noticed that cans were attached to the Citroen, as people staggered and fell bloodied all over the church steps. Behind them, the charges went off, and a tremendous cloud of smoke and debris fired out of the arched entrance.  

Everyone but the child had died that day. Due to the atrocious and pre-meditated viciousness of the shooting and bombing, dubbed accurately as an internal terrorist attack, It had been in the paper for months.

 Jagger had disappeared, leaving Bronwen with the bitter taste of fury and chaos, the true meaning of ruthless cold blooded kills and a psychotic nature, in his wake. For months and years later, she could still trace where he had been through articles in the paper. Dismemberment, disfigurement, and merciless slaughter.

She sighed as she woke, surprised that she’d even fallen asleep to begin with. The plane bounced again, this time finding sure footing this time as it wobbled onto the runway.  Annika yawned and stretched, and eyed the mini bottles that were piled to overflowing in the magazine holder. Bronwen stretched her legs and a small stream of bottles slide out of the vomit bag, clattering into the aisle in a mottle of black and dark green plastic.  She stood up out of her seat, even as the flight attendants ushered towards her to remain seated, the captain’s voice buzzing in the background. Bronwen walked up the aisle and waited next to the door as the plane taxied to the gate.

After a brief fracas when they stopped, Bronwen finally got dumped out on the asphalt of the airport pad, noticing Annika staring disdainfully at her from the airplane window as she slung her backpack over her shoulder and took off down the tarmac towards the maintenance fence.  As she eased herself through the fence, smoke hanging out of her mouth and sunglasses pulled down over her face, she noticed another small private jet taxi down the runway in the opposite direction. As she squinted at the small green and orange plane, she noticed that it was empty, despite having just landed. The plane stopped in the middle of the runway as she watched it, non-comprehendingly. A small figure could be seen pushing the side door open on the jet, and it casually descended the steps. Behind the departing form, she looked harder, thought she saw bodies lying across the aisle, crisp white shirts fluttering in the breeze as a few pieces of rubbish flew out of the doors.

A hand landed heavily on her shoulder as she continued to crane her neck to see further into the plane. She wheeled around and dropped low, scooping the person’s legs out from under them, instinctively tossing the potential attacker on their ass.

A pair of aviators flew through the air and clattered into the scrubby grass as she stared down into Shane’s tanned face staring ruefully back up at her.

“Long flight, huh?”

Ever been in the seat that doesn’t have the instructions for emergency procedures on an airplane? You know what I mean—the mythical undermanned seat. The plane crashes in the ocean, and since you never read the damned thing because some punk assed kid stole the fucking instructions… you don’t know what to do when that water is pushing up against the cabin ports, other than to reconsider your faith or lackthereof and quickly repent for banging the last thing with a dick you encountered.

Really though, you could be in any seat on that damned metal flying tube, and you wouldn’t read the instructions. No one ever does, except for maybe six weeks following 9/11. Not that this would have helped. However, there’s security in knowing that small colorful brochure is there, isn’t there? Just like that vomit bag that most people never use. But you could, and since you could, it’s so great that it’s 20 years old, and there.

The survivor manual though, is your optimistically drawn out token of survival, and most people take comfort in that. Every plane crash has a blue sky, the weather is sunny, and the water is as blank as that cloudlessly drawn atmosphere. Opaque. People are always calm and have their wits about them as they jump onto that fun yellow slide that converts into a clever life raft. You think to yourself, it almost looks peaceful and fun to float at sea like that, like a roller coaster ride with new friends.

A false sense of security coupled with blind stupidity truly is an astounding quality. Safety zones delineated by the tight constriction of a selective reality around oneself. I find ignorance is much more frightening than psychosis, personally. It is the ignorant that should be merciful to those such as myself, not the psychotic, or in your case, the overly dramatic “harbingers” of a delusional personality. How should the ignorant be merciful? I have daydreams of the stupid, racing en masse towards white cliff sides and plunging over them like lemmings propelled by Walt Disney. Even the most insane of personalities though, are much more predictable than the just plain unintelligent. You should consider jamming a blunt object into your medulla oblongata before you conjure up Lucretia for this fight—might add the unpredictable ferocity you feign, but probably cannot truly deliver with the shield for your weaknesses that she apparently delivers upon getting a whiff of the “devil juice.”  Come on…. It’s a good thing you said tequila, because apple juice would have just exposed the lameness that is Lucretia way too quickly.  

Personality disorders, while apparently a novel item in the F1X ranks lately, have more to do with a lack of coping skills than any supposed “demons.” Save me that trite nonsense. When I found out I was going to have a match with Rachel Pitt, I certainly was not expecting to have to face someone just as racked up and tired in form and style as everyone else seems to be lately. Frankly, you’re getting sloppy…you and yours, I should say. Your alter ego is merely a vassal for your denial and personal weakness. I should thank you for magnifying that for me, but really I just feel sorry for you.

When listening to your condescending rant full of pith and mercy, I just honestly felt sort of bad.  It was like watching a beautiful sailboat bashing itself to pieces on the rocks after a hurricane of failure had apparently swept through your mind prior. That shit makes me uncomfortable. I don’t have what you apparently envisioned as the rapt attention of a three year old watching shit float in the toilet bowl. Save me your melodramas, your veiled threats that you apparently have to be very passive aggressive about, and your own pathetic self-loathing over your lack of self-control.  You apparently can’t handle yourself, or Lucretia, for that matter. It’s embarrassing. It’s like being asked to kick an old dog to death as I realize more and more that really, you never apparently had what it took to enter the ring with me in the first place. You haven’t changed since SFT (fuckssakes, your head pathetically in appearance apparently remains there), and that was many years ago, so I am doubly disappointed.

As an interesting side note, you should really bring your Daddy issues to Jerry Springer—he’d eat that shit up. That is really the only time and place for that bullshit that really came to my mind, ha.  

Don’t give me this pity and mercy shit or your “scary stories about scalpels” crap. I know a flashy fight with no substance when I see one, so perhaps you should consider getting your head on straight. Oh wait…mentally ill. Right. I’m supposed to have tact or sympathy or some shit in this situation or something, right? All apologies, I must have left that at home next to my [insert sharp novelty surgical item here], my [insert sharp chain driven power tool here] and my tolerance.

Grow up Pitt. The shining spotlights on your ego parade are dead.