(no subject)
He's not answering texts. In itself, that's not unusual. Paul gets busy at work and can only text two or three times before the end of his shift. So Jillie can wait that out.
But when four rolls around, and then five, and still nothing, she swallows down the sick rise of panic and goes to the library.
None of his coworkers recognize his name. They recognize her, remember that she's been visiting, but they don't know Paul.
"He's worked here for months," she insists, but they just shaken their heads blankly.
She tries to call him. His number is disconnected. She stares at their text exchanges, at the pictures of him on her phone. She pinches the inside of her wrist harshly, until her eyes water. He doesn't disappear. The words remain.
She asks the nearest person if they can see him kn the screen, uncaring that she sounds as crazy as she feels.
"He's got to be here," she says. She repeats it like a mantra, fingers shaking as she draws out a cigarette.
She rushes to his apartment. Her key works, but the inside is empty. No furniture, no decor. His smell is gone. Their smell is gone.
She backs out of the apartment until she hits the wall opposite the door and just stares through the doorway. She returns to pinching her wrist.
This can't be real. This has to be a twisted hallucination. Her meds must be off again. Something, anything but the truth she can feel bubbling inside her.
She doubles over and vomits. The cigarette falls from her mouth and into the bile and meager lunch she'd eaten.
In the same way that they arrived, he left.
She isn't sure how to deal with this. She isn't sure she knows how to be without Paul. She grabs her phone out of her bra and texts Jack, Poison, Nina, Inej, Jyn, Newt, anyone that might be able to reassert reality for her. Anyone that might assure her that this is okay.
Anyone at all.
But when four rolls around, and then five, and still nothing, she swallows down the sick rise of panic and goes to the library.
None of his coworkers recognize his name. They recognize her, remember that she's been visiting, but they don't know Paul.
"He's worked here for months," she insists, but they just shaken their heads blankly.
She tries to call him. His number is disconnected. She stares at their text exchanges, at the pictures of him on her phone. She pinches the inside of her wrist harshly, until her eyes water. He doesn't disappear. The words remain.
She asks the nearest person if they can see him kn the screen, uncaring that she sounds as crazy as she feels.
"He's got to be here," she says. She repeats it like a mantra, fingers shaking as she draws out a cigarette.
She rushes to his apartment. Her key works, but the inside is empty. No furniture, no decor. His smell is gone. Their smell is gone.
She backs out of the apartment until she hits the wall opposite the door and just stares through the doorway. She returns to pinching her wrist.
This can't be real. This has to be a twisted hallucination. Her meds must be off again. Something, anything but the truth she can feel bubbling inside her.
She doubles over and vomits. The cigarette falls from her mouth and into the bile and meager lunch she'd eaten.
In the same way that they arrived, he left.
She isn't sure how to deal with this. She isn't sure she knows how to be without Paul. She grabs her phone out of her bra and texts Jack, Poison, Nina, Inej, Jyn, Newt, anyone that might be able to reassert reality for her. Anyone that might assure her that this is okay.
Anyone at all.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
There's an odd race of anxiety through her as she makes her way to Paul's place for work. She's never done this before, for anyone, but Paul is . . . Paul is special. He's special to Jillie, and special in general, and so she wants to try new, somewhat scary things for him.
Like bringing lunch to her serious boyfriend in front of his coworkers. That's a nerve wracking thing. But it's for Paul. She's got this.
Like bringing lunch to her serious boyfriend in front of his coworkers. That's a nerve wracking thing. But it's for Paul. She's got this.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Jillie is feeling pleasantly sore in places and ways she hasn't in way too long. Paul's gone to work, and she's letting herself out so she can get some cigarettes, some condoms, and a candy bar. Her clothes — which are actually his clothes, because she'd gone to his apartment in a bikini — are haphazard on her body, but she doesn't even care.
As she locks the door behind her, she looks up to see who else is moving around. It's not early, but it's still early enough that Jillie's surprised to see anyone else in the hall.
Then she realizes what apartment the other woman is coming out of. Paul's neighbor. She can't help a smug little grin.
"Hey," she says.
As she locks the door behind her, she looks up to see who else is moving around. It's not early, but it's still early enough that Jillie's surprised to see anyone else in the hall.
Then she realizes what apartment the other woman is coming out of. Paul's neighbor. She can't help a smug little grin.
"Hey," she says.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
dated May 18, 2017
Jillie wakes up feeling . . . different. She doesn't move for a few minutes, watching her bedroom wall from between the covers and the pillow. It's daylight, and she's pretty sure it's late enough to be closer to lunch than breakfast. She shifts a little to get up, but . . . something feels wrong. She sits up suddenly, hand flying to her head.
And then to her chest.
It's flat.
Well, not flat, not flat like a countertop. There's some musculature there that gives it form, but it's— her tits are gone. Her tits are pecs. Her tank tops fit oddly without them, and she shifts to adjust them.
"What the fuck," she says, and her voice. She gasps and reaches to touch her throat. There's a knob at the front where there hadn't been before. She follows it up, to her chin. It's wider than it had been. Her skin feels rough with early morning stubble. Why the fuck does she have stubble?
She trips on her way out of the bed. Her feet are too big, legs too long. Her underwear is too tight, and she refuses to think about why that is. She stumbles into her bathroom and braces her hands against the sink, staring into the mirror.
Jack is staring back.
It's not exactly Jack. The Jack looking out at her isn't as lean as her brother, and it shows around his jaw and down his sides. She doesn't have his ink, either, so his arms are unusually bare.
The sound that leaves her mouth twists her brother's face comically, and under any other circumstances, she might laugh about it. As it is, when she stumbles back away from her reflection, a hysterical sound does bubble up. She makes her way back into her bedroom and sits heavily on the bed. She pops up like there's a tack under her as soon as she feels what else has changed, and she paces. She tugs on her hair, which is suddenly short at the sides and a little longer on the top.
"What the fuck," she says, in a voice that's so like Jack's it's eerie. "What the fuck. Jack? Dee!? Jackson!"
Jillie wakes up feeling . . . different. She doesn't move for a few minutes, watching her bedroom wall from between the covers and the pillow. It's daylight, and she's pretty sure it's late enough to be closer to lunch than breakfast. She shifts a little to get up, but . . . something feels wrong. She sits up suddenly, hand flying to her head.
And then to her chest.
It's flat.
Well, not flat, not flat like a countertop. There's some musculature there that gives it form, but it's— her tits are gone. Her tits are pecs. Her tank tops fit oddly without them, and she shifts to adjust them.
"What the fuck," she says, and her voice. She gasps and reaches to touch her throat. There's a knob at the front where there hadn't been before. She follows it up, to her chin. It's wider than it had been. Her skin feels rough with early morning stubble. Why the fuck does she have stubble?
She trips on her way out of the bed. Her feet are too big, legs too long. Her underwear is too tight, and she refuses to think about why that is. She stumbles into her bathroom and braces her hands against the sink, staring into the mirror.
Jack is staring back.
It's not exactly Jack. The Jack looking out at her isn't as lean as her brother, and it shows around his jaw and down his sides. She doesn't have his ink, either, so his arms are unusually bare.
The sound that leaves her mouth twists her brother's face comically, and under any other circumstances, she might laugh about it. As it is, when she stumbles back away from her reflection, a hysterical sound does bubble up. She makes her way back into her bedroom and sits heavily on the bed. She pops up like there's a tack under her as soon as she feels what else has changed, and she paces. She tugs on her hair, which is suddenly short at the sides and a little longer on the top.
"What the fuck," she says, in a voice that's so like Jack's it's eerie. "What the fuck. Jack? Dee!? Jackson!"
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Paul is, Jillie is quite certain, some kind of actual living saint. She knows how he'd woken up when they'd shared her bed, and he'd actually excused himself. And, sure, part of Jillie wishes she hadn't — mostly the southern part of her — but she appreciates that he did, anyway.
But this is something entirely new. Jillie hasn't been on a date in . . . years. Even before she'd gotten sick, she hadn't so much dated as she had . . . gotten around. At least a little bit. It's nice to actually get to know the guy. And they are getting to know each other. They talk a lot. Almost as much as she and Jack talk. Almost as much as she and her therapist talk.
And today, they're going on a date. A real date.
It takes her hours to pick out an outfit. She makes Girl help. She sends pictures to Jack to double check. She's nervous and terrified and excited.
But she can do this.
She's got her hair braided up off her neck, and silver jewelry to accent her dress. Her shoes match her makeup and she's got a small clutch with her phone, keys, and cigarettes. Paul is picking her up. She feels like a princess.
But this is something entirely new. Jillie hasn't been on a date in . . . years. Even before she'd gotten sick, she hadn't so much dated as she had . . . gotten around. At least a little bit. It's nice to actually get to know the guy. And they are getting to know each other. They talk a lot. Almost as much as she and Jack talk. Almost as much as she and her therapist talk.
And today, they're going on a date. A real date.
It takes her hours to pick out an outfit. She makes Girl help. She sends pictures to Jack to double check. She's nervous and terrified and excited.
But she can do this.
She's got her hair braided up off her neck, and silver jewelry to accent her dress. Her shoes match her makeup and she's got a small clutch with her phone, keys, and cigarettes. Paul is picking her up. She feels like a princess.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Jillie fiddles with her phone, tempted to text Paul. She's been tempted to text Paul since all but ditching him in that little cafe. She'd panicked. She couldn't help it, at the time. He'd admitted to losing someone and all she could think was what she'd done to herself. The scars on her arms. The scar on her neck.
She's not good for him, not as a friend and not as anything more than that.
So she'd panicked. Distanced herself a little it, and had felt like it was the right move when he'd done it right back.
But she misses talking to him. And looking at him. And listening to his voice.
God, she's pathetic.
She stares down at her phone and types out half a message before deleting it. Then she starts a different message. She deletes that, too. Then she shakes her head and finally types, How'd the job hunt go? Tell me over coffee? and sends it before she can change her mind.
She's not good for him, not as a friend and not as anything more than that.
So she'd panicked. Distanced herself a little it, and had felt like it was the right move when he'd done it right back.
But she misses talking to him. And looking at him. And listening to his voice.
God, she's pathetic.
She stares down at her phone and types out half a message before deleting it. Then she starts a different message. She deletes that, too. Then she shakes her head and finally types, How'd the job hunt go? Tell me over coffee? and sends it before she can change her mind.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
She's . . . probably being really stupid right now. There's no one with her to curb her impulses. She's facing a life-changing moment and there's no one there to tell her Stop, no, this isn't right. She's keenly aware of her heart pumping in her chest, of the blood rushing through her veins. She stares, waiting for something to go wrong.
Waiting for something in her to change.
The library is quiet, and probably no place to be doing this, but she's not sure she dares to at home. Not with Jack and Poison on eggshells, not with Girl there to egg her on — or judge her loudly; she's not sure which she's more afraid of.
The pamphlet stares up at her where it rests on the table between her hands.
So you want to go to college, it says.
This is so stupid.
She looks around surreptitiously, like she's breaking some kind of law just by being here. She's just . . . she just wants a normal life.
Waiting for something in her to change.
The library is quiet, and probably no place to be doing this, but she's not sure she dares to at home. Not with Jack and Poison on eggshells, not with Girl there to egg her on — or judge her loudly; she's not sure which she's more afraid of.
The pamphlet stares up at her where it rests on the table between her hands.
So you want to go to college, it says.
This is so stupid.
She looks around surreptitiously, like she's breaking some kind of law just by being here. She's just . . . she just wants a normal life.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
She hates that everything is fucked. She wants to punch Poison in the dick for what he's done to Jack, and she wants to smack Jack upside the head for not giving Poison the benefit of the doubt. Everything is fucked up, and she needs Jack to get out of his head.
So, she's taking him out. They're going shopping, whether he likes it or not, because she needs new clothes for the upcoming spring, and she's not going alone. For once, she's wearing decent clothes: skinny jeans that hug her curves, ankle boots with suede bows on the sides, a tee shirt under a plush cardigan. With some product and pins, she's got her hair in a super cute French-braid crown.
She doesn't notice Paul while she looks through the racks of all the new, spring clothes, not at first. But when she does, she finds herself glad she'd showered that morning, and actually put effort into her look.
She's even wearing a little bit of makeup.
"Paul," she greets.
So, she's taking him out. They're going shopping, whether he likes it or not, because she needs new clothes for the upcoming spring, and she's not going alone. For once, she's wearing decent clothes: skinny jeans that hug her curves, ankle boots with suede bows on the sides, a tee shirt under a plush cardigan. With some product and pins, she's got her hair in a super cute French-braid crown.
She doesn't notice Paul while she looks through the racks of all the new, spring clothes, not at first. But when she does, she finds herself glad she'd showered that morning, and actually put effort into her look.
She's even wearing a little bit of makeup.
"Paul," she greets.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
It's early, most people are still sleeping. But she can't sleep. Her brain turned on at three AM and it won't shut up, so she's in the kitchen, sketching out an abstract image of Paul's face, because why not? The city has let her run into him twice while looking like shit, and she it's not like he's ugly. She's using pinks and purples to draw and shade, and she'd started coffee about twenty minutes ago, even though she rarely drinks it, herself.
She glances up when someone joins her in the kitchen.
She's seen him around, and it's not like they've never talked, but Jillie is feeling a lot more aware of herself, her surroundings, and her awful memory, now that her medication is back to stable levels, and her therapy is going so well. So when she sees Girl's boyfriend, she finds herself trying to remember if they've ever talked about anything important. Like, school, or work, or whatever.
She glances up when someone joins her in the kitchen.
She's seen him around, and it's not like they've never talked, but Jillie is feeling a lot more aware of herself, her surroundings, and her awful memory, now that her medication is back to stable levels, and her therapy is going so well. So when she sees Girl's boyfriend, she finds herself trying to remember if they've ever talked about anything important. Like, school, or work, or whatever.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Sometimes, Jillie really hates this place. It feels cramped, and crowded, and claustrophobic. She's started going for runs, sometimes with Jack, sometimes alone. Either way, she feels like she's running from something. When she's alone, it's worse. It feels like something is pressing in around her, and she runs harder, but it doesn't stop.
Those are the times she panics. She can't fight off the wave and she stumbles to a stop. Jack's not here to breathe her through it. She's alone, and the war in her brain is loud and unrelenting. Everything is too close, too fast. Her breath is harsh in her throat, making her tongue feel heavy and thick in her mouth.
Her legs and fingers feel numb. She knows, rationally, somewhere buried in her mind, what's happening. She knows it's a panic attack and that she needs to start her breathing exercises. But that's all knowledge buried deep beneath the frenetic surface.
She drops to her knees and then her ass. Her fingers clutch hard at her thighs, trying to find any sensation that could be grounding. She'll have bruises later, but that's still deeper knowledge.
She doesn't know how long it takes. When it does finally pass, her throat hurts, and she realizes distantly that she's been screaming. There are a few people standing around, watching her to make sure she's okay. She's too exhausted to care whether they're judging her or not, so instead she just sort of waves them off.
The leg she's been sitting on is half asleep, and takes a moment for the pins and needles to back off once she's got proper blood flow back into it. Once she's standing, she pulls out her phone and texts Jack to let him know what happened.
Panic! At the Park. Ok just tired coming home now hate everything.
She stares at that text after it's sent, then sends, Not you tho.
Her leg is still pins and needles, but she just wants to go home. She limps the first few steps until the feeling goes away.
She really needs to stop going for runs by herself.
Those are the times she panics. She can't fight off the wave and she stumbles to a stop. Jack's not here to breathe her through it. She's alone, and the war in her brain is loud and unrelenting. Everything is too close, too fast. Her breath is harsh in her throat, making her tongue feel heavy and thick in her mouth.
Her legs and fingers feel numb. She knows, rationally, somewhere buried in her mind, what's happening. She knows it's a panic attack and that she needs to start her breathing exercises. But that's all knowledge buried deep beneath the frenetic surface.
She drops to her knees and then her ass. Her fingers clutch hard at her thighs, trying to find any sensation that could be grounding. She'll have bruises later, but that's still deeper knowledge.
She doesn't know how long it takes. When it does finally pass, her throat hurts, and she realizes distantly that she's been screaming. There are a few people standing around, watching her to make sure she's okay. She's too exhausted to care whether they're judging her or not, so instead she just sort of waves them off.
The leg she's been sitting on is half asleep, and takes a moment for the pins and needles to back off once she's got proper blood flow back into it. Once she's standing, she pulls out her phone and texts Jack to let him know what happened.
Panic! At the Park. Ok just tired coming home now hate everything.
She stares at that text after it's sent, then sends, Not you tho.
Her leg is still pins and needles, but she just wants to go home. She limps the first few steps until the feeling goes away.
She really needs to stop going for runs by herself.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
It's been snowy, cold and gross outside in a way Jille's not accustomed to. She sits on the couch with her sketchbook and a handful of mismatched colored pencils. The case itself is somewhere. Right now, she just wants these colors. The judgemental cat is sitting in the window, and he's backlit by the white everywhere outside, and she's drawing his shape, crosshatching and shading and generally avoiding solid lines if she can help it.
She looks up when someone enters the room, even though she doesn't have to. She knows by the footfalls that it's Jack. She smiles when she sees him and flips her book closed — it's just as well. The judgemental cat has jumped down from the sill and is leaving the room.
"Hey, you," she says warmly.
She looks up when someone enters the room, even though she doesn't have to. She knows by the footfalls that it's Jack. She smiles when she sees him and flips her book closed — it's just as well. The judgemental cat has jumped down from the sill and is leaving the room.
"Hey, you," she says warmly.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Feb 17, 2017; late evening
Jillie takes a deep breath as she watches her brother's silhouette draw closer through the window. It's stupid to feel nervous, but she hugs Newt's coat tighter around herself. She certain Jack won't be angry at her, but it's as much the idea that she'll upset him at all that has her feeling a little sick.
Her makeup is a mess, and she can feel her cheeks drying stiff from her tears. She can imagine what will go through his head when he sees her, and braces herself when the door opens.
Jillie takes a deep breath as she watches her brother's silhouette draw closer through the window. It's stupid to feel nervous, but she hugs Newt's coat tighter around herself. She certain Jack won't be angry at her, but it's as much the idea that she'll upset him at all that has her feeling a little sick.
Her makeup is a mess, and she can feel her cheeks drying stiff from her tears. She can imagine what will go through his head when he sees her, and braces herself when the door opens.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Feb 17, 2017; late evening
Jillie doesn't find Girl before she leaves the club. She doesn't think to text her, or look for her. She just leaves, because she suddenly has to leave, get away, get out. It's cold in her revealing clothes, and she doesn't have a jacket with her. She'd left that at the fucking club, too. It doesn't matter, anyway: she's too upset to feel it.
And the night gets worse.
She doesn't see him in time to avoid him. She doesn't know his name, hasn't ever seen him before. She takes a deep breath and stops when he stands in her way.
"Move," she says. It's an effort to get even that out.
"Oh, is that any way to talk to Daddy?" he coos. His voice sounds sickly sweet, but his breath stinks as he reaches for her. "Come here, Darlin', I'll keep you nice and warm."
"Don't touch me!" she snaps. She slaps his arms away from her and takes a step back. His lusty smirk twists into a snarl.
"Hey," he growls. He reaches for her again, hands vices on her arms. "You don't go walking dressed like that if you don't want some attention. You want me to fight you for it, that it?"
Jillie feels something sharp and cold in her chest. "Get off—!"
"That's the plan," he says. "And you're gonna help me with that, aren't you, you little slut?"
It's fear, she realizes. That's what she's feeling. It sits like ice in her belly and she feels her fingers tingle as the panic attack starts to set in. She tries to pull away, struggles in his grip. Her mesh top rips a little, and it's just enough give for her to slide out of his hands. She stumbles back, heels barely keeping her upright. He snarls like a fucking dog and lunges for her again.
Jillie doesn't find Girl before she leaves the club. She doesn't think to text her, or look for her. She just leaves, because she suddenly has to leave, get away, get out. It's cold in her revealing clothes, and she doesn't have a jacket with her. She'd left that at the fucking club, too. It doesn't matter, anyway: she's too upset to feel it.
And the night gets worse.
She doesn't see him in time to avoid him. She doesn't know his name, hasn't ever seen him before. She takes a deep breath and stops when he stands in her way.
"Move," she says. It's an effort to get even that out.
"Oh, is that any way to talk to Daddy?" he coos. His voice sounds sickly sweet, but his breath stinks as he reaches for her. "Come here, Darlin', I'll keep you nice and warm."
"Don't touch me!" she snaps. She slaps his arms away from her and takes a step back. His lusty smirk twists into a snarl.
"Hey," he growls. He reaches for her again, hands vices on her arms. "You don't go walking dressed like that if you don't want some attention. You want me to fight you for it, that it?"
Jillie feels something sharp and cold in her chest. "Get off—!"
"That's the plan," he says. "And you're gonna help me with that, aren't you, you little slut?"
It's fear, she realizes. That's what she's feeling. It sits like ice in her belly and she feels her fingers tingle as the panic attack starts to set in. She tries to pull away, struggles in his grip. Her mesh top rips a little, and it's just enough give for her to slide out of his hands. She stumbles back, heels barely keeping her upright. He snarls like a fucking dog and lunges for her again.
Entry tags:
Christmas tiiiiime is heeeeeeere
Dec 25, 2016
The apartment is beautiful, Jillie thinks. She hasn't had a proper Christmas in a few years, and seeing it like this makes her feel warm, and somehow happy and sad at once. It also makes her panic, a little. She has no idea what to buy or make for presents for Dee, or for Poison. Jack is easy. Jack's present takes form without even trying, as a new puzzle and a portrait of the two of them. She has more than just a green marker, now, so it looks better, comes out cleaner, than anything she worked on in the hospital.
She wraps them with cardboard cut from leftover cereal boxes, so they don't bend. It's not much, but it's something.
She cuddles into a cozy, plush bathrobe and sits nearby, but sort of out of the way.
She'd found some embroidery floss and dyed hemp cord at the Zen Center when she'd visited it with Jack, and braided it into a bracelet for Dee. It's a unique braid, too, not the basic three-plait bullshit. She uses bright colored thread and adds some charms that she'd found on an ugly bracelet at a thrift shop. They look a lot better on Dee's present, she thinks.
She folds up some leftover cardboard from the cereal boxes into an origami gift box, and wraps it in that.
For Poison, she'd written only a letter. It details how happy she is that Poison and Jack have met, eloquently stating everything she'd been unable to say when they'd first met. It essentially gives Poison her blessing and wishes them well. And maybe that's silly, but she does it anyway, because she isn't positive that they got off on the right foot, and she at least wants to make sure that Poison doesn't think she hates him, or something.
That, she decorates in the margins with pretty colors in a sort of tribal theme, and wraps it the same way she'd wrapped Jack's. (There are bags of cereal sagging box-less in their cupboard, now.)
The apartment is beautiful, Jillie thinks. She hasn't had a proper Christmas in a few years, and seeing it like this makes her feel warm, and somehow happy and sad at once. It also makes her panic, a little. She has no idea what to buy or make for presents for Dee, or for Poison. Jack is easy. Jack's present takes form without even trying, as a new puzzle and a portrait of the two of them. She has more than just a green marker, now, so it looks better, comes out cleaner, than anything she worked on in the hospital.
She wraps them with cardboard cut from leftover cereal boxes, so they don't bend. It's not much, but it's something.
She cuddles into a cozy, plush bathrobe and sits nearby, but sort of out of the way.
She'd found some embroidery floss and dyed hemp cord at the Zen Center when she'd visited it with Jack, and braided it into a bracelet for Dee. It's a unique braid, too, not the basic three-plait bullshit. She uses bright colored thread and adds some charms that she'd found on an ugly bracelet at a thrift shop. They look a lot better on Dee's present, she thinks.
She folds up some leftover cardboard from the cereal boxes into an origami gift box, and wraps it in that.
For Poison, she'd written only a letter. It details how happy she is that Poison and Jack have met, eloquently stating everything she'd been unable to say when they'd first met. It essentially gives Poison her blessing and wishes them well. And maybe that's silly, but she does it anyway, because she isn't positive that they got off on the right foot, and she at least wants to make sure that Poison doesn't think she hates him, or something.
That, she decorates in the margins with pretty colors in a sort of tribal theme, and wraps it the same way she'd wrapped Jack's. (There are bags of cereal sagging box-less in their cupboard, now.)
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Dec 8, 2016
Jack is at work, which is good, because he needs to work, but it's weird, because he's not here. Jillie has seen a huge change in him since coming here, and she doesn't know if it's only because of one thing or another, but it's visible, palpable, and she likes it.
She's been hiding in his room since he left, feeling a bit like an intruder. This isn't what Dr. Kapoor had in mind. She's lucid today, almost painfully so, and the forefront of her worry comprises doctors, therapists, and medication. These are things she needs, things that she requires to remain functional, and that she doesn't have them is triggering some anxious behavior.
She's pacing, feet scuffing softly against the floor. She's pulling and tugging on her hair. Her mind is starting to fill with noise, a steady swell, like someone is turning the volume up.
She fumbles into her pajama pants, pulling out her cigarettes. She only has two left. She lights up, hands shaking, and pulls a deep, long drag.
Jack is probably going to kill her for smoking in his room, but she doesn't dare go out into the apartment yet. There's someone out there, but what if they're not as understanding as Jack, as Poison?
Jack is at work, which is good, because he needs to work, but it's weird, because he's not here. Jillie has seen a huge change in him since coming here, and she doesn't know if it's only because of one thing or another, but it's visible, palpable, and she likes it.
She's been hiding in his room since he left, feeling a bit like an intruder. This isn't what Dr. Kapoor had in mind. She's lucid today, almost painfully so, and the forefront of her worry comprises doctors, therapists, and medication. These are things she needs, things that she requires to remain functional, and that she doesn't have them is triggering some anxious behavior.
She's pacing, feet scuffing softly against the floor. She's pulling and tugging on her hair. Her mind is starting to fill with noise, a steady swell, like someone is turning the volume up.
She fumbles into her pajama pants, pulling out her cigarettes. She only has two left. She lights up, hands shaking, and pulls a deep, long drag.
Jack is probably going to kill her for smoking in his room, but she doesn't dare go out into the apartment yet. There's someone out there, but what if they're not as understanding as Jack, as Poison?
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(no subject)
It's almost time for her to go. Just a few more sleeps, and she'll be back in her own house, in her own room, with her own family. It's exciting, and also terrifying. She remembers why she's here. Sometimes, the chronology is wrong. Her grasp on time isn't what it used to be, but that doesn't mean she just forgot the things she'd done. She knows her family doesn't hold her shit against her. It isn't really her fault that any of it had happened. It isn't like she herself hadn't been directly affected by the shit that had happened.
She'd talked about it with Dr. Kapoor at length. She's going to be going home, and Jillie is pretty sure she can handle it. Okay, she's very sure she can handle it. Maybe. It's just that, now that she's lucid almost all the time, she's keenly aware of the fact that she'd stabbed her mother. And there's forgiveness and family therapy and all that, but every now and again, it feels like the fact just sort of punches her in the gut.
She grips the mala beads that Jack had given her, rubbing them furiously between her forefinger and thumb, and looks at the green frog that hides her cigarettes. Rupert will be by soon to make sure she goes to bed, but she can fit in just one more smoke. She sits as close to the window as she can and pulls out her cigarettes.
Jillie takes a deep breath as she drags on the first cigarette. It'll be fine, she's sure. The little war inside her head is being waged afresh with this niggling anxiety. She squeezes her eyes shut and coughs a little when her cigarette is suddenly just a filter, smoked to its limit. She lights up another with shaking hands and holds it between her fingers while she tugs, with her free hand, against the hair at the back of her neck. It's longer than it had been when she'd met Bex. Sometimes it feels like that had been a few days ago, but it hadn't. It had been months ago. Now, she can almost tie it up, and the curl is starting to fade with length. She swallows and drags again, then goes back to furiously worrying the beads.
Just a few more sleeps, and she'll be able to spend as much time as she wants with Jack. She'll have more space, and a little bit more freedom, and maybe she and Bex can go to the movies, and maybe they can go clothes shopping. Jillie can show her the shoes with the bows. She can get Jack a present. Or, well, she can make Bex get Jack a present.
Jillie finishes her cigarette and waves the smoke out the small window. She tucks her lighter into the empty space in the soft carton, and tucks the entire thing into the waistband of her pants, partially hidden by the pajama top tied around her waist. She moves from her bed to the desk and starts working on a new word puzzle. Just something to quiet her brain, pass the time.
She doesn't intend to fall asleep.
When she wakes, she's on the floor. She frowns and pushes up off her shoulder. Her body is stiff from laying here for way too long, and she feels chilly. Jillie groans a little from discomfort and reaches blindly for her bed to grab her blanket.
. . . What? Jillie's frown deepens and she looks towards her bed. Except it isn't there. Her stomach does a quick, twisty flop in her belly. She looks around, blinking rapidly, eyes casting left and right. She isn't in her room. She isn't in the hospital.
There's a bookshelf over to the right, built onto a counter. It's laden with books, and on top is a cash register. She's in a store. She can see that now. Not the hospital gift shop, but some store, somewhere, somehow. She spins around on her butt, drawing her knees up to her chest. There's a door, and more bookshelves, and a few little tables. Some of the tables have more books, set up as a display. Some are just for sitting at. Above the counter is a sign that reads
'Darrow Zen Center
bookstore'
This isn't right.
No. No, no. How the hell'd she get here? How much time has she lost? Where is 'Darrow', and how far from San Francisco is it? Jillie feels panic welling up inside her and her mouth starts moving, muttering tight, nervous words. This isn't real, is it? This can't be real.
"R-Rupert?" she calls. She feels like she needs something to ground her, like she's floating away and needs to remember what's real. Jillie hugs herself tightly and reaches up with one hand to cling and pull at her hair. "Hello!? Hello?"
She'd talked about it with Dr. Kapoor at length. She's going to be going home, and Jillie is pretty sure she can handle it. Okay, she's very sure she can handle it. Maybe. It's just that, now that she's lucid almost all the time, she's keenly aware of the fact that she'd stabbed her mother. And there's forgiveness and family therapy and all that, but every now and again, it feels like the fact just sort of punches her in the gut.
She grips the mala beads that Jack had given her, rubbing them furiously between her forefinger and thumb, and looks at the green frog that hides her cigarettes. Rupert will be by soon to make sure she goes to bed, but she can fit in just one more smoke. She sits as close to the window as she can and pulls out her cigarettes.
Jillie takes a deep breath as she drags on the first cigarette. It'll be fine, she's sure. The little war inside her head is being waged afresh with this niggling anxiety. She squeezes her eyes shut and coughs a little when her cigarette is suddenly just a filter, smoked to its limit. She lights up another with shaking hands and holds it between her fingers while she tugs, with her free hand, against the hair at the back of her neck. It's longer than it had been when she'd met Bex. Sometimes it feels like that had been a few days ago, but it hadn't. It had been months ago. Now, she can almost tie it up, and the curl is starting to fade with length. She swallows and drags again, then goes back to furiously worrying the beads.
Just a few more sleeps, and she'll be able to spend as much time as she wants with Jack. She'll have more space, and a little bit more freedom, and maybe she and Bex can go to the movies, and maybe they can go clothes shopping. Jillie can show her the shoes with the bows. She can get Jack a present. Or, well, she can make Bex get Jack a present.
Jillie finishes her cigarette and waves the smoke out the small window. She tucks her lighter into the empty space in the soft carton, and tucks the entire thing into the waistband of her pants, partially hidden by the pajama top tied around her waist. She moves from her bed to the desk and starts working on a new word puzzle. Just something to quiet her brain, pass the time.
She doesn't intend to fall asleep.
When she wakes, she's on the floor. She frowns and pushes up off her shoulder. Her body is stiff from laying here for way too long, and she feels chilly. Jillie groans a little from discomfort and reaches blindly for her bed to grab her blanket.
. . . What? Jillie's frown deepens and she looks towards her bed. Except it isn't there. Her stomach does a quick, twisty flop in her belly. She looks around, blinking rapidly, eyes casting left and right. She isn't in her room. She isn't in the hospital.
There's a bookshelf over to the right, built onto a counter. It's laden with books, and on top is a cash register. She's in a store. She can see that now. Not the hospital gift shop, but some store, somewhere, somehow. She spins around on her butt, drawing her knees up to her chest. There's a door, and more bookshelves, and a few little tables. Some of the tables have more books, set up as a display. Some are just for sitting at. Above the counter is a sign that reads
bookstore'
This isn't right.
No. No, no. How the hell'd she get here? How much time has she lost? Where is 'Darrow', and how far from San Francisco is it? Jillie feels panic welling up inside her and her mouth starts moving, muttering tight, nervous words. This isn't real, is it? This can't be real.
"R-Rupert?" she calls. She feels like she needs something to ground her, like she's floating away and needs to remember what's real. Jillie hugs herself tightly and reaches up with one hand to cling and pull at her hair. "Hello!? Hello?"