Jo Harvelle (knivesandreo) wrote in parabolical, @ 2008-08-17 00:51:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | jo harvelle |
Who: Jo Harvelle, open
Where: The motel she is staying at
When: 2-ish (am)
Rating: PG for now
Status: Complete unless someone wanted to tag
Possibly the worst thing about the no tv was the lack of informercials to keep herself occupied in those restless hours that most normal people slept through. Sleep though was something Jo had always had a little bit of trouble with. Even before she'd seen too many things to feel safe when closing her eyes. She stared blankly at the dead tv, music playing softly from her laptop on the table. She missed her informercials. The one that that stayed constant no matter where she was or how far gone she felt. They were the one thing that never let her down, never left her and never changed. Sure the products might be different, but the format, the general style of it stayed the same. It was comforting, as pathetic as that made her feel.
And she could use a little comfort at the moment. Despite both Dean and even, surprisingly, Sam telling her they didn't hate her, that it was okay, the guilt of her inability to act weighed heavily on her. A sort of guilt that had settled into the pit of her stomach, swirling around in her brain. Guilt over the ghost of a person she had let herself become that year, over losing herself and letting the people she cared about down. She had been such an idiot, forgotten the things that made her a good person and let the darkness swallow her whole.
Jo frowned at the blank tv and got up from the bed. She moved past the small table to the fridge in the little kitchenette, fully sick of living in this motel room that felt more and more like trap everyday. She pulled a beer out from the fridge, easily popping the top off against the counter. She took a long drink and then moved to one of the bags on the unused bed. She held the beer in the crook of her right arm and dug through the duffel with her good hand until she found that which she searched for; a half empty pack of lucky strike cigarettes and her lighter.
It wasn't that she was much of a smoker, she went through maybe a pack a month if she was lucky and usually ended up throwing out most of it because they got too stale, but on nights like these it helped. She sat on one of the chairs on the small front porch attatched to her room, pulling her knees up to her chest as she lit up the cigarette, beer on the tiny table between the chairs. Jo took a long drag and then leaned back in the chair, looking out over the oh so fabulous view of the parking lot. LA was proving to be good for her, despite the initial hatred of the city. She at least had friends, Dean was alive, and despite the anger she felt at herself still for getting so lost she was better here, more human, more herself.