Re: [Quicklog: Jack/Dahlia]
[Aside from the messages between her and all the friends she is picking fights with today, Dahlia hasn't been keeping up on the public forums. Which is probably a mistake.
The memories came one after another, and Jack misses it by moments. Another invader, the aftermath of violence, of sexual assault. It feels like hers, almost. More than the non-dad. The man and his condoms are the part that gives her major pause, 'cause duh, but–well, was it wrong? Fuck knew her early twenties are better defined by the great gaps between conscious thought. Is this shit she repressed? Lost to the rolling blackouts and the concussions and the nod of dope in her veins? She wants to dismiss the memory as something else, christ, anything–something she heard from somebody else, something she'd seen on television, whatever. Like the memory of a dad that ain't hers, the visceral fear in her gut ain't real. Can't be.
Not that it made shit make any more sense. Dahlia just hunkered down on the stairs, head between her knees, and just dry heaved through the adrenaline spike like a fucking no-puke heavyweight champ.
The door opens downstairs. Footsteps approach softly. She sniffs. Her gaze, dull and red, follows Jack as he comes into view over top of her knees. By then, he can see the small bloom of blood overhead. Her hand's a mess. Swollen, bleeding, fingers stiffly curled. Not broken, she don't think, 'cause she don't break–hah–easy. But in serious need of a wrap and ice. She sucks softly on a split knuckle, dull and heavy gaze not quite tracking Jack as he crouches down and offers her–what, a fucking napkin? He says something, and it doesn't really register. Her eyes are wet, her nose red, but her face is quite dry, all shit considered. She's wound tight. It's the look of somebody struggling to hold it in, and not just the leftovers in her gut. Somebody who prefers a punch to the face before fucking crying.
The release she so badly needs comes in the form of a text message. Her phone next to her clatters on the metal step, and Dahlia glances distracted at the screen, away from Jack. Her face goes blank for a long moment, processing.
Then a bubble of wet laughter escapes her throat.
Sharp, barking, and unexpected, like the message and the subsequent image of undead square dancing flashing through her head. The laughter leaves her, and she seems to sag against the wall. Remembers Jack squatting there, and his stupid handkerchief. Man, the fuck is this? The 1800s?] Put that 'way, dude. 'Fore you–you 'barrass yourself. [Mumbled 'round her knuckle, sniffling again. Nothing makes sense and shit is so fucking bad, yeah, but her words are strangely warm for an almost greeting between odd friends.
It sounds a little like relief. Yeah, whatever. Don't let it go to your head, Jack.]