Re: Marvel: Cris & Sam
This wasn't a notch. This wouldn't be a notch. Sam was fucked up, but she wasn't a fucking idiot. She wouldn't hold not letting her run into traffic against anyone, not when she was straight and calm. She knew what it was like to have someone listen on the other end of the line to slit wrists, and not to offer to even fucking come. She knew, and she'd been fucked up for so long, barely functioning since Ian. Ian, and weeks and weeks, straitjackets and him convincing her of everything while he pumped her full of drugs and then did her until she bled. She needed quiet, and she needed calm, and she knew that. She knew, and she wouldn't hold this shit against him. The problem was that what she needed? She couldn't fucking get. It was out of fucking reach forever now, and what the fuck was she supposed to do? Go to Lou's? Live at Lou's? And that shit felt a little like dying, but she knew it was the alternative. She knew it was what would happen, because she couldn't fight off the grip holding her, and she wouldn't ask for anything anymore, and she wasn't going to kill herself in Lou's fucking space.
But it wasn't what she'd wanted, and that shit was gone, and she mourned it. She mourned it the same way she mourned whatever fucking lies she'd been feeding herself about Neil wanting to help, still caring at least that much. Because he didn't, yeah? That was clear as fucking crystal now. And with enough time, Cris would feel the same, and she maybe understood Sofia in that crack-high moment. She maybe understood ending everything before it was lost. He still looked at her like he wanted her, Cris, like he wasn't tired of her. Ok, so shit had started to spiral down. Fights, and fights, and she knew she wasn't what he wanted her to be. He'd wait, he said, and even that was pressure, because maybe she'd never be what he was waiting for her to be.
The entire world felt like this hopeless maw, and she couldn't fucking crawl out.
She was lost thoughts, the crash downward starting with shaking limbs, and his hand in the pocket of the hoodie dragged her back jitter-slow. She turned her head to watch the pipe smash. She wanted to tell him she didn't do crack. She didn't. Just tar. She wanted to tell him.
Maybe she tried to find words or something, but then he jerked his head back against the bricks behind him.
Smack.
Her blue eyes, still unfocused, still consumed by black, managed to register shock somehow. Like she couldn't believe what she was seeing. She was too shocked to stop him, and then guilt became a waterfall as comprehension replaced shock in inky-black gnawed depths. Her stomach hurt. She was going to be sick. She could smell blood on stone, or maybe she imagined it. Whatever the fuck. Whatever the fuck. And her hands shook, and she screamed. No words, just at the top of her lungs and someone said they'd called 911, and sirens sounded in the distance.
All she could think, was one thing. One thing, over and over and again, like a marquee through her fucking mind: I. Did. This.
Scramble to her feet, and there were people asking if he was ok, and she just backed up, away, whatever, letting someone help her to the feet. She had the sense not to go near the curb, near the traffic. She had the sense to understand she'd done this with her own need to be gone, to be done, to spare him, to spare everyone the fuck else.
Going, she mouthed, and she knew she should help, stay, talk, reassure, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something, something.
But she was that broken thing that had fallen off the shelf, and there were too many pieces for glue. She'd done this.