Re: Marvel: Cris & Sam
She hadn't thought about anyone else when she slit her wrists. There, razor in her hands, and it hurt a lot more than anyone fucking said, and she hadn't thought about anyone. Out there, in Vegas, and in a motel room that charged by the hour, it had only been about her. She hadn't thought about her brothers, and she hadn't thought about Neil. She hadn't thought about Tessy, and she hadn't thought about any one else she was going to leave behind. Tunnel vision, yeah? And there hadn't been anything but her own selfish desire to make the hurt stop, and she assumed it was like that for everyone. Not the desire to make hurt stop, but whatever selfish thing drove them to it. But that was the thing, yeah? If you were that far gone, that fucked up, then other people didn't fucking matter. It was tunnel vision and, yeah, ok, it was selfish. But she couldn't go back and fucking change the way her head worked, and she couldn't change how she felt now.
She wanted to, because she knew she was just making him more agitated, yeah? But she couldn't.
His fingers dropped away from her hair, and she knew she hadn't made it better, or that she hadn't explained it right. She winced when he tossed the shirt away, crack slow and too many blinks as she refocused when he sat up and faced her, sprawl and his elbows against the inside of his thighs. ¿Para qué? she mouthed, because he kept repeating it, and it was unthinking, yeah? Lips moving and no sound, and she winced again when he pressed his forefinger hard to his temple. When his fingers gripped her chin, she didn't move. There was no attempt to yank away, and she didn't know anyone who'd killed themselves, no. Just her, and she'd fucked it up, and she was still here.
She was crying again, and she didn't want to, and she knew it wouldn't help, but the fucking crash, and she couldn't stop it. She knew this wasn't about her. She knew this was his baggage, his shit, his pops and Sofia, and straight, clean, she could deal with it better. She could say the right shit. She could fix herself with all the glue in the world, and she could be better. He asked if she wanted to tell him to his face, and he asked if she'd seen him out there. She'd seen. He was still fucking bleeding, maybe, beneath the dark black of his hair. She'd seen.
She looked down at her palms when he picked up her wrists. She stared. Quiet, and then she looked up again. "THIS is why I'm not good for you. Because you're like this. Because I make you like this. Because I make you like you were out there. Because I make you slam your head until you bleed. BECAUSE THIS IS WHAT I AM. You want me to be better. You want me to blink, and to not feel what I feel. I CAN'T DO THAT. If I could, I would have a long fucking time ago. You think I want this? You think I want to feel this way? Fuck you, Cris." And she was sobbing in earnest now. Tears and ugly sobs, and she fought her way to standing. "You're telling me all the reasons I'm fucking wrong, but you can't change what I'm feeling. That shit's inside ME." She jabbed her fingers at her chest - ME. "I'm the one who wakes up every fucking day with an addiction she can't beat. I'm the one who closes her eyes and sees Micah, sees Ian. I'm the one who's turned everyone she fucking cares about upside down, including you. I'm the one who got her brother fucking KILLED. I'm the one who has to beg people for a fucking place to live. I'm the one who's pride is completely fucking GONE. ME. ME." She jabbed that finger harder at the center of her chest, over and over and over.