Re: Motel 77: Cris & Sam
He wasn't doing anything wrong. He wasn't saying anything wrong. The girl with the powder in her veins, she was too messed up for that kind of thinking. There wasn't enough outward in her mind for blame or anything like that. Her body was recovering from something that took over her mind and left her feeling like a rag doll, no bones and just ache, during a coke-comedown, and she was reaction. She was words from her lips, pain, and she was feeling so fucking sorry for herself. She didn't want this, yeah? She didn't want to feel like she did in that moment, on that bed, and she didn't get that he was blaming himself, blaming her, working up that boil that got him going. She didn't get it, not until he got up, told her to stop, and she had to fucking try to remember what she was stopping, because the world was fake mouths and scary things in corners, and she'd never dealt with everything together like that.
Stop. Ok. Ok. Stop, what?
He fucked with the meds, and she watched them fall across the bedsheet, noisome in her mind, even though she knew there wasn't much sound. Fuck, the television was so loud that she knew she probably couldn't hear them at all. But they sounded like thunder colored orange, and she was still trying to parse through whatever the fuck she'd said.
She couldn't remember anything until telling him he wasn't selfish. Comments about Meredith and mirrors forgotten, and she hated that she was drawing a fucking blank. It was important, yeah? If it had him getting up, telling her to stop, and she didn't know what the fuck she was stopping.
She would stop, yeah? If she could just remember what. She forced herself up, sat, sitting, hands to the side of her head, palms pressed to her temples. She remembered Meredith in the bar, and Sam intentionally didn't cry, didn't pull at her hair, didn't try to create herself some sad and pathetic thing on those bedsheets. He was agitated, yeah? She didn't want to make it worse, and this was what she did. This was what she did.
She focused on the pills, the bottles of orange, and she nudged them around with her dead-girl fingers. The names were inverted, fucked up and turned around, and she hadn't made any progress whatsofucking ever by the time he started talking again. Tipped face, and eyes that were windows to her own fucking self-frustration, she looked at him, lost. She'd thought it was good. Going to the doctor. Having him take her. She thought that was good.
Simple little thoughts, because complex was so fucking beyond her, yeah? She couldn't even tell if the television was actually ON.
She thought it was on.
Her gaze darted toward it, and she stared as he talked, but his words drew her attention back. I. I. I. And they were back here again, and this shit was familiar, yeah? She knew this song. She remembered the lyrics, and she could paint the music with detailed strokes.