InsaneJournal

narrative: mk is fucked.
WHO MK Robinson
WHAT A narrative: A real inconvenience.
WHEN Now.
WHERE Marvel: NYC, then Passages.
WARNING cursing, mild mentions of past substance abuse.


The room is dark and cool, central air pumping through the vents into the massive bedroom, and MK is tangled in her bedsheets. She has been in this bed for hours -- almost four, going by the way the night sky moved against the skyline -- trying to drift off but to no avail. Insomnia has become an almost constant thing since she’d gone sober. Her veins still fill with the itch sometimes, or maybe that’s her brain. Or, maybe, it’s just being back in this city full of memories mostly painful. Either way, being in this apartment doesn’t help. There are reminders of her last couple of months here everywhere: Delilah’s room and her toys, Adam’s cologne on the edge of the sink, her engagement ring on the bedside table. She hasn’t cleaned up any of it, she hasn’t had the heart to yet. Or maybe the strength, honestly. They are all the last vestiges of a life she had meant to live forever, no matter how unhealthy it was. She loved Adam, and she loved Delilah, and now she has neither of them.

Really, she has no one. A sick, selfish part of her wants those DNA results to come back positive so that some people are stuck with her. Then again, MK has always been needlessly selfish for a woman who wants to do good by people. Even when she was being seemingly selfless, there was a tiny part of her that was doing it for herself. For validation, for acceptance, for love. And, she still hasn’t grown out of that. Oh, sure, she’s gotten better over the subsequent year at being alone, or at pretending she is okay with being alone, but MK fucking hates being alone.

It’s another one of those things that keeps her up at night.

Rolling over, she presses her face into his pillow, and she tries not to romanticize their relationship like she has in the past. Adam was bad for her. Awful, even. So unhealthy that he was destroying her. And, sure, part of his own destruction stems back to her, but she doesn’t like to think of that either. The kidnapping, the drugs, the overdoses. Her wreckage brought him down, and then he tried to drag her further. But fuck, does she miss him on nights like this. She can imagine him cutting lines for them on the bedside table, mouth fixed into a frown but turning to her with a sort of angered hunger when she caught him off guard. She misses that. She misses the burning hatred that he had for her; she misses the feeling of someone being stuck with her.

Now, she’s in a city of eight fucking million people, and not one person of her own to show for it.

She lies there for a while, just focusing on her breathing, when she starts to hear faint whispers. Only, they aren’t coming from anywhere nearby; they’re in her head. Jolting up, she looks around the room. Nothing. She shakes her head, groaning at her imagining things and reaches for the draw of the bedside table, where she keeps her smokes. Marlboro Reds. She likes the heaviness of them, the way the smoke shoots to her head and lingers there incessantly, and right now she’s craving it. Skinny fingers wrap around the pack, but the lightness of it has her cursing a string of awful words. Another groan, and the whispers continue.

Fuck it.

She climbs out of bed, throwing on a pair of shorts discarded on the floor that expose her pale, thin legs, and slips on her Toms. Her bed-shirt is a tanktop that hangs loose on her bony frame, white and practically see through, and while she almost goes without a sweater, she decides not to incite any sort of attention while she goes out. Sweatjacket on, sleeves pulled up to show some of the tattoos she's gotten on benders and hood over her messy blonde hair, she strolls out of her rich ass building on 81st and Madison towards one of the 24 hour drug stores that you could find on any corner in New York City.

The streets are relatively dead at this hour, but when someone walks past, the whispers get louder. She jumps each time, and though the words start off garbled, they become clearer and clearer each time. Maybe a syllable at first, and then it becomes a word. By the time she reaches the Duane Reade, she has heard a string of broken up words roar through her head.

Shaking, she shoves her hands in her pockets, and she goes to the refrigerated aisle. For a moment, a few moments even, she eyes the six packs of beer, of cider, and she eyes those 24 oz. cans. She opens the fridge door, cool air blasting her in the face, and she reaches out to grab something. But, she shakes her head, she fights the urge, and instead grabs a can of Arizona Iced Tea and shuffles to the counter.

“Can I get a pack of Malboro Reds and a lighter?” She begins to dig through her pocket for her credit card and ID, and that’s when she hears it.

Goddamn junkies.

“What did you say?” Her neck snaps up, and she looks at the man -- young man, practically just outside of his teen years whose eyes have widened almost beyond comprehension. He stutters out some words, claiming he’s said nothing, and MK trains her green eyes on him to make sure.

Holy fuck. It rings in her brain, but the boy’s lips don’t move, and that’s when her stomach plummets. She pays for the cigarettes, lighter, and iced tea, rushing out and running back to her apartment building, slamming past people and hearing snippets of thoughts along the way.

Thoughts, and fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck, this can’t be happening again. Not again, not again.

Once she makes it back to the penthouse, she grabs her journal, finds her key, and shoves the tiny silver thing into the first lock she can find. Turn, click, and her refuge awaits beyond the threshold of her closet door.

The Passages hallway is blissfully quiet, and the only thing that whispers in her head are her own thoughts. Thankfully. Instead of running into another door to hide away or to find something to numb everything out, she tucks herself in a nearby corner, sliding down to the floor with her key, journal and cigarettes resting near her hip. Hugging her legs to her chest, she rests her forehead to her knees and tries to decide what the fuck she can do now.