Jo • done gone and grown up ya'll (sweetjoannabeth) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2013-07-11 13:34:00 |
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Entry tags: | !thread, jo harvelle, will parry |
Who: Jo Harvelle [Narrative, but Open]
Where: The Gym
What: Working off her anger
Rating: R language
When Evening, July 10th since someone posted it sleepily into the wrong comm.
Jo was running from a lot of things. The loss of Dean. The fact things weren't going as planned. Nightmares. She wasn't sleeping well. Meg was here. Darkness was enclosing on her, she felt it and she knew it was of her own making. So she went to beat the pain of things out of her heart. She dropped her bag by the door and sighed softly, before sitting down. Jo carefully began to wrap her hands, pausing from time to time as she had a wave of exhaustion hit. She hadn't slept well in a couple days. Things were just happening too fast for her to really grasp. She tightened the wraps and shook her head at herself. She pushed herself to her feet and carefully made her way over to a hanging bag. Then let loose on it. She wanted to shove all her worries and fears into the bag and let it absorb them. She wasn't focused on form or anything, just hitting the stupid bag and beating it into submission. Jo kicked, and punched, the bag until she sunk to the ground, bathed in sweat and crying. Jo rarely shed tears and she only did so now because no one was around to see them fall.
Meg had come to town - different but terrifying still - the memories were at the forefront now and they haunted her dreams and slumber. Then the world crashed around them and Dean vanished. And things were all kinds of fucked up and all she couldn't focus. And now Daryl was back and she couldn't even tell him everything. Sam was broken, worse than her she figured, and Cas was dealing with Meg and that left Jo to fend for herself. She wasn't going to bother Sam, Sam, Cas or anyone else with her problems. There was no point.Suffering was part of being a Hunter. Part of being human. And she'd manage. Just after she shed her last tear and beaten the bag up till her knuckles bled. Then she'd be fine. Every hurt would be locked back in it's box. She sucked up her pain and got to her feet to start over again.
She lasted an hour before she sat down on a mat, knuckles torn through the wraps, she'd begun to hit the wall after a time, she leaned her head back and sighed softly. She slowly unwrapped her hands, not wincing as the fabric pulled at the fresh wounds on the knuckles. She laid the wraps down next to her, and looked around her. It wasn't long until she slumped over and curled up, too worn out to move, her body just knocking her into sleep. And she lay there, flumped on a mat, her bag by her, the wraps near by.