#* jack.

she almost says i didn’t mean it like that, but has to stop, trace her thoughts back to their roots like she’s looking for something she’s lost --- what did she mean? 

‘ i just meant ... it --- it’s over. for me. you know? ’   she didn’t have to meet the cold, dark eyes of her kidnapper at her trial, because she’d cut them out with a kitchen knife. she spent a very long time imagining it  ---  still sees it in dreams, sometimes  ---  having to sit across from him, letting him live with his thoughts, his memories of her. of the both of them.

not that it isn’t over for you, but. she huffs out a heavy sigh.

texts from last night.

texts from last night, @patsywalker

brokeback mountain

    ‘ i’m okay, ’ jack mumbles, but joey’s right and they can both see it.

How does she let him know that it doesn’t matter what he does, who he is, or how quick he’ll be to back away if she says the word, he’ll still make her skin crawl as long as he looks at her, as long as he talks to her. Jack’s very nearly mastered the art of pretending everything is fine, thanks for asking, until someone takes her passivity and tries to draw it out, keep her talking. Her face stays calm, even if she’s not. Her heart thrums quickly in her chest, but it’s not hard to blame it on the jog.

Bev says therapy, Jack thinks me too, and decides exposure therapy might do them both some good. He is, after all, about the least threatening version of it she’ll ever get the chance to go up against. 

‘ Weird, ’  is what she says, at first. Just that, while she looks at him for a while. A long while, and then back over her shoulder just to make sure they’re still in public, that people are still around, that the sun is still shining and everything still looks the way it’s supposed to.

the book of the unnamed midwife / accepting.

‘ yeah. ’  she keeps her head low, chin tucked to her chest, searching for a mangled reflection of her own face in the muddy brown cup of tea bonnie’s brought her. there isn’t much to see, besides the way the liquid ripples because of her shaking hands. it’s too hot, scolds when she presses her palm to the porcelain and moves away from the handle. stings, comes away red. at least her skin - her body - reacts the way it should, she thinks.

‘ mona? ’  her eyebrows furrow, like she’s trying to wrap her head around the fact that she and her sister did lead lives parallel to each other at that time, that she was - is - allowed to talk about it, even if it’s not to her. she doesn’t have too many of the details jack keeps to herself, anyway - not that she’d share them if she did.

‘ no. i mean - it’s not that. ’

it gets harder to keep her gaze up, so she lets it falter, knowing trish will understand, even if it leaves them both feeling guilty about her having to look away. there are no tears, just a dull, throbbing ache in her chest. she doesn’t know what to do with her hands or her arms or her eyes or, when she starts to think about it - and then, of course, she can’t stop - doesn’t know what to do with any part of herself. 

she huffs, more frustrated with herself than she ever could be with trish. she hates ending up here, has to swallow the urge to flee.