#slowarc

when bonnie shows up at jack’s apartment, there’s only one lock that clicks before the door opens, which should be warning enough that it isn’t jack on the other side. ‘ she’s running.’  

     it’s been at least a day ( likely more ) since julie’s come out of  ---  it feels untrue to call it her room, even if that’s what it is, what it’s beginning to be  ---  the room bonnie’s made for her. in and out of terrifying fever dreams, never conscious long enough to do more than kick the covers off her sweating, trembling body, or pull them up to ward off the chills. 

steam rises past the lip of the mug, the small cup of tea julie’s made for bonnie ( an unprompted peace offering, because she doesn’t know what she’s doing here, or how to take up space without first having decided she’s allowed to exist in it --- and she doesn’t know how the fuck to do that, either. ) gets nudged a little closer, across the kitchen table.

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

sweat is a thin film all over, and feeling it makes a shudder crawl and twist down elliot’s spine. my throat hurts, which means i don’t need to say was i?, or pretend that i don’t have these kinds of nightmares pretty often now. he picks at his t-shirt where it sticks to his skin. it’s nice not to make excuses. it’s embarrassing not to make excuses. elliot thinks he should explain himself, but it gets stuck and lodged somewhere between his throat and the front of his mouth, and it sits shaped uncomfortably on my tongue until i swallow it again. maybe i don’t have to explain myself. bonnie seems like a person who knows exactly how much the road to working through things is something covered in broken glass whilst walking barefoot.

“sorry,” i say, instead, pushing up onto my hands, then feeling the hammer-hard palpitation of my heart against my chest. then dropping his fists into his lap. “i didn’t - ” mean to, but it sounds like such a fucking stupid thing to say. “are you okay?” after the screaming.