Slurred words (fuCK ME UP)
to hear jessica describe tim whilst ridiculously drunk: [not accepting sorry i have 30+ memes to get through first]
Jessica tosses her phone aside, and rubs her temples. She’s not fit to be a goddamn mentor, or whatever the hell it is Tim is looking for. That much is obvious from the three empties laying at her feet. Christ, how did she even manage to text at all?
But she still wants to try. Because a part of her just can’t let things go.
“Timmo, Timothy, Tim-Tim,” she mutters, pushing off her futon and starting to gather up her shit. Camera, Sudoku book, another full flask. She’s not sleeping tonight, she knows that much. It’s either lurk on rooftops, or sit here and wallow.
She stares at her phone, lying on the orange futon. It looks so small, but it carries so much weight.
She’s drunk enough that her apartment swirls around her. The world tilting in a way that is simultaneously pleasant and horrifying. The voices in her head – his goddamn voice – are quieter. Never silent. Never drowned. But not quite as loud tonight.
She snatches the phone off the futon. Re-reads her messages, cringing at the rampant misspellings. And Tim still understood her. Thanked her even.
“I wish…” she starts. Stops. Tries to gather her drunken thoughts into something coherent. But the words are slippery, like trying to grab something underwater.
“I wish someone would goddamn tell you how good you are,” she slurs loudly, to her empty apartment. She imagines Tim sitting in her office chair. His tiny, reluctant smile. The lost, desperate look in his eyes. Even just in her head, it makes her chest ache.
“You’re a better goddamn person than me or Bruce, or fucking anyone, okay?” she says fiercely. It’s not really a question. “Except Trish. You’re like her, you try so goddamn hard. Jesus, kid. And yeah, I know you hate it, but you’re still a fucking kid. Still so goddamn young. Innocent,” she says, the word sitting oddly on her tongue. She narrows her eyes at the imaginary-Tim. (She really might be losing it at this point.)
“You might be a know-it-all little shit sometimes,” she says, pointing a finger at the empty chair. “But it takes some goddamn guts to say what you said to me. I still think you were wrong,” she adds quickly, as if he’s actually there to correct her. “You can’t choose what people take from you. Or maybe that’s just me.” She pauses, realizes she’s been pacing and her chest is heaving. She glances at the empty chair again, almost wishes he was sitting there. But it’s probably better he’s not. She’d never have the guts to say this shit to his face. “You’re braver than me, Tim. Stronger too. Maybe you gotta be, to hold onto yourself, to hold onto a smile that innocent after…”
She pauses, adjusts the bag on her shoulder. “Whatever,” she says finally, heading for her window. The fire escape. She leaves the phone behind – she’s given him all she can for now. And he’s given her something, too. She just can’t quite put it into words.