A/N: Just having some feels for Jessica.
Tw for suicidal thoughts, and dark themes.
She's never been a bright, flowy-dress kind of girl. She loves ripped jeans and sleeves falling to her fingertips, loves the anonymity of hoods and armor of leather.
He took that away from her, too. It was the easiest thing to get back.
Maybe it's the only thing she got back.
She's never been a social kind of girl. She loves (loved) lying flat staring at the ceiling, with nowhere to go and no one to answer to.
Jessica wants to be alone. Truly alone, with no voices to run from and no memories to grind her teeth against.
She's lonely, but she's never alone.
There's always grit and blood and—
Smile. Smile, smile, smile. You're not pretty when you cry.
There's always so much blood, on her hands and on their faces when she finds them (when he's turned their brains and bodies inside out).
It's a dirty city, and she only feels safe when she looks down on it from far away.
Sometimes she imagines jumping from rooftop to rooftop, above the siren songs of busy misery, feet fast and firm, and then—a step—
Wonders if the crushing pain wouldn't feel almost kind. Destiny, relief.
It's too much trouble, too much notoriety, even when she wouldn't be around to see it anymore.
Better to go by the bottle, slick bitter fire in her veins and throat and heart.
She'd drink herself to death if she didn't have so damn much to do.
But she does, and she is—she is the only chance they have, the only one who can stop it…
She'll be any girl she needs to be do that.
Maybe someday, then, she'll be alone at last.
Lonely, still. But she'll step off that roof when she comes to it.