Jane Rizzoli always hated running, but not for the reasons that most people suspected. People believed that she hated running for the same reasons most people did; breathlessness and pain. And yet, Jane Rizzoli has never been the type of person who did things the way other people did; why should running be any different?
People claimed they hated the breathlessness, yet they adored things that took their breath away. They were all dirty fucking hypocrites, in Jane's opinion, and they could all get bent and die. Jane had to admit that most people didn't like pain. To her, it meant she was still alive.
Why would she have played field hockey if she didn't love running? The people around her were blind enough to see only what they wanted to see. They were stupid enough that what they saw often wasn't there.
This was the kind of running Jane loved. The kind that didn't pace, that was pure, raw emotion channeled through her body. Though she loved her, the best kind of running was done without Maura. The best kind was done alone, when you're too upset to hold up a fake mask. It was best to let it all out this way, until joints clicked and popped, the world spun, and there wasn't enough oxygen.
Her feet pounded the asphalt as she counted the steps her left foot made. Seventy-two left foot steps to a quarter mile, she'd learned. With every few steps came a reason.
One. Hoyt, for breaking her.
Twenty. Her family, for being blind.
Forty-seven. Frost and Korsak, for pretending nothing's wrong.
Eighty-six. Maura, for caring too damn much.
Ninety-nine. Maura, for seeing past her lies of "I'm fine."
A hundred and fifteen. Maura, for making her eat.
A hundred and thirty-nine. Maura, for knowing when she had the nightmares or couldn't sleep.
A hundred and eighty two. Maura, for never being able to reciprocate her feelings.
Two hundred and seven. Maura.
Two hundred and fifty. Maura.
Two hundred and eighty-eight. A mile later, and the reason Jane had been dreading. She knew it would come to this. It always came down to this. Jane was the reason she tortured herself. She hadn't been strong enough to deal with any of it, and here she was, back to a coping mechanism that she'd developed in high school.
Tears streamed down Jane's face when her body forced her to stop, miles later. Jane sank down to her knees and rested her hands on the ground, heaving up the contents of her stomach. She had a taste in her mouth that combined bile with leftover lasagna. It wasn't a pretty sight, but thankfully there was no one around to see it. After all, there's only so much a body will allow itself to do before it collapses.
Jane took a deep, shaky breath after she'd finished. Her muscles were sore, tight, and tired, but she forced herself to stand anyway. She was shaking slightly, tears streaming lightly down her face. She gritted her teeth in an effort to stop them. She was being weak. She hated this feeling.
This was the only reason anybody could ever say Jane Rizzoli hated running. For a short while, she's able to shed the chains she constantly carries with her. She feels like a bird, for the first time being able to spread its wings after being locked up its whole life in a cage. And then, she's a wild animal, coerced back into a cage.
Jane wasn't far away from her apartment now. Her legs shook too much to run. Hot tears rolled down her face.
What were you expecting, stupid? Jane demanded of herself. She doesn't even know you're out. All the better, really, so she doesn't see how pathetic you are. She's not going to wipe away your tears and hold your hand while you talk about your feelings.
Jane could barely make it all the way to her apartment. She was forcing herself not to cry, pass out, or vomit. It hurt to breathe. She knew what she wanted, and she could never have it. Right now, Jane needed to mope.
Jane kicked the door behind her closed. Closing her eyes and sighing, she dropped face-first onto the couch. Right arm smashed between her side and the couch, left arm dangling over the edge, Jane was either passed out or asleep-she wasn't concerned with the difference-within a minute.
While she slept, nightmares played on an endless loop in her mind. Drowning, falling, suffocating, being tortured. Each time she screamed, but either no sound came out or nobody heard her. Then, there were the memory nightmares. Being fastened to the ground by scalpels made a frequent appearance. Then, came the one that made Jane dread sleeping. Though it wasn't a memory, it was the worst by far. It was the nightmare where she struggled against invisible restraints and had to watch Maura being tortured.
Jane shook and cried in her sleep. Maura suddenly paused in her work of chopping carrots, knowing something was wrong.