Warnings: implied rape, mentions of abuse
Pairing: Jessica/Kilgrave
a/n: As always, this is not a love story. I write psychological horror, professionally and in fanfic; terrible, sick, twisted relationships and their subsequent ramifications easily fall under this category.
Reviews are greatly appreciated; they motivate me to write more.
the romanticization of meaningless things
When she finally leaves - when she finally escapes - she knows the desire to stay with him, to remain at his side, to get back here Jessica, will linger for the next twelve hours. So she keeps moving, ignoring the scent of burned rubber and ash against the wet asphalt; ignoring the drying, darkening blood on her fingertips; ignoring the ache to turn around and return to him, now.
Jessica walks until the sun breaks the cover of night, peaking over the ridges of a thousand buildings she no longer remembers. The last vestiges of black in the sky go a dusty blue-grey before the light touches them, tracing the underbellies of morning clouds are with frothy pinks and purples. Her breath fogs the space in front of her, and everything is cold, too cold, but she does not stop, for the need to go back - the need for him - has not yet died.
Thus, she begins to run.
.
.
.
It's been more than twelve hours, and the love is still there.
Not my love, Jessica tells herself desperately, curled up on Trish's couch beneath an undoubtedly-expensive blanket, this is not mine. He ordered me to love him. That's what this is.
Trish keeps babbling about cops and doctors and I'm so sorry Jess, constantly hovering, like her tiny body might shield her best friend from Kilgrave's influence. Although she's aware it's ultimately fruitless, Jessica appreciates the effort.
"He's dead, right? Are you sure?"
For a moment, Jessica is doubtful, thinking that perhaps this sickening affection remained because Kilgrave had survived the crash.
"He got hit by a goddamn bus," Jessica rasps, turning over so she doesn't have to look at Trish while lying. "He's dead."
The words hurt more than she'd ever expected.
After Trish sighs and shuffles away from the living room, Jessica lets herself cry over feelings she is certain are not her own.
.
.
.
The weeks drag by like a punishment, mocking her freedom, as if time itself knows the need for him has not left her body. Against the boiling, bitter hatred, there is a perpetual longing for smooth hands and high cheekbones, a devilish smile and all the horrors alongside it, I'm here, Jessica, I'll always be here -
By accident, she mentions this to the therapist Trish recommended (some perky bitch who wore way too much purple).
The therapist suggests reciting the names of streets in the neighborhood she grew up in.
"It's a better way of coping," says the therapist, smiling.
Jessica calls bullshit, but does it anyway, privately hoping this will help her un-love him, once and for all.
.
.
.
Months later - just when she thinks she hates him enough to kill whatever she had left for him - he comes back, a virus of the worst kind.
.
.
.
It had been twelve hours. I timed it. I hadn't told you to do anything. And then for eighteen seconds, I wasn't controlling you. And you stayed with me. With me, because you wanted to.
And there is a moment where her breath hitches, clogging the condescending remark in her throat, letting him be wrong for only a heartbeat longer.
Kilgrave's eighteen seconds of free will had no reflection on her feelings.
Jessica wishes she could say the same about every second after.