There are three types of people in this world. There are the heroes—the people who do the saving. There are the villains—the people who like to stir shit up. And there are the victims—the people who need saving. I like to think there's a fourth category for assholes like me who imagine themselves in between one of these three categories—not a victim, but casually sitting between hero and villain depending on how you look at it. The truth is I'm no hero, and I don't pretend to be.

It's because of me that the lives of countless numbers of people got so fucked up. Murderer is a word that comes to mind. Failure. I couldn't act fast enough, couldn't be strong enough. Not at first. It's because of me that Hope Shlottman is dead, and Ruben, and Albert, and Reva. That's only naming a few. Because at the end of the day, it was me, and only me, with the power to stop Kilgrave. The rest of the world was caught in the crossfire.

I fucked up, and not just once. Over and over again. If I'd just done what he'd wanted, things may have gone my way a lot sooner. Or maybe if I'd let Simpson get hold of him instead of fighting that crazy bastard. Let Kilgrave become someone else's problem for once, someone who deserved to get the shit kicked out of them and more. But I know that I'm just being stupid. Kilgrave was my responsibility from the moment I left his side. I'm not talking about letting myself be mind-controlled again. No. But I should have acted sooner. Snuck up on him when he had me in the house back on Birch Street. Killed him when I had the chance. I was too busy trying to save everybody, like Hope Shlottman. I was too busy trying to be the hero.

And that's why I'm the fourth category. It's just me in there, sitting alone. Maybe someone like Simpson would get slotted in there as well, though that's company I'd rather not keep. I hope they have enough booze.

I finish off my bottle of convenient-store tequila and toss the plastic container across the room. It misses the garbage bin and bounces off the wall. The place is a mess. Chunks of drywall cover the floor. Wiring is sticking out of the gaping holes in the walls. From my office area I can see straight into my bedroom. With the hole gouged in the window of the apartment door, this is slightly problematic. If I was Trish, this would have been one of the top tasks on my to-do list after twisting Kilgrave's neck. Unfortunately cleaning the place up isn't quite as satisfying as drinking the entire contents of the convenient store down the street.

Plus the deluge of voicemails kind of occupied my time. I wanted to delete them all, but Malcolm was there, and Malcolm's a good guy. He's in the hero category but doesn't realize it yet. When he heard the messages playing on my phone, his instinct was to listen to them and do something about it. When the phone rang, an unknown number, he was the one to answer it, naming my PI business, Alias Investigations, and taking down the caller's information. A woman whose husband had a dangerous gambling addiction. As if that were the apex of the world's problems. I had just killed a man, barely escaped a judge, a jury, and jail time—which wouldn't have been all that bad if it hadn't been the lack of alcohol—and here was a woman wanting help with her martial crises. Jesus, what I wouldn't give to have that be the centre of my worries, instead of a mind-controlling maniac. Malcolm stayed at my desk and answered every call. He wrote down each potential client with care. I went to bed. Like I said: fourth category.

But now Malcolm is back at his apartment. It's sometime early the next morning. I didn't check the time. Time doesn't matter anymore, not now that Kilgrave is dead. I have all the time in the world. Too much of it, in fact. My hands feel fidgety, and my brain empty. What did I do before my fear of him occupied every waking—and sleeping—thought? I slide open another desk drawer and feel around for another bottle. My hand finds one, but when I pull it out I see that it's empty. I chuck that one across the room too. This sucks.

Trish calls sometime around nine. By now I've been sitting at my desk long enough for my ass to go numb and I've finished off all the remaining alcohol in the apartment. The convenient store seems too far away suddenly to go buy more, however thirsty I am. I've been staring at my desk, at the neat pile of messages Malcolm took down, in some sort of catatonic state involving flashbacks that may or may not have been memory. I've repeated the names of the streets that I grew up by fifteen times. It's not been helping much.

"How are you?" Trish asks sincerely. Her voice oozes with concern and compassion. Because of those innate qualities, I'd always put her in the "victim" category, but lately I'm starting to reconsider. Seeing what happens between heroes and villains, though, I'm not too keen on the idea.

"I'm fine," I say, more casually than I actually feel. "It's the first morning that I've woken up in my apartment not worrying who Kilgrave will murder next, which is always a plus."

"You did it, Jess," Trish says. "He's gone."

I pause. "I know."

"Listen, how about you come over?" Trish says. "We can celebrate, have a dinner party."

"A dinner party?"

"Yeah, just something small to thank everyone who had a hand in killing Kilgrave. You, me, Malcolm, Hogarth—"

"No, not Hogarth." My tone is harsh. "She may have saved me from jail but she killed a lot of people, Trish. She's the reason why Louise and Albert are dead."

"Okay, okay, you're right. Not Hogarth."

"I vote no to this whole dinner party idea at all."

I can hear Trish sigh on the other end.

"Jess, we're in a good place now. Kilgrave is dead, thanks to you. And I get that this must be a really weird time. I can't even begin to understand what you're feeling. But I hope it's relief and happiness, because you did a good thing, and so many people will get to live normal lives because of you."

I lean back in my chair and stare up at the ceiling. I can't take Trish's kindness, not right now. She's always seen the goodness in people and has difficulty seeing the bad, but it's especially the case when it comes to me. I'm one of her weaknesses. We've had our problems, but she's never fully grasped the piece of shit that I actually am.

"Kilgrave may be dead, but a lot of other people are too, Trish."

"I know that, Jessica."

We share a moment of silence that speaks more than our voices can.

"Just come by my place, okay? Spend the day with me. Celebrate, even if it only means you being passed out on my couch."

"I take it that means you have booze?"

"I can, if you come by."

I roll my eyes.

"Forget it. Save yourself the trouble. There's a convenient store on the way. I was about to go there anyways."

Trish can probably smell the bullshit in my relenting tone.

"Fine. Come by if only because your quest for tequila falls in between my place and yours."

"You got it."

We click off and I feel a sudden loneliness cling to me. I stare out the broken window, the one Trish had made especially for me. Malcolm's apartment is down the hall on the left. I think of him sitting in there, and how easy it was to let him take over for the night. I didn't have to do anything by myself. I was comfortable falling asleep with him in the apartment because I knew I wasn't alone. I sigh and damn Trish for being right.

In the elevator I reject two calls from unknown numbers. The convenient store isn't "on the way"; it's a thirty minute walk from my apartment to Trish's on the Upper East Side, and the convenient store is just down the street from me. I purchase their cheapest bottle of bourbon and ask for it in a paper bag. The walk doesn't feel as long with the bottle to distract me; it's finished by the time I arrive outside Trish's apartment door.

"I guess you'll be needing more," Trish says when she opens the door. I slide past her into the apartment.

"You guessed right."

I chuck my empty bottle into her recycling box and go searching her cabinets for booze. It's a long shot since she's a recovering drug addict, but I know she sometimes keeps booze on-hand for guests. Like me. I find a three-quarters empty bottle of rum stashed behind the blender and pull that out. I unscrew the lid and take a swig.

"Want a glass?" Trish asks with raised eyebrows. I finish the rum off and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. Trish holds my gaze as I screw the lid back on and then chuck that bottle into the garbage bin, where I hear it shatter.

I lie down on her couch and throw my forearm over my eyes. I listen to Trish sit in the armchair across from me.

"Do you have to go back to the police department?" she asks.

"Nope," I say.

"That Hogarth is one hell of a lawyer."

"She's also one hell of an asshole," I say. "I guess those two characteristics go hand-in-hand."

Trish leans forward and puts her hand on my leg. I remove my arm from over my eyes and look at her.

"Jess, why are you being like this?" she says with kind concern. Her arched blonde eyebrows are knitted together delicately in the centre of her forehead as she stares at me with worry. "Kilgrave is dead, Hogarth has kept you out of jail. Things are good now, aren't they?"

I know that Trish wants me to agree with her, and that it probably seems like the obvious way to answer, but I can't. I hold Trish's gaze for a moment longer before throwing my arm over my eyes again. I stay silent on the matter.

"Got any more booze?" I ask instead.

"Jess, I'm serious," Trish prods. "What's wrong?"

I pull my arm away and stare at Trish like I can't believe she'd even ask. I push myself up into a sitting position. My elbows dig into my knees.

"Do you think that killing Kilgrave magically erased all of the things he did?" I ask. "People are still dead, Trish. Kilgrave's death isn't going to bring anybody back to life."

"I know that, but—"

"But what? You want to paint me into some sort of hero role, like all the other people out there? Well, don't. I did what I had to do. But I should've done it sooner. It's because of me that people like Hope Shlottman will never get to know what true freedom feels like. All those people that died because of him—they'll never know what it was like to live after he was gone, to not be haunted by his presence. Hope, Ruben, Wendy—they all died in fear of him, Trish. There were times where I could have killed him but didn't because I wanted to be the hero. I was too afraid of the lives that would be lost with his death, meanwhile the bodies kept piling up every second he breathed."

I get to my feet and stride over to the kitchen. My quest for booze continues but comes up short. I close the last cabinet in Trish's kitchen.

"Shit," I say.

"I think you're being too hard on yourself."

I turn around. Trish is sitting at the island on a bar stool looking at me in earnest.

"What are you, a psychiatrist now?"

"No, I'm your friend." Trish clasps her hands over the countertop. "I just want what's best for you."

"Well, stop," I say. I return to the couch and sink into it again, but I don't let myself get comfortable. My muscles won't let me. They lock up and spasm, my nerves on high-alert. The alcohol has done very little to dull my senses since I woke up this morning. I stare off to the side, not wanting to see Trish looking at me in my peripheral vision. I can still feel it, though. Her stare burns into the side of my face and grates against my nerves.

After a while, Trish slides off the barstool.

"I'm going to order us a pizza," she says quietly, "since I'm assuming all you've had for the last twenty-four hours is alcohol. Then we can talk about something else if you want."

"Good," I spit, but I want nothing more than to be back in my own bed pretending the world doesn't exist. Because the one I used to know just days before doesn't, and I'm not sure what to do with the new one I'm occupying.