Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I'm just hopelessly fascinated by Jefferson's character.
He's tried, for twenty-eight years, to make the house feel like a home. But he hates it. There's too many rooms for one man alone, too much space to think. With each passing day it seems more like a prison, the walls pushing themselves in closer, locking him away from the world he doesn't belong in. It gives Jefferson time he doesn't want, hours and days that stretch hopelessly into months and years trapped inside his mind. He barely goes into town, if ever; he cannot bear the thought of running into Grace who isn't really his Grace at all. The knowledge sits heavily on his chest and crushes him, forces the air from his lungs, breaks him. So, he shuts himself up in this house, tucked away for what feels like a life sentence.
And worst of all, he knows he didn't do anything wrong to deserve it.
There's a room for Grace upstairs, but Jefferson keeps the door locked. He'll wander in there sometimes and push back the curtains to let in the sun. He'll stand in the middle of the room, arms crossed, golden light splashing against the bright orange walls. There's a stuffed white rabbit keeping watch on the bed and he can't look at it.
Every time he leaves Grace's room and locks the door, Jefferson always has a moment's thought of setting the house on fire.
He doesn't age. Nothing ever changes here, nothing except his downward spiral into mental instability. There's a tally mark on his bedroom walls, illuminated only by the flickering, dim light of a candle in vigil to his late wife. Jefferson doesn't know why he counts—there isn't a point. Over ten thousand tally marks are etched across the paint and it only serves to make him feel more alone. Each mark brings him closer to losing grip.
He thinks of taking a hammer, going room by room, shattering everything in his path.
Jefferson half-remembers the night he stumbled into one of the bedrooms. He woke up the next morning with an empty bottle of whiskey at his side and the words GET IT TO WORK printed everywhere—the mantra that races through his thoughts day and night, scribbled all over the wallpaper and the hardwood floors and furniture.
He locks that door, too.
Jefferson sits in the living room and tosses cards into the fireplace after playing solitaire. He watches the flames incinerate them and gets a small amount of joy out of it; the edges blacken and curl in on themselves and dissolve into ash.
It's then that he really wishes he could do the same to this house.
Or perhaps Regina's.