When Jimmy came around, Johnny disappeared. It wasn't like that originally. In the beginning, this whole Saint Jimmy persona was amusing. In the beginning, it wasn't really a persona at all. It was mostly something in Johnny's mind. Kind of like a voice in his head. Not the kind of voice you need to be concerned about, not an actual sound that Johnny was hearing. It started out more like a twisted sort of conscious. She could live with that. Jimmy had made him bolder at the start of all of this. Not a bad kind of bold. The kind of bold she liked. Jimmy gave him just enough of a wild streak to make things exciting.
But now? Now it seemed like there was more Jimmy than anything. Johnny was just a hollow shell. Staring down at the man passed out on the dirty mattress, she still saw Johnny. She could almost believe it was Johnny… if he weren't still clutching the knife. She could feel her heart rate pick up again as she moved toward him carefully, kneeling beside the mattress. She grabbed the knife, making sure to avoid the sharp end of the blade, and carefully took it from him. She paused for a moment once it had been removed from his grip, holding her breath as she stared into his face for any sign that he may be waking up.
Content that he was still out and there was no risk of further conflict, she stood, hurrying toward the apartment's small kitchen. She made her way carefully, avoiding the creaky floorboards that she had committed to memory along with broken beer bottles, discarded wrappers, and any other garbage that may make noise if she stepped on it. She couldn't help but to think with a bit of bitterness that the messy apartment had become a reflection of what they had become. A mess, barely held together, falling apart at the seams.
Jimmy did this. Jimmy was around constantly now. It was like Johnny didn't even exist. It was like the stupid alter ego he'd created had teamed up with the drugs, eaten away at his mind, erased any traces of who he used to be. Now he scared her. He was volatile, an explosion waiting to happen. Every little thing set him off, and when that happened there was no telling what would happen. Most of the time he screamed. More and more frequently he was throwing things, sometimes in her direction, sometimes at the walls or the floors or whatever he thought could damage or destroy the object in his hands.
She paused, standing in front of the kitchen sink, and glanced around the apartment thoughtfully. Pictures hung on the walls in shattered, cracked frames. She remembered all of the times he'd thrown them onto the ground, stomped on them. She remembered getting down on her hands and knees and picking up the little slivers of glass, cutting up her fingers and palms in the process. The lamp in the corner stood, dented and without a shade. The bare bulb seemed to stare back at her. He'd managed to destroy that. She'd thrown it away, put the lamp back in its corner. At least he hadn't broken the bulb in all of the times that he'd thrown it down. The lamp shade may be gone, the entire thing may be terribly dented, but it was still a source of light. That's what she needed, what they both needed in their lives… a source of light. Then there was the stain on the rug in the living room. She hadn't been there when that one happened. When she came back to the apartment she'd simply found Johnny sitting there, blood flowing from his palm. He'd apparently done that to himself, having some weird notion that it wouldn't bleed if he cut it. His pupils had been dilated. He was high. She had sighed, shook her head, but she wrapped a towel around it, took him to get it stitched up. Then, the next day, she tried to scrub the stain out of the rug. It had been stubborn and she gave up eventually.
Casting her glance around the apartment once more, she sighed. Those were the signs. Those were the signs that he was dangerous. That Johnny was losing control of himself, becoming Jimmy instead. Those were all of the signs that it was time for her to leave. How was she only seeing them now? How had she spent so long believing that things could be okay? Had she actually thought that somehow she could have saved Johnny from all of this? The knife suddenly felt heavy in her hand and she had to bite back a laugh. She was concerned about saving Johnny. She was actually concerned for his well being. But what about herself? Who was concerned about saving her? No one. No one was there looking out for her, trying to protect her the way she had tried to protect Johnny from Jimmy. It was time for her to save herself. She was going to do it.
She ran a hand through her hair, closing her eyes for a moment and gathering her strength as she turned on the faucet, leaving the pressure low to avoid making too much noise. She began to scrub the dirt from the blade, hands trembling ever so slightly. The moment he'd pulled the knife her decision was made. She knew that she had to go. She just hadn't admitted it to herself until that moment…
When she was satisfied with the fact that the knife wouldn't get any cleaner, she shut the water off and returned it to its drawer. Making a slow circle, she cast her glance around the kitchen, her eyes finally landing on the pad of paper they kept next to the phone. She strode over to it, uncapping the pen, and took a deep breath to steady herself before she began writing.
You're not the Jesus of suburbia. The "Saint Jimmy" is a figment of your father's rage and your mother's love… Maybe the idiot America.
She stared down at the note, realizing how much pressure she'd been exerting, noting a torn portion of the paper. She took another deep breath, realizing her fingers were going numb from gripping the pen so harshly.
I can't take this place, I'm leaving it behind. I can't take this town, I'm leaving you tonight…
She paused for a moment, looking at the paper. She wasn't going to sign it. It was obvious who the note was from, it was obvious who the note was to. Signing her name felt like leaving a part of her behind. She wasn't going to do that.
Setting the pen down beside the paper, she turned on her heel and crept carefully back to the tiny bedroom, avoiding the bottles and garbage once more. She froze halfway into the room, the door creaking as she pushed it further. Her eyes darted over to the bed, every muscle in her body stiff. He wasn't awake. She released the doorknob and went to the closet, pulling out her suitcase and hurrying to pack her things. When she was satisfied that none of her possessions remained, she shut the suitcase and carried it into the kitchen, where she left her key beside the note. Then she left, not bothering to glance back toward the apartment.