Disclaimer: I do not own Jessica Jones or any of the characters.
WARNING: Rated for LANGUAGE, VIOLENT and SUICIDAL THOUGHTS. Trigger warnings. Reader discretion is requested.
Maybe there's a Kilgrave in all of us, whispering tempting lies into our ears till we fool ourselves into believing them, a sneaky little bitch that edits our memories, like it's a fucking photo on Instagram, to be viewed through rose-tinted overlays and shit.
Maybe the line between the events and the flashbacks and his words and her feelings are so tangled, like a thorny vine tying a noose around a dying tree trunk, that she can no longer tell what is real and what is her imagination painting her biggest fears with a magical torture brush.
Maybe now is not the right time to think about any of these. It's Christmas after all. Happy happy time and all those goddamn things they say in those bloody commercials.
She's still not sure why the hell they are even celebrating Christmas. "Kilgrave is gone forever, we should party", Trish had said. She had taken a long chug off her beer mug and politely pointed out that Hope is fucking dead. Then Malcolm had insisted it's a good idea and refused to go home for Christmas till he had a better grip on life. And so here she is somehow, shopping for goddamn Christmas presents at the goddamn last minute.
Kilgrave is gone forever, she thinks, relishing the memory of snapping his neck. The streets are decked with flashing neon lights and crowds of overtly cheerful people, and the store is playing that song that they used to listen to together, and this feels just like that time she spent Christmas with him, and fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, she thinks, but it's too late.
It's like even the cold is afraid of him, afraid to hit him with its full force, like he commanded it to stay the hell away. It's winter, it's hasn't snowed, and the thermostat has to be set at a ridiculous temperature for this time of the year. She has wrapped herself in a purple sweater, smiling for him like he wants her to, and she wants to laugh at herself, at how she feels frozen inside. He takes her hand in his, and the fat man with the white beard and a red suit makes her think of blood. Blood flowing through his veins that she wants to drain away, drop by agonizing drop. Or maybe the blood in hers that feel like frozen drops of cyanide. He must have noticed her troubled train of thoughts, and it baffles her to think why he even bloody cares, but he shoots her with a command- smile, you're happy.
Oh. She is happy. She's happier than she has been in years now. There's a bear made of lights playing tunes on a violin that reminds her of her childhood, and the canopy of tiny colorful bulbs all over the streets are like little constellations, all assembled together to greet her with a smile. His hand is in hers through the sleeves of her sweater, and they're playing his favorite song, and nothing could be better than this.
Except the chance to sink her claws inside his throat and rip his bloody tongue out. Chop it into tiny little pieces and feed it to him, like he shoves his bloody whims on people till they all choke on it.
Smile, and she does. There's a soft cool breeze against her face, running its gentle fingers through the strands of her hair, and she closes her eyes and breathes in the sweet smell of him and Christmas and happiness and life.
She wants to throw up and run away and never look back.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He has a tiny snow globe on the table near their bed, and she's been watching it for the last two minutes while he deals with someone at the door. There's a girl trapped in that little piece of glass, dancing away while being showered with what is supposed to be flecks of snow but seems more fitting to call ashes, and accompanied by a cheerful christmas tune.
She wants to hurl it into the wall and smash it into pieces. Shatter everything until there's nothing left but dust, insignificant debris that fade away against the backdrop of an endless universe.
She wants to stay in this moment forever- happy, loved, protected, cherished, and most importantly- his.
He comes back with an excited grin on his face, and she carefully forces her muscles to tuck the smile back on hers. "Look what I got you for Christmas!"
She takes her present, thanks him with a kiss, rips it open, and sees a velvet box. Inside it are two tiny earrings, stone studded and purple. They look like tempting pills of poison, ready to be swallowed, ready to take her into the fortress of eternal sleep, away from his reach.
"Put it on", he commands, and she does. She catches her reflection in the mirror, trapped inside the glass, dancing away forever to his sickly tune.
She wants to break out. This can't be happening to her again.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The Christmas tree is huge, bells and stars and candy canes and angels hanging from it. She doesn't believe in Christmas miracles, not when she's been living captive with a monster and nobody has come to her rescue. There's supposed to be superheroes in this world, but the last time she checked, he's still latching onto her hand and her smile feels permanently etched on her face, as if his command holds the same powers as Medusa's gaze.
She places the one he made her buy for him below the tree, wishing it would explode and take them with it. No such luck. She gets back to her designated place beside him and smiles.
This is the best Christmas ever. Everything is so bright and colorful and perfect- just like him.
"I'll never leave you", he promises, and her skin crawls. "Tell me you love me."
It feels logical that believing she does will make this almost bearable. But there are Trish's voicemails that he will dictate how to respond to, and friends she's no longer allowed to see, and men he gets jealous of and she has to stay away from so he doesn't hurt them. How can anyone love someone like this? "I love you."
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Excuse me, we're about to close up. Did you want to buy something?"
She finds herself back in the world where Kilgrave is dead and she's in control of her own life and prays to all the deities that she doesn't believe in that this isn't a bloody dream. "Yeah", she says curtly, and shifts through the aisles to buy the presents, and a few dozens of wine bottles for herself- merry, merry Christmas.
Kilgrave is never gone, he's always in her head, asking her to smile. Killing the person can never kill the noise. It's never over, it's never far, and it never leaves her alone. The faster she runs, the quicker it catches up with her. And that's the whole goddamn problem, isn't it? She's running constantly, from him, from her past, from her present. There's a powerful denial of the fact that shit happened to her and life will never be the same again. Maybe she needs to stop for a minute and stare it in the eye, let it strip her to the bones till it has no power left over her. Her story is a part of her, disembodied and haunting her, till she can own it, welcome it back into its safe abode inside her and lets it rage in its grave.
She walks home alone and sees his silhoutte on every corner she turns, and it stops chasing her once she starts to accept that it's there and always will be and simply ignores it. There's music and clatter drifting through the streets and her feet are sweating inside her socks and trainers, and she feels a little less dead. She catches the reflection of her weary form on the window pane of a car, and for the first time in a long time, she sees a hero. "Smile, it's Christmas." his voice whispers in her head, and she doesn't.
A/N: Merry Christmas :) I do believe killing your abuser or yourself isn't the answer, nor is constantly searching or pining for your old self. The thing that worked for me is accepting the shitty state of things. lol. :P