He comes back.
It's an endless, suffocating night-terror. Step by step she follows his trail, his humiliations, realizing finally that the girl he has in his grip is nothing more than a pawn.
Jessica is his endgame.
Unable to breathe, hardly capable of thought, she can act only on instinct; the instinct to run, run as far and as fast as she can before he calls checkmate.
It's the only thing to do.
So why do Trish's words keep echoing in her head?
I know that you are far better equipped to deal with that animal than some poor girl from Omaha!
Trish never understood the reality of Kilgrave, how could she? The idea that someone could, with a whisper, not only make you do anything but make you want to do anything...
But Jessica understands. She knows.
Better to die than let him get his hands on her a second time. And really, she should have died when she was sixteen, should have died with her family. Every day, every minute lived afterwards has been a mistake, a gift given in error.
Even as this thought rises, Jessica feels her heart pound fiercely, hands trembling with the pulsing rush of blood. She wants her life for as long as she can keep it.
Running. Solid plan. As solid as any plan can be that is, when it involves Kilgrave. Jessica sets her face to the airport and shuts her eyes as the streets fly by.
Poisonous mushroom-doubts grow in the shadows of her mind:
Sucks about Hope, of course. Pity the poor kid, but she's just bait. That asshole won't get the satisfaction of catching me so easy. It's not my responsibility. I don't deserve this. I never did.
It's not my fault.
All true.
All irrelevant. Rationalizations. Cowardice. Jessica's stomach sinks with roiling, acidic shame; of all things she has ever been, a coward is not one of them. Yet here she is, ready to leave this kid to a life of—
It's unbearable.
What if someone had tried—even if knowing it was hopeless—to help her? What if someone—even though unconnected to her—had cared?
It probably wouldn't have changed anything, but it would have meant everything.
Of course, it's hopeless. The minute she's in earshot, it'll be over.
But Hope will be free. Maybe.
Maybe—Jessica winces, brow furrowing in the gut-shot pain of the thought—she can make him happy enough that he'll forget Hope entirely.
She knows how to do that.
It's a horrible plan. It can't help but be. Still, the words spill out in a ragged rush:
"Actually, I need to make a stop first."
Jessica Jones is a rancid piece of shit, a sucking waste of space, a piping hot mess, but she is not a fucking coward.
She'll be damned if he makes her into one.
Fin