A/N: Thank you so much for all of your reviews-they mean the world to me. And a special thank you to AliyahNCIS-you have no idea how much that PM meant to me. This chapter was kind of difficult to write-simply because getting into Jenny's head in this state hurts. More than you would think, to be honest. And if this chapter doesn't make sense, please tell me. I donated blood today and I'm still a tad fuzzy (Jibbsgal1, I took a tiny nap before I finished this, I promise).
Disclaimer: I own the OCs and the plot.
"It's easy to be tough, but hard to be strong," –A.B. (a close friend of my best friend)
It took Jenny a little while to compose herself enough to move.
When she did, she cautiously settled into the chair behind her desk, her hands shaking as they sifted through the papers cluttering the desktop. Deciding to sort through them seemed like a good idea-it would keep both her hands and her mind busy.
She needed to forget this incident. Because if she didn't, then it was just going to push her closer and closer and closer to the very thin edge she was on.
And she couldn't fall. Not again.
Maybe she should run a bath. If it didn't help her relax, it would at least give her a chance to shave her-
Shit. She couldn't think about a razor anymore. Already she was battling against the thoughts swirling round her brain-the ones that told her she could just 'accidently' slip when shaving her ankles, leaving those small, unnoticeable cuts.
No. She would not go there. She was going to run a bath, fill it with lavender bath salts, and re-freaking-lax.
At least she hoped.
She pushed back from the desk, standing up and bracing herself against the solid wooden surface, taking a deep breath. Walking out of the room, she counted each of her footsteps carefully. Thirty to get to the stairs, one on each of the twenty six stairs, fifteen down the hallway, ten into her bedroom and then bathroom, three into the bathroom. Eighty four steps total.
Continuing her deep breathing, she stiffened when she saw the package of new razors in the open cabinet next to the sink. She closed the door to the small wooden cabinet, her hands shaking as she resisted the overwhelming urge. Her fingers remained on the knob, unable to let go.
"Let go," she whispered, almost demanding her fingers to remove themselves. "I will not let myself do this, not tonight, not again. I will be strong enough."
It took more willpower than she would have liked to admit to get her fingers to release their grasp of the tiny silver knob. Leaning against the sink to regroup and prepare for her next task, she closed her eyes, trying to wish away the pain.
Even though she'd learned a long time ago that no amount of wishing could make this kind of pain stop.
Slowly, she opened her eyes and headed towards the tub and twisted the hot water knob after pushing in the plug to let the tub fill. She watched the water gush out of the faucet for a little while, the cascading water capturing her concentration for a short while. Eventually she stood, working the kinks out of her back and walking back into her bedroom.
She undressed methodically; first she unstrapped her high heels, pulling them off each foot and placing them back in her closet neatly, shutting the closet door afterward. Next she took off her sweater, pulling it over her head and tossing it into the hamper, and then she carefully unbuttoned each of the buttons of her blouse with her shaky fingers, cursing when she slipped, finally shrugging the cream-colored silk shirt off of her shoulders and placing it in the dry-cleaning pile near the closet door. Her slacks came next-both buttons were carefully slid out of their holes, the zipper pushed to the bottom before she let them fall to her ankles. She stepped out of the khaki pants, bending down to pick them up and toss them into her hamper. Now standing in only her bra and panties, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
And she still cringed at what she saw.
Her body, had, at one point, held no scars.
Not anymore.
Her arms were laced with scars-some from decades ago, some from nine years ago, and some from two years ago. But her arms weren't the only places with scars.
The soft skin of her stomach was crisscrossed with now-white lines as well. Contrary to popular belief, the arms weren't the only place to inflict pain. It hurt almost more to cut into her abdomen.
But most noticeable on the front of her body was the large scar near her hipbone. The pink scar marred the pale skin of her hips, the line precisely set against the bone. The memory of getting it was still ingrained in her brain, but she fought against the desire to relive it. It was too painful for tonight-too painful to remember when she almost joined her best friend.
She had never had such a mixed reaction to her father before; she'd been upset that he'd stopped her from ending it all, but grateful that he'd saved her from herself. Slicing through her skin with her father's Army knife, just wanting the pain to end.
Ironically enough, she'd only caused herself more pain, in the long run.
She pulled her thoughts away, shaking her head as a chill ran up her spine. The sound of the gushing faucet reminded her of her bath, and she slipped out of her panties and unsnapped her bra, throwing both into the hamper. She padded slowly into the bathroom, throwing some of the bath salts into the steaming water before tying her hair up into a high bun, tucking the crimson strands into in.
She turned off the faucet and threw her white silk robe onto the counter before sliding into the scalding water. The temperature was a few degrees hotter than most could stand, but that was exactly how Jenny liked it. She sank further into the water, submerging herself more fully into the bath.
It took all of her control not to let herself just slip under the water and slip away.
He was pissed.
He was so pissed he couldn't even see straight.
He slammed her front door on his way out, the smack it made when it hit the frame oddly satisfying. Only to be followed with a pang of regret as he remembered her words from a few months ago.
"I've been rather fond of that door since I was a child."
A child. Her childhood. A childhood he knew nothing of.
Why should he, though?
They'd never been one to talk about their pasts, that much was plain to see. If they'd talked, this whole mess possibly could have been avoided. He growled in frustration, seeing red as he started his pick up truck, smacking the wheel with his palm, the sharp 'smack' it made making him feel slightly better.
Damn that frustrating woman! Why couldn't she just admit she was wrong and they could move forward?
Because she learned from the best, the ever annoying voice in the back of his head told him. Because she learned from you, and when do you ever admit you're wrong? You're Leroy Jethro Gibbs!
He growled again, anger filling him.
"Damn it Jen why do you always have to make everything so damn difficult?" he muttered, shaking his head fiercely, annoyance filling him. "You couldn't just say whatever the hell it is that's bothering you?"
When he pulled into his house, he was still surprised he hadn't been pulled over. He'd been speeding at least twenty miles over the speed limit, and he was pretty sure he'd blown through a handful of stop signs, and even one red light.
He honestly didn't remember the entire drive.
It took him thirty seconds to get into his house, another sixty to go down into his basement, and then another twenty five to have a full mason jar of bourbon in his hand. He downed the alcohol almost greedily-he relished the burn it provided against his esophagus, enjoying the way the pain brought his mind off of Jen for about fifteen seconds.
Until he remembered her again.
What the hell was she keeping from him? Why couldn't she trust him?
Probably because she thinks you don't trust her, that nagging voice whispered again, feeling the tiny devil on his shoulder. I mean look at how you've treated her recently, with La Grenouille and Hollis and just in general. You aren't exactly about to win a Nobel Peace Prize, my friend.
"Jen can't think I don't trust her," Jethro whispered, shaking his head. "She knows I'd trust her with my life."
Does she? the voice asked, sounding skeptical in his ear. Does she know that? Why would she know that? How? You haven't exactly done anything to prove that you still do. She may have thought you trusted her at one point, a long time ago, but since that lovely little margarita safari you went on, she doesn't know which was is up and which way is down with you anymore.
"Jen wouldn't think that," Jethro said, shaking his head again, taking another healthy gulp of liquor.
She is the one who kept your rekindled relationship from you, the voice reminded him, velvet entering its tone. Why would she keep that from you if she believed that you trusted her?
"I didn't give her a reason to tell me," Jethro realized, wincing slightly as the reasons came to light.
He'd been so wrapped up in losing Shannon and Kelly again, he'd pushed away all help at remembering-and that included Jenny. And if they had been in a relationship again-which he didn't doubt, because it was just too plain to see that they had been-then learning about his late wife and daughter would have ripped any semblance of trust she'd thought she'd had with him.
It made him want to head slap himself for throwing it in her face that it was her fault.
"Damn it!"
The mason jar flew across the basement, smashing into the far concrete wall and breaking, the remains of the bourbon splashing against the wall and dripping down while the tinkling sound of falling glass filled the basement as the millions of pieces of the jar fell to the floor like rain.
He'd screwed up, big time. And this time, he didn't think he knew how to fix it.
Jenny was steadily finding that her bath was not relaxing her at all.
The water was no longer as hot as she would have liked, and she had to resist the urge to just sink back down in to the water and disappear. Her muscles still felt tight and tense, the ache it created running through her and making her cringe, throwing her head back as her spine arched in discomfort.
Deciding she may as well get out, she pulled the plug and watched as the water started to form a small whirlpool by the drain as it rushed out of the tub. Finally standing and drying herself off with a thick white towel, she slipped into her robe.
Picking out pajamas was a process. First she had to weigh the pros and cons of a night gown over flannel pants and a t-shirt. Then, she had to choose which t-shirt to wear with the pair of dark blue flannel pants she'd picked.
It would go unnoticed that they were the same pants he'd left at her house and she'd never returned.
Finally selecting a dark blue camisole, she pulled it on over her head, adjusting the straps over her thin shoulders. She slipped the pants on over her comfortable white boy-short panties, rolling the waistband over her hips, the shirt and pants leaving a thin expanse of creamy white skin exposed.
She walked back into the bathroom, hands shaking as her hand touched the knob. She took a deep breath, pushing through the shakiness as she opened the door and grabbed her toothbrush and toothpaste before slamming the door shut, closing her eyes. She collected herself enough to wet her brush and put the paste on before starting the routine.
She brushed each individual tooth before then brushing circles against her teeth, the dentist taught you when you were five. Next were the horizontal stripes, then the vertical. She spit into the sink before rinsing her brush and putting more toothpaste on, starting the process all over again.
When she'd finished her third round, she placed the brush on the counter and reached into the cabinet underneath the sink for the mouthwash. She filled a small cup with the winter mint mouthwash, emptying the cup into her mouth and swishing, the alcohol burning her cheeks and her tongue.
She spit, filled, and repeated four more times, finally placing the mouthwash back under the sink. She picked up her toothbrush, hands beginning to shake once again, though more violently this time.
One hand rested on the knob, and she took a deep breath, yanking it open. She placed her toothbrush back in its place, but before she could close it, they fell.
The package of razors fell into the sink, one single razor sliding out of the package and just lying there, blade side up. Jenny swallowed, the fingers on her right hand curling together, as though aching to pick it up.
And she did. She did ache, so badly. Would it really hurt to do it just once?
That's when she made the decision, because if she waited any longer, blood would be running down her arms in no time. The phone was at her ear in seconds, the number from the paper that had been in her pocket punched in and dialed.
And all Jenny could do was hope that she picked up.
"Patricia?" she asked, her voice whisper-soft and suddenly childlike in its desperate need for a single person to care about her. "I think I need you tonight."
Admittance was the first step to solving any problem.
Wasn't it?