When I get home, I methodically purge my body of everything that has happened these few weeks. First off, I stick my fingers down my throat to take the poison out of my stomach, hunch over a toilet bowl gracelessly until I'm sure the booze has left my system, and there's no more nausea. Then, I shower – scrub the blood from under my shockingly sharp fingernails (this should worry me, but really doesn't; it's probably from scratching down someone's back anyway) and put the clothes that I don't own in an empty drawer afterwards.
I remove day-old makeup, and spend a while studying my cleansed appearance, drawing the lines on my face out with lotion and bringing my shoulders up to make my clavicle look more defined than it actually is. I'm radiant, glowing in fact. I put on a pair of clean slacks and a sports bra, and then go to the kitchen to prepare a chicken salad. Really, it feels classier than it actually is. I lay an artificial mood lighting candelabra on the table, and eat to a quiet selection of smooth jazz and blues.
At around 5:55pm after dinner – when I'm sat on a black leather couch in the sitting room debating that instead of cranberry juice, I have a single glass of wine to wash down the meal with, I begin to remember parts. And I don't mean parts of the night – I mean a man. The first thought that washes over me is of him, and the second is why shouldn't I be thinking about Kilgrave? He's the one, true purpose in my life right now. To impress, before my life goes to waste at his hand and I fall helplessly in line with the rest of the pale imitations of Jones.
Jones. And now, all of a sudden, certain scenes of that hazy conversation earlier fall into place. Hope Schlottman. Mind-control. The shirt is his, and the clothes... He must've gotten someone to fetch them for me. Everything comes back all at once, and maybe it is a bit of a shock at first. Actually, a huge one. I slept with him, and I'm still alive. I had rough, passionate sex several times over, topped off with oral as many times as we could both keep going, with Kilgrave, and I loved it. And holy shit, that bastard would grin at me from outside that fucking cafe earlier, knowing about- No, keep it cool.
Needless to say, I am no longer feeling passivity and smooth jazz. Damn him, he would make me forget him just to be petty? I hate men. Either way, I take my cranapple into my room, feeling a sudden urge to stay sober, and pluck out the shirt. I bury my face in it, and to my luck it still smells like how I remember him smelling. Expensive aftershave, acquired not brought, musk and sweat. I bring the letter out of my bag, and look at it as if it's a freak of nature. No, it literally is. If it's anything I have learnt about the true freaks of nature whilst I've been in their company, it's that they do not write letters.
Regardless, the lettering is hand-written, and so I'm guessing Kilgrave got Dick and Roger to scribe for him. I open it methodically, resisting the urge to tear at the envelope as I sit upon my bed. When I unfold the A4, I completely blanch. Well, that was unexpected. I was expecting a hand-written declaration of love... Or, something dismissing me, and telling me to run errands in knowing I will do whatever he wants without compelling me. But who the fuck is S.H.I.E.L.D? And what is an industrial spy-branded typed letter doing addressed to me in said beautiful-freak-of-nature's house? Uh-oh. I'm in trouble.
CONFIDENTIAL
Addressed to Jane Hart
This is a private matter, therefore we expect confidentiality. We know who you are, where you live and your contacts. Do not try and find us.
Well, a man that begins a letter with a threat is my kind of man... Or, woman.
S.H.I.E.L.D has reason to believe you have relations with an experimental mutation of a nature that is detrimental to society. An agent, currently tracking Kevin Thompson, otherwise known as Kilgrave, has expressed concern towards this relationship and advised you against making any further contact with this man, for the safety of yourself and your society. If you deter us from our position, we will have to count you as a low-threat hostile.
Well... I guess that's one bridge burnt. But seriously? Kevin? No wonder he ended up a sociopath, with a name like that. Goddamn, I can see how easy it is to become a bad guy. All you have to do is screw someone right in the middle of it all and bang... You're no longer trusted. I swear to god I need to see him now and tell him to be more careful. I mean, shit, I could show this to Jones and she could liaison with the insider and bring Kilgrave down in a non-fatal way with the evidence they both can collect.
The fuck am I saying? I don't want justice, I want mind-blowing sex. And lots of it. And I'm going to need to meet him again for that. Fuck S.H.I.E.L.D, whoever they are. The worse they can do to me... Kilgrave can do worse. I count the time once more, to check the effectiveness of Kilgrave's ability. Twelve hours. He woke me up at dawn and put thoughts into my head. Great. He's not as powerful as he thinks he is, which is bad news for us both. Good for Jones and the agent, but the actual fuck, I don't know which side to take. It's like I'm deliberately rebelling against the do-gooding side for the sake of not being righteous. Or, for the sake of good sex. I really am pathetic.
After thinking for a long time, led down on my bed playing a playlist of overdramatic dark slow-ish songs, I come to a decision. I'm going to leave it all behind, and change state. I've had my taste of excitement, and now I'm going to write a book, maybe turn it into a saga, about a dream man who is extremely dangerous, but whom I am unconditionally and irrevocably in love with... And then make up the rest about how we have a special powered child that I almost die birthing.
Oh shit. That's copyrighted. Ah well, I'm sure I'll think of something without ripping off Stephanie Meyer to fund my life. Or on the other hand, I could beg to stay with Kilgrave... And somehow offer him what he wants without Jones, so I live in the lap of luxury in return. Travelling wherever... The best food, the best alcohol. Five-star hotels, Europe and Africa... Yeah, yeah Hart, you can write that from a safe distance. As if it's a realistic fantasy anyway, because he will cast you aside more painfully than he did this afternoon and carry on his pursuit of Jones. As if life was ever fair for me anyway. I think too much, he even agreed.
Keep your head clear, my sweet
Just focus on me and how this is making you feel.
Right now, horny, and very. I feel like crying. He's in my head – he's in my lungs. He's all I can see and all I can breathe. God, no wonder the people he has only once graced feel so damn affected. I can sympathise with Jones a bit more now, imagining what the aftermath must have been like for her. I can't see straight, I can't even think seriously. I need to get the fuck away, or choose a path that may as well be suicide. And accept that the path is, indeed, suicide, not romance and Rome and Twilight.
I begin looking at flights after another half-hour of contemplating. I have family all along the Atlantic coast, so it won't be hard finding somewhere with common ground. Somewhere far enough away from the madness here to rejuvenate my common sense. Somewhere far enough away to pretend that the last month hasn't happened, and that we can all feel safe at night because there's no power higher than the government, and no-one that could successfully oppose it.
Come on, Hart. Life, mundane as it is, or death, elaborate and exciting and completely new? God, I need a therapist. I'd ask Jones, but I know what she'd say. I'd message Kilgrave, but hearing his voice would fuck with my head in more ways than one. Jenny's away on business, and Nicole is hopeless. The rest of my friends are too immature to give me advice. Who to call? Mom. Call mom, and use a more realistic, romanticised metaphor for your life to help make a decision.
Or, get high.