A/N: I've been listening to a lot of Lana Del Rey lately, and she is just...a really good fit for Jessica, I think.
Sometimes you feel like talking, but you know better, so you sit on your bed with Jack Daniels cradled between your knees and whisper out all the crap you need to say, and then you shut the hell up.
(Nobody wants to hear that. You don't want them to).
Sometimes you feel like your chest is going to split open, and you heart is going to thump and thump and reach—and it's all going to spill out. There'll be so much blood, and your last footsteps will track it in one final staccato message.
(Alcohol isn't a comfort. It's a drug. You're not an idiot. Drugs don't make you feel good. They stop the feelings altogether, if you're lucky, and if you're not, at least they shut them up.)
Sometimes you feel like screaming, but your throat and your teeth are shut.
Sometimes you feel like you deserved it—not him, but just, the hellish parts of life in general, because if was your fault they died, and you've always been a nasty piece of work.
(You're just—worse, now.)
Sometimes you feel like you've lied to Trish, even though she knows the most truth. But if she knew you—the real you—then why would she stick around?
Sometimes you feel. You feel, you feel goddamnithurtssomuch—
And sometimes you feel nothing at all.