Never asked me about the wrong I did.

[lumeria]

Look Past the Blood on Your Hands Red's in your ledger or you're making your way towards a crimson page by your very nature. Did you simply do what you had to do in order to survive? No one could understand how you lived. That could be just what you tell yourself, though; really, you might have enjoyed your crimes. You're not proud of some of what you've done, no matter what, and there's a part of you that will probably never heal. If you were someone else looking in, you'd never be able to stand looking at you, much less stomach you. But someone does all of that willingly. They can look past the blood on your hands and the bad decisions weighing on your shoulders. It's you they care about, not your history. Actually, they may even love you, though you can't begin to fathom why. Comment with your character, preferences, and whether your character is the one with guilt or past sins or the one looking past all that. Reply to others. Have fun.

Comments

[underachievement]

[ i'm sorry about me pm to follow ]

[ after leaving reva, she can't bring herself to go back, even to smash kilgrave's head in for good measure -- fuck it, for good old fashioned retribution. she just has to get out of earshot, and keeps walking until she's remembered why she's started, and wonders where to go from there as her tiny stiletto heels scrape the cement, feet pulled forward at a detached drag.

eighteen months ago, her first thought might have been the police, even if she didn't pursue it. it doesn't occur to her to go the authorities, though she could explain every second in vivid detail. they wouldn't believe her. she knows if she goes left at the crosswalk, stopping belatedly at the curb's edge, there's a precinct a few blocks away. once the street is empty but before the signal to walk is lit, she keeps going forward.

when a pedestrian heading opposite knocks into her shoulder, she spontaneously wonders if she ought to be crying, now that she can, now that she's permitted to, but everything still feels so far away. cold air adheres to her sticky fingers and creeps up her wrists, under her coat. she only tucks them into her pocket once she's approaching the door to the building. the doorman lights up, recognizing her. "miss jones," he says though it doesn't register as a joke, much less an inside one. she just nods as he holds the door ajar and then steps in. she leaves blood on the elevator buttons. the numbers glow white through the smears. then she throws up, trying to lurch to the corner in time and speckling her shoes with vomit.

all at once distressed, jess rips off her coat and covers her sick with it, as a gentleman might bridge a puddle for his date. then she heaves again onto it, steadying herself on the cab walls and the door that tries to close on her as she exits onto the penthouse floor. she couldn't feel more disgusting if she called the elevator back and donned her coat again. she thinks to rip off her stupid little kitten heels but trish's door is right there, trish is right there, and if anyone would believe her, let alone join her in setting her entire outfit on fire, that's where she needs to go.

an amble at first, jess ends up rushing to the door and banging on it, hard. she has to be home. she has to be home. ]