It’s hard for her to get drunk.
That’s something that Jessica figured out so long ago, when she was still aching inside, but not broken, when she still had her best friend, and didn’t have to imprison what was left of her.
(”Jesus, Trish, how much have you drank?” She asks, only slightly tipsy.
“The same as you,” Trish slurs from her place on Jessica’s lap).
[They were kids, and they were fools, getting yelled at when Dorothy came home to her vodka finished, but they were happy].
It’s a fucking stupid little thing that probably wouldn’t be as much of a problem for anyone stable, but she’s not, so here she is, drinking enough whiskey to kill somebody not enhanced.
Maybe with enough liquor in her blood, she’ll be able to get the image of Trish finally losing it out of her head; desperation in her eyes and a knife clutched in her hands.
(“It’s not your business, Jess.” Trish growls out, high off her fucking mind once again.
“I told you, I can’t help saving you.” Jessica tells her. “Even from yourself.”)
[It’s a promise that has taken a new meaning now. Yet, Trish still remains the only person that Jessica doesn’t break her promises with].
Erik says that she’s clear.
He says that Trish is not.
How is that possible?
It was suppose to be the other way around.
Jessica is the one that scares away their demons by fighting them in the dark, and Trish is the one that keeps them sane.
That’s how it is; Jessica breaks the bones of those that get too handsy, and Trish apologizes to whoever is in the bar when Jessica gets drunk enough that the bartender needs to call her.
Who are they going to call now?
Probably Malcolm.
Malcolm, who pressures her to take cases because rent is still a thing that needs to be taken care of.
Malcolm, who gives her a stern look when he reminds her for the hundredth time that excessive bourbon and the lack of a spleen do not go well together.
Malcolm, who is most likely the reason why she hasn’t run herself into an early grave by now.
He seems to have covered Trish’s job at that.
(”He’s not here.” Trish tells Jessica after another panic-attack hits. “It’s just me. Repeat the street names, Jess.”)
[Malcolm catches her once, when she’s lying against the wall of her apartment, unsure if she’s being haunted by the memories of Kilgrave, or her mom, or Trish, or all three.
He tries to help, he really does, but he doesn’t have the same soft spoken voice that Trish has.
That voice should never have belonged to a murder. No, a murderer has a british accent, or is filled with poisonous snark.
A murder can be the British man in a purple suit, or the standoffish alcoholic in a leather jacket. Not Trish].
“You deserve better than this.” Malcolm tells her when she’s leaning on him; intoxicated enough that he probably assumed that she wouldn’t remember anything.
Perhaps she does. Probably not.
Maybe Kilgrave and her mom didn’t deserve what their experiments turned them into.
Maybe Jeri doesn’t deserve to die from sickness that is slowly taking everything from her.
Maybe Trish doesn’t deserve being tossed into a max-security prison for the rest of her life because she finally lost enough that it didn’t matter to her anymore.
It doesn’t mean anything, because it happens anyways.
“No, I don’t.” Jessica said, instead of anything that she’s thinking, since she was never good at putting things into words, and it’s better to say that she doesn’t, so nothing needs to change.
She’ll be in charge of her own destruction.
That’s more than Jeri, her mom, Kilgrave, and Trish got.
—————————————————————-
”Find what you love and let it kill you.”