Summary: And you hate him for making you feel like this. Oneshot.

Disclaimer: Um…I don't own it. If I did, many, many things about the show would be different. Just…trust me on that.

A/N: This was sort of experimental. One of the lines came to me for an art I was making and I decided that it would be cool to write in a fic, so here it is. This is kind of short and rather strange, so let me know what you think. The rating is for language and the somewhat-disturbing thoughts of our favorite girl.

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You're pretty damn sure that your throat shouldn't burn like this and you're not sure why you didn't see this coming.

You feel like you could hurl right now, but what would that help at all? Nothing, nothing, nothing, and you know it more than you want to admit. He's mangled and limping and damn-near strangled and bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, and you can't believe you said no.

Only say no if you really don't want to be with me.

Punch to the gut and it hurts, bleeds, breaks, shatters you into pieces that you're sure you can't pick up. You're broken and breaking and so fucking sorry for faking.

No!

Every time that word left your mouth you felt the sutures tearing, tearing, tearing, just a little more and it hurt, hurt, hurt, but you didn't even care. You wanted him to feel what you felt when he left and it was sick, wrong, and so fucking painful to watch him walk away again.

You jump when he moves around you in the thin, simple, threadbare strip of hallway and you want to cry and curl into a ball and die before watching him be in this much pain.

And when you remember (again, again, again) that you delivered the first blow with one stupid, two-letter syllable, you think you're better off alone. Lonely, solo, independent, a heinous, uncaring, cold-hearted bitch and you hate him for making you feel like this.

Your hand is on his arm and he's hissing in pain and you don't know what you came here to say. I'm sorry; I didn't mean it; I love you, I love you, I love you, yes, yes, "Yes."

He freezes and so do you and all you see is brown, brown, brown: wide chocolate eyes with a million questions that you can't even begin to answer. You're fucking scared to be with him and fucking terrified to lose him and you don't want to go home without him but you don't know how you can.

He lets out a breath that quivers on the air and you're sorry, sorry, sorry that he's hurt so fucking badly and you would touch him if you thought he wouldn't break.

Metal rasps on metal and the door swings open and his hand is on your elbow but you don't know what to do. You should be dead, dying, six feet under, for the hell you put him through but he's looking at you like you have a fucking halo and that stabs you more sharply than it should. And then he's squeezing, squeezing, squeezing and pulling you into his apartment and you're too far gone to fight.

--

The cushions are far too soft for someone as undeserving of comfort as you and you wish you were cold, cold, cold, freezing your ass off outside while he lives the New York high life and forgets all about the small town princess.

He sits down beside you and you stare at the floor. You flinch when he touches your hand because you can feel it, feel it, feel it, and you're more alive than you've been in months. So you flinch and pull away from him because you're supposed to be dead and buried six feet under, under, under, rotting in silk with maggots in your hair.

When he kisses you, it's two years ago, and the problems between you are gone. His mouth slants over yours again, again, again, and you're sure he'll kick you out soon.

But then he's talking, apologizing, you think, and you hate, hate, hate him for making you feel like this: drowning, falling, crashing, flying, dying in the sound of his voice. (And you hate him for that, too. Your death is supposed to be slow, slow, slow, and more painful than anyone's before.)

His fingers tangle with yours and you're breathing, breathing, breathing in the scent of his cologne and you're tired of fighting so you sigh into his mouth and his name is like a prayer from your own. Jess, Jess, Jess is the only thing you know and you wonder why, why, why you were stupid enough to say no.

--End--