From the Diary of Elizabeth Jackson - Date: __________________
_____________________
He took everything. Every bit of proof of what happened back then. Salvo. Vance. Kort. Jarvis. Benoit. My place within the corruption of running guns and drugs through our own cells to help launder the money that went back to the gun runners so we could trace it all. The cycle. Everything. The evidence from our team doctor in Paris. The non-redacted files. All I have are the memories of bruises on my neck and chest and breasts and between my legs and the scar someone carved into me in Serbia. It's a fucking cross. I bled for them and they ...
I'm too drunk to write. My words are already barely legible. But John didn't respond to wanting to go out and I know that if I did go out I'd just pick someone up and that ... probably isn't the best way to deal with what I'm feeling. I want to go see Jenny and I want to be in DC but see, I don't know if I can go in the damned house. Forget how much he hates my guts and doesn't want me anywhere near his family, but you know, I also I signed my life away to prosecute bastards before Jarvis got his hooks into the SecNav chair. Wonder how much he paid off the US attorney before my sister. Hey, they got the one who blew the whistle off their damned case and here I am, without any proof and with only half a memory of what happened. I don't think my remembering of a voice telling me I'd enjoy it will really matter in the long run, will it?
So it doesn't matter if I opt out or not now does it? Not like it's going to go anywhere. Not like it matters. What am I going to do? Go back to DC and sit there like a fucking bump on a log? I can do that here and here, I'm out of everyone's way. Let's be honest, Adam came to see me out of guilt. He couldn't be happier to be back where he doesn't have to worry up close. Jenny fucked up her health for me and now she's there, dealing with the bullshit of some asshole who couldn't keep his ego under any kind of goddamned control.
I just want to be in Paris holding her hand.
I can't be.
I need another drink.
He took everything. Every bit of proof of what happened back then. Salvo. Vance. Kort. Jarvis. Benoit. My place within the corruption of running guns and drugs through our own cells to help launder the money that went back to the gun runners so we could trace it all. The cycle. Everything. The evidence from our team doctor in Paris. The non-redacted files. All I have are the memories of bruises on my neck and chest and breasts and between my legs and the scar someone carved into me in Serbia. It's a fucking cross. I bled for them and they ...
I'm too drunk to write. My words are already barely legible. But John didn't respond to wanting to go out and I know that if I did go out I'd just pick someone up and that ... probably isn't the best way to deal with what I'm feeling. I want to go see Jenny and I want to be in DC but see, I don't know if I can go in the damned house. Forget how much he hates my guts and doesn't want me anywhere near his family, but you know, I also I signed my life away to prosecute bastards before Jarvis got his hooks into the SecNav chair. Wonder how much he paid off the US attorney before my sister. Hey, they got the one who blew the whistle off their damned case and here I am, without any proof and with only half a memory of what happened. I don't think my remembering of a voice telling me I'd enjoy it will really matter in the long run, will it?
So it doesn't matter if I opt out or not now does it? Not like it's going to go anywhere. Not like it matters. What am I going to do? Go back to DC and sit there like a fucking bump on a log? I can do that here and here, I'm out of everyone's way. Let's be honest, Adam came to see me out of guilt. He couldn't be happier to be back where he doesn't have to worry up close. Jenny fucked up her health for me and now she's there, dealing with the bullshit of some asshole who couldn't keep his ego under any kind of goddamned control.
I just want to be in Paris holding her hand.
I can't be.
I need another drink.