calm down my heart, don't beat so fast [tailored but not necessarily locked]
In a tiny, out-of-the-way neighborhood park just outside downtown Chicago, someone is sitting on a swing. He's just rocking back and forth, making patterns in the sand below with the one foot that's hanging down off the swing. The other is tucked up onto it, knee under his chin
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The cigarette's gone already; he stubs the rest of it out on the dirt near him, flicking it in the general direction of the trash. Last cigarette for the day, for awhile. He likes to think he'll wait a few days, but he's never been able to do that except when he was completely out of money. Which is getting closer and closer to his situation right now, anyway. He leans forward, hands unconsciously curling around his shoulders to rub at the scars on his back. They're itching, almost hurting, but he's not letting the stubs out yet. He can't.
"Didn't find everyone," he says. "Some of them--most of them were dead, others didn't fucking want to see me or thought they could give me their fucking pity and I'd--take it and be grateful." He almost spits out the words, but the anger isn't sustained. It's hard for him to stay angry, at least angrier than usual. "Even Asa didn't--"
This isn't why he wanted to talk to her. He knows this is just smalltalk, just avoidance on his part. But even cutting himself off, it's hard to say what he came here to say. He can't look at her when he does. "I wanted--I wanted to ask something of you."
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She sits quietly while he explains what happens to the others, the others she can barely remember. She wants to remember now, wants to know the faces, wants to remember just what Asa looked like and not the blurry image she thinks she has of her old friends.
And then he switches topics and she looks at him intently. "Anything," she replies. "Absolutely anything I can do for you, just ask, Jer-- just ask me."
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And then she's telling him 'anything' and it sounds like she means it and that hurts somehow more than he was expecting it to. She doesn't even know him. She doesn't know what he's going to ask her, and he doesn't think she'll understand it.
"Don't. I want--need you to--" he breaks off, looking down at his hands, at the ground, at the trees and benches and playground in the park. Anywhere but at her, though he's keeping her in his peripheral vision, watching for movement towards him. Movement at all. "I don't--I don't want you to--just don't say yes before you understand every fucking thing about what I'm asking."
Okay, he's said that. He can say the rest of it. He's rehearsed this over and over in his head, played through scenarios where she respected his wishes, where she tried to heal him anyway, where she recoiled in horror or lashed out in anger or any of the myriad possibilities. And yes he's already deviated from his script -- and of his scripts -- and that makes things unpredictable. This is a situation where he doesn't want unpredictable.
"I want you to heal me," he almost whispers, still staring off into the distance. There. At least he's said the words. Now to wait for the fallout.
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