(no subject)
It's a little bit like being in a rollercoaster, living in Jim's head, and right now he's in one of the downward plunges. Maybe a fucking double loop.
Talking to Annie (he refuses to call it therapy) helped, at first. There was even a night, a full fucking night, where he'd slept through to dawn, and Jim had felt fucking fantastic. For a moment after he'd woken up, he could almost believe he was back home in his own bed like the past few months had never happened.
But no, his mum and da were still dead, the world had still gone to shit, and Jim was still on an island.
The talking had been good. Except for the little fact that it meant Jim had to think about what happened instead of pretending it hadn't, and it meant more nightmares. Less sleep. More wondering what the fuck kind of universe or luck or whatever kept him alive and safe here (or as safe as he could be without Infected around) when others hadn't. When Hannah and Selena were still back in England, maybe dead without him.
Why, of all the millions of people in London, in England, in the entire fucking world, did he survive?
Thoughts like that are starting to pop into Jim's mind more and more often, and the more they do, the more time he realizes he had on his hands to think about it. Which is the entire reason Jim's now in front of the bookshelf, eyes skipping over the romance, the Russian literature, the tons and tons of fucking classics. He doesn't even know anyone who'd actually ever read War and Peace.
Jim's about to give up when his eyes stop on a book, and a second later he's pulling it out and staring down at the cover.
"What the fuck?" follows another second after that, a little loud and far from fucking impressed.
Talking to Annie (he refuses to call it therapy) helped, at first. There was even a night, a full fucking night, where he'd slept through to dawn, and Jim had felt fucking fantastic. For a moment after he'd woken up, he could almost believe he was back home in his own bed like the past few months had never happened.
But no, his mum and da were still dead, the world had still gone to shit, and Jim was still on an island.
The talking had been good. Except for the little fact that it meant Jim had to think about what happened instead of pretending it hadn't, and it meant more nightmares. Less sleep. More wondering what the fuck kind of universe or luck or whatever kept him alive and safe here (or as safe as he could be without Infected around) when others hadn't. When Hannah and Selena were still back in England, maybe dead without him.
Why, of all the millions of people in London, in England, in the entire fucking world, did he survive?
Thoughts like that are starting to pop into Jim's mind more and more often, and the more they do, the more time he realizes he had on his hands to think about it. Which is the entire reason Jim's now in front of the bookshelf, eyes skipping over the romance, the Russian literature, the tons and tons of fucking classics. He doesn't even know anyone who'd actually ever read War and Peace.
Jim's about to give up when his eyes stop on a book, and a second later he's pulling it out and staring down at the cover.
"What the fuck?" follows another second after that, a little loud and far from fucking impressed.