(no subject)
a loss of idioms.
Jimmy slams the door, teeth clenched, muscles clenched, patience much too tired, though his body's tired enough as it is.
So fucking what if he'd been out with Stan the whole night, yeah? If he's not there Stan'll get buggered, or bloodied, or drown in his own vomit, or worse, and someone needs to look out for him when his parents've decided they've had enough with him for a bit. Jimmy'd try pulling that one out for his mum, but doubts it'd get anywhere. Mum's been on her own since she was seventeen. He knows that's the only reason she's worried about him, that she knows what London streets can be like in the dark, but, bleeding hell, it's not like Jimmy hadn't snuck out nearly every night few years back and survived that all, yeah?
Jimmy resists the urge to kick anything. If he thought he was in deep now, just try crawling out after he's broken furniture. He can't keep being lectured like this. He's nearly twenty years old; only a month until he's twenty. A month! Still living at home in his spaceman bedclothes and brekkies on yellow plates; in off-white bowls he remembers from second year. And his mum's lecturing him in front of the whole bloody street about coming home before eleven? No. No, no, no, this is too much. Too bloody much.
He sits on his bed, thinking. Thinking about the phone in the room next to him, about how he'd easily be able to get to it, and how he knows the number even though he's not supposed to. He'd called, once, to find it out, and they had to tell him what it was because he was family. He'd felt guilty, of course; felt guilt for a long time. Didn't mean he didn't keep the number tucked away.
It'd be easy to dial. A few short series of numbers, a polite hullo and a query, a short wait while the escort was fetched and he'd get all the answers he needed, exactly the way he needed them. He'd feel so much better, after that. He'd... Jimmy would feel relieved. It's so bloody difficult to figure things out for yourself, and every now and then a son needs his--
Jimmy sighs hard, falling back on the bed. He stares at the ceiling until it goes blurry; rolls over to let his face smush into the blue, starry pillow.
He's gone nearly four years so far. He can last another four. If he keeps trying.
He can.
Jimmy slams the door, teeth clenched, muscles clenched, patience much too tired, though his body's tired enough as it is.
So fucking what if he'd been out with Stan the whole night, yeah? If he's not there Stan'll get buggered, or bloodied, or drown in his own vomit, or worse, and someone needs to look out for him when his parents've decided they've had enough with him for a bit. Jimmy'd try pulling that one out for his mum, but doubts it'd get anywhere. Mum's been on her own since she was seventeen. He knows that's the only reason she's worried about him, that she knows what London streets can be like in the dark, but, bleeding hell, it's not like Jimmy hadn't snuck out nearly every night few years back and survived that all, yeah?
Jimmy resists the urge to kick anything. If he thought he was in deep now, just try crawling out after he's broken furniture. He can't keep being lectured like this. He's nearly twenty years old; only a month until he's twenty. A month! Still living at home in his spaceman bedclothes and brekkies on yellow plates; in off-white bowls he remembers from second year. And his mum's lecturing him in front of the whole bloody street about coming home before eleven? No. No, no, no, this is too much. Too bloody much.
He sits on his bed, thinking. Thinking about the phone in the room next to him, about how he'd easily be able to get to it, and how he knows the number even though he's not supposed to. He'd called, once, to find it out, and they had to tell him what it was because he was family. He'd felt guilty, of course; felt guilt for a long time. Didn't mean he didn't keep the number tucked away.
It'd be easy to dial. A few short series of numbers, a polite hullo and a query, a short wait while the escort was fetched and he'd get all the answers he needed, exactly the way he needed them. He'd feel so much better, after that. He'd... Jimmy would feel relieved. It's so bloody difficult to figure things out for yourself, and every now and then a son needs his--
Jimmy sighs hard, falling back on the bed. He stares at the ceiling until it goes blurry; rolls over to let his face smush into the blue, starry pillow.
He's gone nearly four years so far. He can last another four. If he keeps trying.
He can.