LJ Idol Season 9, Week 15: Chekhov's Gun
Alicia apologizes for the number of fucks in this piece
“So tell me a bit more about your characters -- Jazz and Savin, was it?” Dr A starts, leaning back in his armchair. He steeples his fingers together and stares at me expectantly.
“What about them in particular?” I ask, digging one nail under the other in order to get the dirt out from underneath it. I chew on my bottom lip and try to think of what I’ve already told him -- if I’ve told him much of anything about them at all.
“Last week, you mentioned that you felt they more or less represented you and Ev,” he says. “I was just curious as to why.”
Ah. I wince, and fidget against the arm of the loveseat I decided was “my” place to sit for therapy. “Well, Savin’s more or less me. Jazz -- well, he’s part me, too, obviously, but he kind of takes Ev’s place, when it comes to our relationship? I dunno. I mean, with Savin, he like -- Savin goes through this whole character arc, where he goes from being a good partner and a good husband to -- to --” I pause and chew my bottom lip some more.
How in the world am I going to tell my new therapist I think I’m an abusive asshole and that one of my main characters basically represents that belief? That Savin is basically my way to explore the what-if-I-get-worse scenario, not to mention that he’s where I dump the guilt I carry for my anger towards Ev, and that poor Jazz --
Poor Jazz, man. He doesn’t deserve any of the shit Savin puts him through.
And neither does Ev.
***
The hotel room is quiet, the TV off and my netbook situated on the wooden desk, which is under a half-length mirror. I try not to look at myself as I settle back into the seat, Chinese food in hand and eyes tired and bloodshot.
Two days. I’m supposed to sit here for two days, and figure out whether I’m going to stay. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes, and my exhausted fingers don’t want to type another word: I’m at 4000 and counting, my stomach twisting as I stare at the screen.
"How far does Savin have to go before Jazz fucking leaves?" I type to Sarah in an IM.
"Dunno," comes her response. "He’d have to fuck shit up pretty bad, I think?"
I nod, though obviously Sarah can’t see it, considering we’re several hundred miles apart from one another. I rub my shoulder before reaching for my fork, chewing my food slowly in thought. In the original version of this scene, all it takes was for Savin to grab Jazz by his arms and then shove him, backwards, into a table.
I know now that isn’t enough.
So what is?
***
"So I’ve been meaning to ask. I know Jazz and Savin represent different parts of you or whatever. But where does Mitchel come in? Like, what does he represent?"
Leave it to Sarah to ask the hard questions, several months after the dreaded hotel stay. I stare at her messages and catch my bottom lip underneath my teeth.
"I dunno," I type back after a moment of thought. "He’s a Magnificent Bastard. I just really like the trope -- but maybe my ambition? My arrogance?"
This answer seems to satisfy her, and I lean back against the couch and glance at my file for Gray Morning, my perpetual work-in-progress. In this particular scene, Mitchel and Savin are having a “discussion,” one which leaves Savin burning with anger and shame, all while Mitchel smirks on.
It’s a pretty standard scene, for them.
***
“I don’t fucking get it,” Ev says, brushing her lengthy hair out of her eyes. Her face is tinged red, her lips pursed together tightly. “You expect me to just fucking sit here and take this? This is bullshit, I don’t need to hear none of this from you --”
Then don’t, my mind whispers. I remain standing on the other side of the babygate, watching Bob out of the corner of my eye as he heads towards the fridge. His little body springs into action, one hand on the top of the counter, his little toes wrapping around the cabinet handle, gripping what they can as he pushes himself up. Before the words, “Bob, get down,” can leave my lips, he’s already using the microwave as a boost to get himself up on top of the fridge.
Ev’s eyes follow mine, and she swings her leg over the babygate and all but pushes me out of the way as she stomps over to him. “Bob, get down,” she growls, reaching for his thin leg and pulling him towards her. “See, this what I’m fucking talking about, Alicia -- you don’t do a damn thing to stop him -- don’t do a damn thing to even try.”
I blink at her, my mouth falling open for a moment, a response burning on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it back. Breathe, I tell myself. Think like Mitchel. Be Mitchel. Don’t give her the reaction she’s expecting, just continue the conversation as needed. As you need it to go. You can do this.
Instead of crossing my arms, I hold them out and accept Bob as he all but crashes into me, body perpetually in motion. I pick him up, hoist him onto my hip. “This isn’t a conversation to have in front of Bob,” I tell her, lifting my chin and meeting her eyes. “He’s acting out because we’re making him anxious.”
It’s a line she’s used on me before -- one that worked and got me to drop the subject at hand, ‘til things were less heated. She just glowers at me, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking one hip to the side, her head tilting slightly. “Then when are we going to fucking have it, Alicia?” she snaps. “It’s not like we ever have any time to sit down and talk when Bob’s not around.”
“This isn’t talking, Evelyn,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to the side of Bob’s head absently. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“Right, because you’re sitting here, blaming me for Joe fucking up and moving to Seattle --”
“I didn’t say it was your fault, did I?” I ask, interrupting her. “All I said was that this whole home environment is toxic -- for everyone who lives here -- and that we’re both contributing to it, not just you, and that it’s this same environment that had a hand in pushing away my last source of fucking support in this damn house.”
I’m out of breath when I finish, and Bob wraps his arms around me and rests his head on my shoulder. I ignore the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes and force myself to breathe. Need to be like Mitchel, I remind myself. Mitchel doesn’t fucking get emotional.
“You know, I don’t fucking get how Joe’s this like, huge fucking hero to you, all of a sudden, anyway,” she says, snapping me out of my thoughts. Her arms tighten over her chest, and she cocks her head the other side, annoyance plain as day on her face. “He’s such a fucking pussy.”
Seriously? Joe wouldn’t fucking grab me by my shoulders -- he wouldn’t fucking play on my worst fears in order to get me to leave, unlike you, you miserable little --
These words die on my lips when I see the expression on her face. I’m not Mitchel, in this equation.
I’m Savin.
And she -- she with that little, fucking insufferable smirk --
She’s Mitchel.
“So tell me a bit more about your characters -- Jazz and Savin, was it?” Dr A starts, leaning back in his armchair. He steeples his fingers together and stares at me expectantly.
“What about them in particular?” I ask, digging one nail under the other in order to get the dirt out from underneath it. I chew on my bottom lip and try to think of what I’ve already told him -- if I’ve told him much of anything about them at all.
“Last week, you mentioned that you felt they more or less represented you and Ev,” he says. “I was just curious as to why.”
Ah. I wince, and fidget against the arm of the loveseat I decided was “my” place to sit for therapy. “Well, Savin’s more or less me. Jazz -- well, he’s part me, too, obviously, but he kind of takes Ev’s place, when it comes to our relationship? I dunno. I mean, with Savin, he like -- Savin goes through this whole character arc, where he goes from being a good partner and a good husband to -- to --” I pause and chew my bottom lip some more.
How in the world am I going to tell my new therapist I think I’m an abusive asshole and that one of my main characters basically represents that belief? That Savin is basically my way to explore the what-if-I-get-worse scenario, not to mention that he’s where I dump the guilt I carry for my anger towards Ev, and that poor Jazz --
Poor Jazz, man. He doesn’t deserve any of the shit Savin puts him through.
And neither does Ev.
***
The hotel room is quiet, the TV off and my netbook situated on the wooden desk, which is under a half-length mirror. I try not to look at myself as I settle back into the seat, Chinese food in hand and eyes tired and bloodshot.
Two days. I’m supposed to sit here for two days, and figure out whether I’m going to stay. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes, and my exhausted fingers don’t want to type another word: I’m at 4000 and counting, my stomach twisting as I stare at the screen.
"How far does Savin have to go before Jazz fucking leaves?" I type to Sarah in an IM.
"Dunno," comes her response. "He’d have to fuck shit up pretty bad, I think?"
I nod, though obviously Sarah can’t see it, considering we’re several hundred miles apart from one another. I rub my shoulder before reaching for my fork, chewing my food slowly in thought. In the original version of this scene, all it takes was for Savin to grab Jazz by his arms and then shove him, backwards, into a table.
I know now that isn’t enough.
So what is?
***
"So I’ve been meaning to ask. I know Jazz and Savin represent different parts of you or whatever. But where does Mitchel come in? Like, what does he represent?"
Leave it to Sarah to ask the hard questions, several months after the dreaded hotel stay. I stare at her messages and catch my bottom lip underneath my teeth.
"I dunno," I type back after a moment of thought. "He’s a Magnificent Bastard. I just really like the trope -- but maybe my ambition? My arrogance?"
This answer seems to satisfy her, and I lean back against the couch and glance at my file for Gray Morning, my perpetual work-in-progress. In this particular scene, Mitchel and Savin are having a “discussion,” one which leaves Savin burning with anger and shame, all while Mitchel smirks on.
It’s a pretty standard scene, for them.
***
“I don’t fucking get it,” Ev says, brushing her lengthy hair out of her eyes. Her face is tinged red, her lips pursed together tightly. “You expect me to just fucking sit here and take this? This is bullshit, I don’t need to hear none of this from you --”
Then don’t, my mind whispers. I remain standing on the other side of the babygate, watching Bob out of the corner of my eye as he heads towards the fridge. His little body springs into action, one hand on the top of the counter, his little toes wrapping around the cabinet handle, gripping what they can as he pushes himself up. Before the words, “Bob, get down,” can leave my lips, he’s already using the microwave as a boost to get himself up on top of the fridge.
Ev’s eyes follow mine, and she swings her leg over the babygate and all but pushes me out of the way as she stomps over to him. “Bob, get down,” she growls, reaching for his thin leg and pulling him towards her. “See, this what I’m fucking talking about, Alicia -- you don’t do a damn thing to stop him -- don’t do a damn thing to even try.”
I blink at her, my mouth falling open for a moment, a response burning on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it back. Breathe, I tell myself. Think like Mitchel. Be Mitchel. Don’t give her the reaction she’s expecting, just continue the conversation as needed. As you need it to go. You can do this.
Instead of crossing my arms, I hold them out and accept Bob as he all but crashes into me, body perpetually in motion. I pick him up, hoist him onto my hip. “This isn’t a conversation to have in front of Bob,” I tell her, lifting my chin and meeting her eyes. “He’s acting out because we’re making him anxious.”
It’s a line she’s used on me before -- one that worked and got me to drop the subject at hand, ‘til things were less heated. She just glowers at me, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking one hip to the side, her head tilting slightly. “Then when are we going to fucking have it, Alicia?” she snaps. “It’s not like we ever have any time to sit down and talk when Bob’s not around.”
“This isn’t talking, Evelyn,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to the side of Bob’s head absently. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“Right, because you’re sitting here, blaming me for Joe fucking up and moving to Seattle --”
“I didn’t say it was your fault, did I?” I ask, interrupting her. “All I said was that this whole home environment is toxic -- for everyone who lives here -- and that we’re both contributing to it, not just you, and that it’s this same environment that had a hand in pushing away my last source of fucking support in this damn house.”
I’m out of breath when I finish, and Bob wraps his arms around me and rests his head on my shoulder. I ignore the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes and force myself to breathe. Need to be like Mitchel, I remind myself. Mitchel doesn’t fucking get emotional.
“You know, I don’t fucking get how Joe’s this like, huge fucking hero to you, all of a sudden, anyway,” she says, snapping me out of my thoughts. Her arms tighten over her chest, and she cocks her head the other side, annoyance plain as day on her face. “He’s such a fucking pussy.”
Seriously? Joe wouldn’t fucking grab me by my shoulders -- he wouldn’t fucking play on my worst fears in order to get me to leave, unlike you, you miserable little --
These words die on my lips when I see the expression on her face. I’m not Mitchel, in this equation.
I’m Savin.
And she -- she with that little, fucking insufferable smirk --
She’s Mitchel.