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Physical Therapy [Fic]
Oct. 9th, 2011 07:25 pmIt was a relief to be cleared to go back to the gym. To be able to move her body. She wanted to start slow, just a run on the treadmill, but the moment she caught her rhythm the memories of the three different funerals she had attended in the last week came flooding back. She ran faster, hitting buttons, but it wasn't enough to clear her head. To forget the looks of the people left behind by people who had been killed for a reason they had yet to figure out. Panting, she hit the buttons to slow the speed, cooling down because she had to, her heart not in it.
The boyfriend of the clerk had broken down when he saw her face. She had be shocked by the way the big man sagged as he hugged her. Almost, but not quite, enough to change. Like this was the first chance he had had to be weak. As she wiped the sweat out of her eyes with a towel, she reflected that she was grateful yet again for the recording of the start of thing. She could only imagine what he might have done if he blamed her for his love's death.
He would not, she was sure, have been like the widow of the city's attorney. The woman had been utterly composed and the image of dignity in mourning. The quiet strength had shamed Jen, and still shamed her as she stretched for her next station. It had been echoed in her children. Jen remembered the day when she buried her mother. Remembered a similar kind of quiet. But there had been no strength in her that day. Only a determination to let no one see her break down. To be strong for her stoic father. She hoped that they would be able to break down together and let it out when they were finally out of the spotlight of a political funeral.
It's time to remember the third significant other, but Jen holds off as long as she can. Which is long enough for her to take one of the heavy bags. She doesn't notice the man who starts to come up to hit on her with some clever comment about whether or not she new how to handle something that big and how he could help her out. His friend stopped him with a warning look just as she started to work the bag. She didn't see what she was hitting. She didn't feel the impact as she started to rock the bag with a vicious combination of upper and lower body attacks that had the whole bag rocking on its chain.
She sees the face of the wife of one of the cops who was in court because he beat up a mutant kid because if two teenagers were in a fight, the mutant was the guilty one. The wife who slapped her so hard her ears rang when she went to offer her condolences. The woman who had stood there to screamed at her until she wound herself through the whole thing and admitted that she wasn't angry at Jen because of who Jen was but because it meant she could never say the things she had needed to say to her husband. Who would probably end up blaming super humans, and Jen in particular, to assuage her own guilt.
Jen sees her face because she knows that she is guilty in some part. By making herself visible, she draws attention to herself and risk to the people who are in her life. It was an unavoidable side effect of taking a stand. One she had to learn to live with yet again because not fighting would make her guilty of worse things. It was draining and infuriating, and she was going to throw it all at something that couldn't get hurt until it went away. She'd deal with the bruises and scrapes when her head cleared.
The boyfriend of the clerk had broken down when he saw her face. She had be shocked by the way the big man sagged as he hugged her. Almost, but not quite, enough to change. Like this was the first chance he had had to be weak. As she wiped the sweat out of her eyes with a towel, she reflected that she was grateful yet again for the recording of the start of thing. She could only imagine what he might have done if he blamed her for his love's death.
He would not, she was sure, have been like the widow of the city's attorney. The woman had been utterly composed and the image of dignity in mourning. The quiet strength had shamed Jen, and still shamed her as she stretched for her next station. It had been echoed in her children. Jen remembered the day when she buried her mother. Remembered a similar kind of quiet. But there had been no strength in her that day. Only a determination to let no one see her break down. To be strong for her stoic father. She hoped that they would be able to break down together and let it out when they were finally out of the spotlight of a political funeral.
It's time to remember the third significant other, but Jen holds off as long as she can. Which is long enough for her to take one of the heavy bags. She doesn't notice the man who starts to come up to hit on her with some clever comment about whether or not she new how to handle something that big and how he could help her out. His friend stopped him with a warning look just as she started to work the bag. She didn't see what she was hitting. She didn't feel the impact as she started to rock the bag with a vicious combination of upper and lower body attacks that had the whole bag rocking on its chain.
She sees the face of the wife of one of the cops who was in court because he beat up a mutant kid because if two teenagers were in a fight, the mutant was the guilty one. The wife who slapped her so hard her ears rang when she went to offer her condolences. The woman who had stood there to screamed at her until she wound herself through the whole thing and admitted that she wasn't angry at Jen because of who Jen was but because it meant she could never say the things she had needed to say to her husband. Who would probably end up blaming super humans, and Jen in particular, to assuage her own guilt.
Jen sees her face because she knows that she is guilty in some part. By making herself visible, she draws attention to herself and risk to the people who are in her life. It was an unavoidable side effect of taking a stand. One she had to learn to live with yet again because not fighting would make her guilty of worse things. It was draining and infuriating, and she was going to throw it all at something that couldn't get hurt until it went away. She'd deal with the bruises and scrapes when her head cleared.
