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Oct. 27th, 2018 02:32 amSitting in the dark theater, Karen thinks she'd known this was coming. For the past two weeks, she's been certain that what she's been seeing and experiencing, what she knows others have been, too, must be leading to something. It wouldn't get progressively worse and then stop, as nice as it might have been if that had been the case. She wouldn't have deserved to be let off the hook that easily, anyway, though she can't speak for anyone else who's been seeing things and who might be here now.
Though part of her thinks she should be, she isn't paying attention to any of them now, anyway. All sorts of horrors are unfolding around her, but she can only stare at what seems to be her own personal hell. Kevin, as bloody and wrecked and lifeless as he was when she came to after the car flipped, stands in front of her, his eyes dark and taunting. That isn't how she remembers him, and she hates the sight of it, but it isn't as if she can blame him for it.
"I'm sorry," she sobs, before he gets a chance to speak. It's been building in her for far too long, and he's the one person she could never have gotten to say it to, the one person who needed to hear it the most. Now, it's been so long since she's spoken of it anyway that it's hard not to trip over her own words, a decade's worth of regret spilling out of her at once. "Kevin, I'm sorry, I — I didn't mean to, you know I didn't mean to, I was trying to help —"
"That's what you do, Karen," he retorts. She's never heard him sound so cold, or maybe she just doesn't remember right, but it sends a shiver down her spine even so. "You try to help, and you just fuck things up."
She nods, her vision blurry, but eyes fixed on him. This might be the last she ever sees him. It isn't at all how she would have wanted that to happen.
"It should have been you," he continues, unyielding. "That died in the crash, not me."
"Yes," she chokes out."
"You're the one who was driving drunk and high. Junkie trash. You haven't even told anyone, have you? You kill me, you ruin our family, and you let everyone think that you're so perfect, that you've got it all figured out."
She nods again, and she doesn't stop him. He's not wrong. Nothing that happened that night would have happened it if weren't for her, and she's just carried on, buried it — haunted in her own mind, perhaps, but never letting it carry over, finding people she could trust with it but never actually doing so. She should have known it would only be a matter of time before it came back, becoming inescapable.
Karen doesn't know how it ends, or how she gets out of the theater, everything a haze. What she does know is that, out on the sidewalk, she has to stop to throw up into a trash can, making note to stop and get a little travel-sized mouthwash or something so it won't be too apparent when she goes back to the apartment. Explaining what's happened is going to be an ordeal to say the least when she knows how wrecked she must look, but she'll figure it out. John won't press her to tell anything she doesn't want to share.
That plan, too, changes when she reaches their door and finds a package there — not suspicious but familiar, Ben Urich's familiar handwriting spelling out her name on a post-it note on top of the folder. That brings up a new surge of guilt as she crouches to pick it up, but more importantly, she's seen it before. Ellison showed her when he offered her a job, because Ben showed him, and she hadn't yet known that he knew. The truth is in these pages, or it could be if someone tried to piece it together.
Maybe, she thinks, with a resigned sort of clarity, she can't hide from this anymore.
She wipes off her face before she unlocks the door and steps inside, but her eyes are still red, and she knows any composure she can manage will be flimsy at best. She's also not sure that will be a surprise.
Though part of her thinks she should be, she isn't paying attention to any of them now, anyway. All sorts of horrors are unfolding around her, but she can only stare at what seems to be her own personal hell. Kevin, as bloody and wrecked and lifeless as he was when she came to after the car flipped, stands in front of her, his eyes dark and taunting. That isn't how she remembers him, and she hates the sight of it, but it isn't as if she can blame him for it.
"I'm sorry," she sobs, before he gets a chance to speak. It's been building in her for far too long, and he's the one person she could never have gotten to say it to, the one person who needed to hear it the most. Now, it's been so long since she's spoken of it anyway that it's hard not to trip over her own words, a decade's worth of regret spilling out of her at once. "Kevin, I'm sorry, I — I didn't mean to, you know I didn't mean to, I was trying to help —"
"That's what you do, Karen," he retorts. She's never heard him sound so cold, or maybe she just doesn't remember right, but it sends a shiver down her spine even so. "You try to help, and you just fuck things up."
She nods, her vision blurry, but eyes fixed on him. This might be the last she ever sees him. It isn't at all how she would have wanted that to happen.
"It should have been you," he continues, unyielding. "That died in the crash, not me."
"Yes," she chokes out."
"You're the one who was driving drunk and high. Junkie trash. You haven't even told anyone, have you? You kill me, you ruin our family, and you let everyone think that you're so perfect, that you've got it all figured out."
She nods again, and she doesn't stop him. He's not wrong. Nothing that happened that night would have happened it if weren't for her, and she's just carried on, buried it — haunted in her own mind, perhaps, but never letting it carry over, finding people she could trust with it but never actually doing so. She should have known it would only be a matter of time before it came back, becoming inescapable.
Karen doesn't know how it ends, or how she gets out of the theater, everything a haze. What she does know is that, out on the sidewalk, she has to stop to throw up into a trash can, making note to stop and get a little travel-sized mouthwash or something so it won't be too apparent when she goes back to the apartment. Explaining what's happened is going to be an ordeal to say the least when she knows how wrecked she must look, but she'll figure it out. John won't press her to tell anything she doesn't want to share.
That plan, too, changes when she reaches their door and finds a package there — not suspicious but familiar, Ben Urich's familiar handwriting spelling out her name on a post-it note on top of the folder. That brings up a new surge of guilt as she crouches to pick it up, but more importantly, she's seen it before. Ellison showed her when he offered her a job, because Ben showed him, and she hadn't yet known that he knew. The truth is in these pages, or it could be if someone tried to piece it together.
Maybe, she thinks, with a resigned sort of clarity, she can't hide from this anymore.
She wipes off her face before she unlocks the door and steps inside, but her eyes are still red, and she knows any composure she can manage will be flimsy at best. She's also not sure that will be a surprise.
