handleyourshit | TLV Inbox

"No. Which I know gives me less to understand," he tells her.

She nods; at least if he knows that much, she can shelf it for now.

"So - you're out living your life. Doing whatever you do. And then, you die. You remember all of it, you feel all of it, you go through all the emotions - and then you wake up here." It's abbreviated, but then, for this specific point, it stands.

"And this isn't the afterlife, or at least it's not any afterlife I've ever heard of. And there's no explanation, no nothing, just here - and you're an inmate. You're the same as you've ever been, but now you're an inmate, and no one can - or will - tell you why. How this decision was made. Or what you need to do to get out of it. You're just here, guessing, while a second group of people who did choose to be here are supposed to keep an eye on you except - surprise. Most of them don't have their shit together either."

Now she does look up, rubbing her thumb over the handle.

"Would you fucking listen to anyone?"

"Of course not," he says, nodding once. "Especially with some of the wardens here."

"Of course not," she agrees. "Except every month, here comes some new asshole who didn't care about talking to you before, but now they're a warden, and you're an inmate, and Sky Daddy says you're they're responsibility for the month so now they want to know if you're okay. If you need anything. Knowing full well they don't care who you are or why you are the way you are and they're going to prove it because next month they're going to move on to whoever else their name gets said with, or? Or they're just going to fucking leave right in the middle of everything."

Her voice is calm, measured, but clipped. She meant it when she says she hates everything about this.

"And when you tell them to fuck off, you're not interested in playing, they make sad mopey eyes at you and act like it's not crystal fucking clear why you wouldn't want to talk to them - and occasionally, they try to tell you that you're going to be sad, you're going to be lonely because you don't let anyone help you, except fuck them. Obviously. It's still a viable goddamn choice in this fucked up environment."

"There are always choices," he agrees, looking so, so disappointed.

"But I am - sorry they told you that. You don't owe gratitude to anyone here."

"I don't owe anything," she corrects.

"To anyone here. Not even Jesus."

Another nod. Acceptance of that fact comes easily.

"Does he ask anything of you?"

"To try."

The coffee is cool enough now to drink more quickly now, and she does, half of what's left in a mouthful.

"To not just give up and be dead."

"That's a very big ask."

It was something that B had asked of him, too, once upon a time. It had felt insurmountable then.

"Yeah, it is."

She doesn't really want to finish the coffee now, but it isn't in her to waste something she accepted. Not anymore.

"So could you just - tell him I had a fucking conversation with you. Over coffee, even. And I want to go back to my room now."

"Of course," he assures her. "Thank you for coming over." He almost - almost - leaves it at that, but he's enjoyed the evening, as troublesome as it was to start.

"If I ask you for your company again, as a friend, for coffee, would you accept?"

She doesn't want friends. She doesn't want a warden. She doesn't want to be anyone's company.

But she promised. She sighs, and rubs the bridge of her nose again.

"Yeah, whatever."

"I look forward to it." The admission is enough. He will offer, of course, but that doesn't mean he will do so right away.

"Good evening."

She finishes the coffee, and sets the mug back down.

"Thank you for the coffee. Good luck."

He's giving her the out, and she's not too proud to take it.

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