𝑭𝑹𝑶𝑴 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑫𝑰𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑻𝑨𝑩𝑳𝑬, -𝑗𝑜ℎ𝑛𝑛𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑝𝑝

𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑒

We continue until our anger is released, along with something else.

sexual content ahead.

𝐍𝐎𝐕. 1998
I drive home from the appointment puffing on the rest of my cigarette. I sigh and stare at the road. I try to really think about what's going on with Johnny and I, and I cant exactly place my finger on it. Why can't we get along for a day?

I sit in silence the whole drive. I throw my cigarette out the window as I arrive home. I twist the keys out of the ignition and swing my car door open. The annoying, dinging tune plays from my car until I slam the door shut. I run up the steps on the front door, my hands shake from the cool weather and I find the house key on my keychain to unlock the door. I swing the front door open and shut it. Tears fill up my eyes and I turn around to lean my head on the door. I rub my hand down it, breaking down in a pool of cries. I fold my lips in and think about that cruise and how Johnny and I first met—a flood of thoughts from the visit we had with Dr. Sivann a week ago—Johnny was lost, I had everything I could want in front of me, and I helped him out of the dark pit he was in.

Oh no...have I pushed his mind back into that dank well of disoriented emotions?

I sit at the dining table sob into my arms.

▃︎▃︎▃︎▃︎▃︎▃︎▃︎▃︎▃︎▃︎▃︎▃︎▃︎▃︎▃︎

𝐍𝐎𝐕. 1998
a week later

I take a long, warm shower of actually shaving thoroughly and using body wash that smells divine, which hasn't happened in a while. I step out into the steamy room and wrap my hair in a towel along with my body. I walk into my bedroom and see Johnny sitting on the bed facing me reading some papers. His light eyes trail up to me, his mouth is slightly open. I want to say at least hi, but instead I walk into the closet. I put on black pajama pants and a shirt I got from a concert a few years back. I take my hair out of the towel and toss it into the basket. Johnny still sits on his bed, in new clothes, but not pajamas--jeans and a sweater. I stop to look at him.

"Where are you off to?" I ask, not making any eye contact with him. I pick up my brush and look in the mirror about the dresser.

"Just work, Sav. Got' to film a scene or two." He tosses the papers on the bed.

"Didn't...tell me you had to do that?" I say quietly, expecting some smart-aleck response back from him.

"You fuckin' serious?" He snaps. I lower my head and swallow. "Our communication has been- not present." He stays silent and I slowly set the brush down. "So therefore, I have no place to tell you every move I make in life." He points at me.