[He barely looks up when Gillian comes into the house, barely acknowledges her presence, which he's sure irritates the hell out of her, barely seems to process the fact that she's delivered a basket of something, something he undoubtedly won't find particularly useful, and then his mother'll be upset about that, too. She'll see it as a rejection. He knows her.
Her words reach him, though. Enough so that he breaks his staring contest with the table long enough to glance up at her, eyes narrowed, voice unusually quiet.]
How the fuck d'you want me to carry on?
[He doesn't have any idea how he should be carrying on. How can he carry on, when Angela's dead and it's his fault? People had told him he'd move past it, he'd recover, he'd start to forget things, but he knows better. People don't move past things, not really. They just find ways to hide them.
And Jimmy's never been good at hiding much of anything.]
no subject
Her words reach him, though. Enough so that he breaks his staring contest with the table long enough to glance up at her, eyes narrowed, voice unusually quiet.]
How the fuck d'you want me to carry on?
[He doesn't have any idea how he should be carrying on. How can he carry on, when Angela's dead and it's his fault? People had told him he'd move past it, he'd recover, he'd start to forget things, but he knows better. People don't move past things, not really. They just find ways to hide them.
And Jimmy's never been good at hiding much of anything.]