Jess Mariano (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
literatimariano) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bigapplesauce2015-11-28 02:07 am
literatimariano) wrote in bigapplesauce2015-11-28 02:07 am
(no subject)
Jess needs to get out of this damn city.
Historically speaking, Manhattan has been his playground. (Literally, if you go enough years back.) He's always known the ropes, where to go, where not to go, where you could find something exciting happening. Now it's already starting to get stale. It's been almost three years since he moved away, and a lot has changed in that time. He's changed. His friends have changed - moved on, or simply moved away. Meanwhile, Jess feels stuck, and he hasn't even been back all that long.
It's probably those self-help books Luke got him to read. How can he move on if he's just going back to what's familiar? Furthermore, how can he pursue the things he wants if he's barely making ends meet? Self-actualisation is practically impossible when survival and safety isn't guaranteed. He works too much and he's living in a dump, but New York's gotten expensive, so there's not much choice. He tried LA, but it's just not his scene. Chicago, maybe? Or perhaps Philly...
The subway train comes to a screeching stop, pulling him out of his reverie with a jolt.
He sighs and heads out, up the stairs, taking two steps at a time as he shrugs back on his leather jacket. Too stuffy and humid underground to wear it. It's starting to get that way outside too, but it hasn't quite reached it, the air dusty and crisp.
Chilly for May actually, which seems fitting. Supposedly April is the cruellest month, but Jess wouldn't mind contesting TS Eliot on that. All this evolution and momentum around him, and for all his travelling, Jess is standing still. What he needs is a change.
This is probably one of those 'careful what you wish for' moments.
He's crossing the deserted street, hands stuffed in his pockets, mind filled with frustration at both his situation and at poetry - especially at how Eliot's poetry inspired a musical about cats - and then... It happens in a flash. He blinks, and it's like the sun changed position.
A chill comes over him as he stops in his tracks, and he's pretty sure it's not just him. Everything just got colder.
Then everything gets louder, the screeching of brakes making him jerk away from the car coming at him from his right, slowing, stopping, but not fast enough.
It doesn't hit him at full speed, but it's still enough to knock him off his feet, rolling over the hood and landing headfirst on the asphalt, barely breaking his fall with his hands. His head feels like it's just been split open, which might actually be a possibility.
The driver is yelling at him, but Jess isn't cognizant enough to catch any of the words. He gets to his feet, hand going up to his hairline and coming back with blood on his fingertips. Everything is very loud and harsh and painful, and Jess doesn't want to deal with it, so he walks away.
No one pursues, and the only thing following Jess is the fading sounds of the driver's swearing. Perhaps no one else saw the accident, or maybe they didn't think to intervene. New York, city of the bystanders. Always moving, but never progressing, just like him.
He's not sure exactly how far he's walked before he has to come to a stop, dizzy and head pounding. He leans against a wall, closing his eyes, taking several deep breaths. He can feel a few streaks of blood having made it down his forehead and temple, but he doesn't make an effort to wipe it away, not yet.
Historically speaking, Manhattan has been his playground. (Literally, if you go enough years back.) He's always known the ropes, where to go, where not to go, where you could find something exciting happening. Now it's already starting to get stale. It's been almost three years since he moved away, and a lot has changed in that time. He's changed. His friends have changed - moved on, or simply moved away. Meanwhile, Jess feels stuck, and he hasn't even been back all that long.
It's probably those self-help books Luke got him to read. How can he move on if he's just going back to what's familiar? Furthermore, how can he pursue the things he wants if he's barely making ends meet? Self-actualisation is practically impossible when survival and safety isn't guaranteed. He works too much and he's living in a dump, but New York's gotten expensive, so there's not much choice. He tried LA, but it's just not his scene. Chicago, maybe? Or perhaps Philly...
The subway train comes to a screeching stop, pulling him out of his reverie with a jolt.
He sighs and heads out, up the stairs, taking two steps at a time as he shrugs back on his leather jacket. Too stuffy and humid underground to wear it. It's starting to get that way outside too, but it hasn't quite reached it, the air dusty and crisp.
Chilly for May actually, which seems fitting. Supposedly April is the cruellest month, but Jess wouldn't mind contesting TS Eliot on that. All this evolution and momentum around him, and for all his travelling, Jess is standing still. What he needs is a change.
This is probably one of those 'careful what you wish for' moments.
He's crossing the deserted street, hands stuffed in his pockets, mind filled with frustration at both his situation and at poetry - especially at how Eliot's poetry inspired a musical about cats - and then... It happens in a flash. He blinks, and it's like the sun changed position.
A chill comes over him as he stops in his tracks, and he's pretty sure it's not just him. Everything just got colder.
Then everything gets louder, the screeching of brakes making him jerk away from the car coming at him from his right, slowing, stopping, but not fast enough.
It doesn't hit him at full speed, but it's still enough to knock him off his feet, rolling over the hood and landing headfirst on the asphalt, barely breaking his fall with his hands. His head feels like it's just been split open, which might actually be a possibility.
The driver is yelling at him, but Jess isn't cognizant enough to catch any of the words. He gets to his feet, hand going up to his hairline and coming back with blood on his fingertips. Everything is very loud and harsh and painful, and Jess doesn't want to deal with it, so he walks away.
No one pursues, and the only thing following Jess is the fading sounds of the driver's swearing. Perhaps no one else saw the accident, or maybe they didn't think to intervene. New York, city of the bystanders. Always moving, but never progressing, just like him.
He's not sure exactly how far he's walked before he has to come to a stop, dizzy and head pounding. He leans against a wall, closing his eyes, taking several deep breaths. He can feel a few streaks of blood having made it down his forehead and temple, but he doesn't make an effort to wipe it away, not yet.