A/N: Yes, I've already written a Jeff one-shot. And yes, my friend wanted me to write one for her. So since I'm forced to write this, it's going to be morbid. :) Title credited to Peroxwhy?gen's song "In Tune".
It was the same thing every single day. I'd get up, I'd have breakfast, I'd work out, then I would just sit around and write on the walls, scratching words with no meaning into the grimy brick. Then I'd have to do some sort of manual labor, have dinner, then go to sleep.
I hadn't really slept since the car accident.
I was laying across my bed, one hand behind my head, the other on my stomach, just staring at the ceiling, watching the sunlight stream across the water stain in the corner. A shadow appeared, a burly shadow, cutting off the rays completely.
"Hardy," the man barked, jiggling a set of keys.
I sat up as he opened my jail cell.
"You have a visitor," he said curtly, watching me intently as I walked out, waiting for him to close the door, waiting for him to put his hand on my shoulder and walk me to the visitor's area.
She was here again. She'd been coming here since the accident. At first, it was in spite of herself. She came to yell and cry and blame me for what had happened. Then she came to insult and verbally beat - she actually had to get thrown out once for trying to punch me.
But now she came to talk to me. To talk to me and learn how to draw. She loved to draw - she was good at it, too. She was good at everything.
I was afraid. I might've been in love with her.
She never smiled when she saw me. Her mouth was set, but her hair was blowing in the wind, strands of chestnut waving in front of her eyes, sticking to her lips, curling around her nose. Her dress whipped against her legs, her beautiful legs.
Everything about her was perfect. I drew her at night, in the patch of moonlight shining through the window, on the floor of my cell. She'd be washed away by the time I came back from breakfast, but I'd just draw her again.
"Hello," she said quietly. She had a sketchbook under her arm, a pencil behind her ear.
I walked around the picnic table, sitting down and waiting for her to do the same. The guard watched us from the prison entrance.
"How are you today?" she asked, eyes on her work, flipping crisp pages.
She settled on a fresh sheet, wiping away imaginary dirt. The pencil hit the paper and I just sat there, arms crossed on the table, watching her hand move, the way her fingers curled around the pencil.
"How can you concentrate with your hair in your eyes?"
She glanced up, mind and hand moving, drawing without looking. "I don't have a hair band."
She went back to drawing, eyes lifting to me every once in a while. "What have you been up to?"
"My life never changes."
"That's a pity," she said flatly. "Move your hands, I need to see how your fingers look."
I furrowed my brow. "What are you drawing?"
She slid back, book off the table, when I reached for it. "None of your business. Move your hands."
I did as I was told, making sure my fingers were visible. She nodded and started drawing again, the sketchpad propped up against the edge.
I hated silence when I was with her. I heard silence every goddamn day of my life. When I was with her, words wanted to bubble out of my mouth, overflow like a clogged pipe. I could never get half of the things out - I didn't have the balls to say anything to her.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked quietly. She had harsh movements - the pencil slashed against the textured paper.
A car screeched in my mind, the sound of metal crunching. The taste of blood in my mouth. "Nothing."
She nodded, flipping the book around, scratching here, scratching there.
"Don't make short lines," I said sternly. "Long, even lines. Flowing lines."
She glared at me. "I'm not making short lines."
"Oh, yeah?" I grabbed at her work, but she backed up, sliding to the opposite side of the bench.
"You can't see it until it's done," she snarled, bending over to draw once more.
I felt like smiling, but I didn't. I was careful not to show my emotions around her. She was like a volcano. She had repressed feelings, feelings bottled, building up pressure. One tug and she could explode. I didn't want her to explode. I wanted her repressed and with me.
She sighed softly, putting her work down on the table slowly. She covered her eyes and just sat there, breathing evenly.
I licked my lips. "Finished?"
She nodded, pushing the pad down toward me.
I was afraid to look at it. It was probably the person she loved more than anything. The person she'd give anything to be with. The person she wanted to see one more time.
I flipped it.
It was me.
She drew me from across the table, leaning against it, my fingers bent and perfect, long and slender, roots bleeding down the skin. My eyes were heavy and my hair had one strand that fell from the ponytail, curling around, almost as if it were cupping my eyebrow. I could tell my hair was different colors, and all she used was a pencil. My shirt had all the wrinkles in it. My lips were chapped. I wouldn't have known if she hadn't drawn it.
She came back in front of me, looking at me, waiting for my criticism. I was always critical with her. I taught her what she knew, and if she did something wrong, I told her. She never got anything better than a "good job" from me.
"Well?" she asked hopefully, tapping the table.
I looked up at her. "I think I'm in love with you."
Her hand stilled. I could see those repressed emotions coming back, flooding her body. My words registered, went from her brain to her heart, then back up again. Her eyes darkened.
She slapped me, full-on, across the face.
As I watched her get pulled away, out the exit, screaming and crying and pointing at me, she looked like she had when she'd first come to see me. Upset, angry, sad - out of control feelings that just exploded out of her every which way, directed at anyone and everyone in her path.
But this time... This time, it was all at me.
After all, I was the one who'd killed her husband.
A/N: Hahaha, how did you like THAT, buddy? Hope you enjoyed your one-shot! :) Review if you please, people.