Work Text:
Title: Out Here, On My Own
Author: Tayla
Fandom: The Sentinel
Pairing: None
Rating: FRT
Category: Angst
Status: Completed August 16, 2003
Archive: Yes to WWOMB/Peja. All others please ask
Feedback: Yes, please. All constructive criticism will be graciously accepted
Email: tayla36@aol.com
Authors Web Site: http://www.geocities.com/tayla36/index.html
Series/Sequel:
Disclaimers: The Sentinel and its characters belong to Pet Fly Productions and Paramount Network Television. No copyright infringement is intended. The author makes no profit and exists solely on the accolades from fellow fans.
Authors Notes: Five minute challenge "Empty, empty nights".
A little background. I have an idea for a post "Sentinel Too" story, where Blair does not move back in with Jim. I haven't actually written it yet, but these are the kind of thoughts going thorough Blair's head.
Summary: Blair's on his own and loving his life. Yeah right.
Warnings: Angsty and sad. No happy ending here.
I can fill my days. Teaching, counseling students, working on the diss. Everything a good college professor should do.
I can even fill up the evenings with friends or at least friendly acquaintances. Going to dinner, hanging out at the pub or the student center. Going to sporting events. Even the occasional date.
But the nights?
The nights are hell.
Lonely, empty, sterile.
I have my own place now. Just a small studio apartment. No house rules. No one to bitch at me if I leave stuff all over. And I can use up all the hot water I want.
The first piece of furniture I bought was a king size bed. I got the bed frame at the second hand store and the mattress set at the warehouse outlet. Three of my students helped me move it in.
I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, which is entirely too far above my head. Sometimes, I miss my small bedroom under the stairs.
I miss Jim.
And I hate the fact that I miss him.
He threw me out. He never asked me to come back. He just assumed I would. He thinks he can treat me like shit, kick me out get me killed, play fucking tonsil hockey with the bitch that killed me, and I'm just supposed to forgive him.
The thing is, I might have forgiven him.
If he had asked. If he had apologized. If he had made me feel like he needs me, maybe, just a little bit.
But he didn't. Didn't ask, didn't apologize, doesn't need me, doesn't want me. I'll be damned if I'm gonna beg. Damned if I'm gonna go crawling back. I don't need him either.
And if I have to sleep face down so I can pretend the ceiling isn't so high up there, so what?
And if I have to pile a slew of pillows up on the middle of the bed so I can pretend it's my old narrow futon bed, so what?
And if the pillow is suspiciously wet under my face because I cried myself to sleep, so what?
It's still better than living with Ellison.
Right?