Compromise

Chris paced her room, arms folded. Sometimes she found her self smiling, lost in thought as she recalled his smile or a conversation they had. Then something; the sheets, the window, a certain spot in the room, would remind her of that night with Jack. Chris could feel the warm flush over her body as she remembered the ways his hands touched her. How his lips felt against hers.

That warmth never lasted long. A new memory would emerge and she'd remember the funeral, holding Caiti as she cried, packing away her father's belongings. She'd close her eyes briefly and grip her arms, nails digging into the skin, trying to push the thought from her mind. The shame stabbing her in the stomach.

The hands that touched me were the same ones that held the gun.

She combed her hair back with her hand, pushing away the memory of how it felt when Jack did the same.

What is wrong with me?

She didn't know if liking Jack made her betrayal better or worse. Better, because it was understandable. Worse, because it cut deeper.

In the heart, she knew the answer. But that didn't stop her from arguing with herself. He almost killed me. (He said he wouldn't. He protected me in the compound.) He killed dad. (It wasn't his choice, even dad forgave him. Befriended him.)

A cool breeze from the window reminded her how stifling the air in the room felt. Chris grabbed a light sweater from the back of the chair and put it on. She needed some fresh air, a change in scenery.

She was going insane in here.

Maybe I already am. Why not? Everyone else here is. They accept whatever Jack does, even when it hurts them or someone they love. They all move on and forgive him. Over and over again. They all forget.

Chris turned off the light.

It was a just short fall from there. Once you can overlook that, pushing past other things becomes easier.