𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐭-𝐈𝐭 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ━ 𝐉𝐢𝐦 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐭

- 12 | boston -

Boston

Marceline had been sleeping on Jim's couch for nearly a week, each night a silent struggle between the comfort of his hospitality and the dark memories that haunted her. The sofa was surprisingly comfortable, the blanket warm, and the apartment quiet—almost too quiet, like the calm before a storm. She felt safe, but safety didn't erase the past.

As the days passed, Marceline found herself growing more comfortable with Jim, appreciating his easygoing nature and the way he never pried into her personal life. They had become closer, their conversations more frequent, filled with laughter and a growing sense of trust. But despite the budding friendship, Marceline couldn't shake the feeling that something dark was waiting for her just beyond the edges of her thoughts.

That night, the night before her first paycheck at Dunder Mifflin, Marceline fell into an uneasy sleep, exhaustion pulling her under. The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards as the building settled. Jim had gone to bed earlier, leaving her with the comfort of knowing she wasn't alone, even if he was in the next room.

But as soon as she drifted off, the darkness crept in.

———

The dream started innocently enough. She was back in Boston, the familiar streets and buildings blurring as she walked through the city she had once called home. The cold air nipped at her cheeks, the gray sky overhead matching the dull ache in her chest. She didn't know where she was going, but her feet kept moving, carrying her forward.

Suddenly, she was standing in front of the apartment she had shared with Jack. The door loomed before her, cracked and peeling, a reminder of all the nights she had spent inside, trapped with him. Her heart pounded in her chest, dread settling in the pit of her stomach, but she couldn't stop herself from reaching out, her hand trembling as she pushed the door open.

The interior was just as she remembered—dark, dirty, and stinking of stale beer and cigarette smoke. The furniture was sparse, a beaten-up couch, a stained coffee table, and an old television that flickered with static. But what caught her attention was the man slumped on the couch, his head hanging low, a bottle dangling from his hand.

Jack.

He looked up as she entered, his eyes bloodshot and cold, a sneer curling his lips. "Where've you been?" he slurred, his voice thick with anger.

Abigail tried to back away, but the door was gone, replaced by a solid wall. Panic surged through her as Jack stood up, towering over her, his presence suffocating. "I asked you a question!" he shouted, his hand striking her across the face, the force of the blow sending her stumbling back.

"I was working," she choked out, tears blurring her vision. "I was just working."

"Working? What good is your work, huh? You think you can just come and go as you please? I own you, Abby. You're mine."

She could feel the bruises forming, her cheek throbbing where he had hit her. Fear clamped around her throat, making it hard to breathe as he grabbed her by the arm, dragging her toward the living room. She tried to pull away, but his grip was iron, his strength overwhelming.

"You think you're better than me?" Jack snarled, shoving her onto the couch. "You think you can just walk out whenever you want?"

"I didn't—" she began, but the words were cut off as his hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing until the world started to fade. She clawed at his hands, desperate for air, her vision darkening as she gasped for breath.