Psychosocial | Jerome Valeska

13. high enough

"It's a fine line between courage and fear
You can't see the ghosts, but you know that they're here
Blame it on the sinners, blame it on saints
Blame it on the pills, you're pouring down the drain"

-Bullet, Riot Child

Coming back from being under the influence of whatever that shot was reminded Violet of a nasty hangover. Everything was too bright and she felt like she got hit by a bus. Waking up because of a pounding headache was not Violet's ideal wakeup call. Perhaps if she decided to pass out on her bed and not on the stone-cold ground, she'd have a different opinion.

Violet groaned, clutching her head and propping herself up on her elbow. She struggled to remember anything past Big Bertha. She faintly recalled Jerome's face amongst the fog, but nothing that would be of significance to her. The stuff in the injections may as well of been heroin.

Once she managed to pull herself into a sitting position, she slouched into the bed frame for support. Her tired body wouldn't allow her to do much as it threatened to collapse with one wrong move. This was her least favorite part of the injections next to Bertha roughly injecting them into her.

Violet glanced at the crook of her elbow where Bertha attacked her veins the night before. Small red dots littered her pale skin while faint purple bruises were beginning to blossom. Hopefully tonight instead of injections, they would administer the little blue pills that put anyone who took them into a foggy stupor. Compared to the unconscious state the shots put her in, the stupor was preferable.

The ground was starting to become too uncomfortable for Violet to remain. Despite the protests of her aching muscles, Violet slowly rose to the stand. Her legs wobbled as she stood, unsure of the weight bestowed on to them. Even with one hand firmly placed on the bed and the other poised in the air for balance, she barely got to her feet.

You are weak, Violet. I'm almost disappointed in you, a familiar voice whispered in the back of her mind.

"Shut up," she groaned, collapsing onto her bed. "Bitch."

Much to Violet's dismay, no response from her long-lost hallucination buddy came. After all this time, Eloise had yet to actually appear. Whatever, it's not like she needed her anyways. She was fine cooped up in this cell with no one to talk to.

Slowly, Violet's eyes began to droop. Much to her dismay, she surrendered to sleep once more.

This time, when Violet woke, there was no more pounding headache, just the dull aching of her muscles. She failed to notice the frigid morning air that seeped through the walls into her cell. With her eyes screwed shut, Violet hugged her knees to her chest while attempting to ignore the cries of the other inmates. She tried to direct her thoughts towards her old life- before her family was dead (or dead to her because someone was a terrible older brother).

She could still picture the family movie nights when she was little.

She was always wedged in between her mom and dad, while Olivia and Graham sat on the floor arguing about what movie they would watch. However, they would end up seeing whatever their dad wanted to watch. She remembered how her mom would snuggle into her dad, crushing Violet in the process. But, she loved it. This was tradition.

Yet, the traditions that once held her family together crumbled.

About two months before the murder of her father and Olivia, family movie nights stopped and so did the times Violet saw everyone together as an actual family. Graham had just gotten his job, Olivia began to take more ballet classes to prepare for a future in a dance. Florence worked until midnight most nights and her father began to turn to alcohol instead of his wife.