Participants:
| Scene Title | A Miserable Little Pile Of Secrets |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Monica sees into what could have been. |
| Date | November 7, 2018 |
Cresting Wave Apartments, Yamagato Park
Monica Dawson's Apartment
4:00 AM
Year have passed since the days when Monica had to keep herself on the move, using the cover of night to hide from authorities, but she hasn't shaken her night owl status. Sleep when you can. Stay alert when you can't. It's amazing how similar her life as a fugitive then and as assassin now really are. One has nicer clothes, nicer apartment. Similar mindsets. Medical attention needed just as often.
Monica turns the water off in her shower, stepping out to wrap herself in a towel. Her hand wipes away a streak from her fogged up mirror and she leans on the sink as she looks herself in the eye.
The major difference is that now she tries not to think about her work. Tries not to think of it as her doing it. But it's gotten more difficult lately. Since her Nana reappeared. Since reconnecting with Richard. Since letting herself care about Marlowe like a sister. It was easier when she only had Foggy to lean on. Or answer to. When she looks herself in the eye, it doesn't feel like her looking back.
Little hands shake at Monica's shoulder, pulling her from her dreams. Her eyes flutter open to a close-up view of her son's distressed face.
"Mom, are you awake?" Jason's voice says low, careful to only wake her up. And not noticing that she could only answer if she was awake.
Monica reaches a hand out to touch his face as she makes herself wake up and clear the sleep from her mind. "What's wrong, baby?" she asks the boy. His reply comes with a relieved sigh. "I had a bad dream."
Monica looks over at the man sleeping next to her, but since he hasn't stirred, she slips out of bed without waking him and takes her son's hand. These nights have happened more often than not since the divorce. They had a routine. As they walk to the kitchen, Jason turns on a small lamp by the table, but stays with his mother as she grabs a pair of cups, the milk, and a package of chocolate chip cookies. He laughs when she makes a show of nearly dropping everything until she shushes him. And then he shushes her. And she shushes him. All the way to the table.
"What have I always told you?" Monica asks as she dips a cookie into her milk.
"That I'm your favorite son."
"Yes," Monica says with a warm smile. He's her only son. "But what else?"
"If there's a monster in my room, I just need to kick it in the junk," the boy recites, choosing a cleaner word than his mother ever used. But he laughs, because the word she used was one of those bad words they weren't supposed to say. "And," Monica reminds him, "that when they wake you up, you need to tell them what?"
"That my mom is gonna kick their butts!"
"Damn straight," Monica says. And she bites into her cookie, gesturing for him to do the same.
Monica pushes back from the sink, jumping back from the mirror like it might be responsible. She knows it isn't. She knows that the timelines are seeping into each other. But to her, it feels like she's being haunted. And there's only one thing to do, waking up to a monster in her room.
She hurries out of the bathroom, grabbing her phone from its perch next to her bed and unlocking it as quick as she can. The phone rings for far too long and Monica drops onto her bed, holding back a sob until the other end picks up.
"Nana," she says, clearing her throat, "are you awake?"