Jack Anthology

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Collection of single pieces revolving around Jack--and probably Diamond and Blair, too, since they're his partners in crime. In more ways than one.

---[index]->
1. Fallen from grace, 'cause I've been away too long.

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STORY ONE - Fallen from grace, 'cause I've been away too long.

characters: Jack, Diamond, Blair.
perspective: First-person [Jack's]
tense: Present
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I don't really remember how I got here.

I mean, I remember how I got here, where I am right now, physically in time and space. I'm in the bathroom of a bedroom in Nox's main building. I know that I share it with someone else, but he's not here at the moment. His name briefly escapes me. I know that I was at a party, drinking, smoking, snuffing, popping pills. All sorts of shit. I know that I came back alone, walked into the door of the bathroom thinking it was open, and hit my head when I tripped over the stupid fucking purple worm slithering around the bathroom. He's still here. He's on the ceiling right now, huge eyes transfixed on me, illuminating light. I'm vaguely aware that if I were lucid, I would have seen the two bright white bathroom overhead lights staring back down at me, not something right out of a horror film. But I'm not lucid, and for the strangest reason, I actually know it tonight.

I briefly become aware of an annoying buzz filling my ears every once in awhile. Something in the back of my mind tells me it's the lights, and I believe it. I can see the worm hissing up such a noise. Or heart it. Or smell it. Does one taste sounds? I think I can taste the sound. It tastes like vomit and alcohol and blood.

A green haze is slowly forming in the room. There are tons of little blue dots flinging themselves into the walls; every which way I look I see them, though I'm not actually moving my eyes. I just think I am, and I know I just think I am because my face isn't throbbing in pain when I feel like I'm looking. The three times I've tried since falling head-first onto the floor, it's sent pain shooting through my nerves. And I hate pain when I'm high, it hurts like a mother fucker.

Occasionally I raise my arm and pour air past my slightly-agape lips. I can taste alcohol running down my throat, but there's actually not a thing in it. Eventually, my arm falls down too quickly and the bottle shatters under the weight of my hand. Needles prick my skin and the shards scratch the side of my hand up, but I hardly realize it. I try to lift what's left of it to get more out of the fragmented glass, but nothing is wetting my raspy fucking throat down, so I let it fall. Again, it hurts with an obnoxious sound of breaking glass. It doesn't occur to me that I was actually hearing what was happening, that I was breaking it further and slicing up my hand even more.

A woman enters the bathroom's open door. She's naked and her skin is striped with pink and red. Her breasts are large and splattered with blood. When she kneels down beside me and touches my forehead I feel a gentle warmth sink through my skin. She disappears into the green smog. Angels appear in her place, millions of them, tiny blue dots to join the rank and file of the others. Swirls of the green smog and some new strange navy smoke makes them nearly impossible to see. The worm is moving again, but his head stays in place. A decapitated, purple body is scrawling over the wall, spurting blood with each movement. A bone falls out and lands on my bare chest. My body's fucking magical because I can absorb all these motherfuckers right into me.

A sharp, sudden red line, like a drop of blood guided by gravity but in a sideways direction, cuts through my vision, and I can see nothing but white. Black edges at the corners of my vision, slowly sprawling inwards. Millions of creatures of all different kinds. People. Pests. So many things that I start to loose track. They're whispering to me, and I don't hear what they're saying, but my body reacts as if I do. My fingers unclasp from the remaining pieces of glass it's gripping tightly and the shards fall to the ground. I raise my hand to my face, inspecting it carefully. It smells like copper and wood and grass, so I come to the logical conclusion that it's an orange. I try to bite it but it feels rough, so I shove my cracked fingernails under the first rip I spot and try to peel the damned orange's skin off, but it's harder than I thought. I swear it's fucking glued down, though some manages to peel up.

A jolt shakes my body and I thrash my head backwards into the tile of the wall. The piece that I'd hit directly cracks and falls off, and a couple pieces around it fall and hit the floor, breaking into tiny pieces, because of the force of the impact.

A couple hours later--in reality, seconds later--I notice someone's entering the bathroom again. Bright purple-pink hair, naked, covered in blood. I grin stupidly. Hello.

"Jack?" the timid bunny asks, slowly. Are you being cautious? I'm no wolf. I won't eat you. Come closer. Put your hand to my face. I'm hungry. I couldn't eat my orange. His bulging, white eyes look me over. I feel hatred boiling up in me. How dare you look me over, you fucking rabbit? "Are you okay?"

"Of course I am." What are you talking about? "Why, are you okay?" He knows I'm fucked up. He knows I've been mixing as many things as I could get my hands on over the course of the past few hours. He can see the dark bruises on the insides of both of my fucking elbows and I want to fucking eat you, little bunny, please come closer.

"You're bleeding."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

He lets out an exasperated sigh. He kneels in front of me and takes my sliced-up hand in his own. He's close enough, now. If I could just fucking move I could take a nice bite out of his cute little neck.

"You're not just drunk, are you?" Of course not. Why would I be just drunk when I can be high on pretty much everything within a ten mile radius? He fetches something from under the sink and somehow makes me stand up. I'm amazed he can because even I couldn't make me stand up. He forced my hand under some fucking hot water, though when I bitch about it he insists it's cold. I tell him to make it hot so it'd feel cold and he does, but he doesn't seem happy about it. When he's washed away all the blood--I don't see any blood, I think he's imagining things, because he keeps insisting there is some--he wraps my hand up with some weird white shit. I think it's called gauze. I realize that I'd know what it was if I were lucid. I briefly wonder why I'm not and tell myself it's because I just don't want to be. Of course I could be, if I wanted to. I can stop any fucking time, bunny. Don't think I fucking can't.

The truth is, I can't. But really, I can. I just have to be lucid. I'll stop any fucking time I want to. I won't. I will. I won't, I fucking will.

He released his delicate hold on my hand and as soon as he does I become partial to the gravity of the world on my fucking shoulders. I grasp the rim of the toilet, bending over it. I tell myself I'm just supporting my weight. I am just supporting my fucking weight. What's it to you? I am definitely not puking my fucking guts until not even bile can possibly remain. Are you fucking accusing me of throwing up in front of my cute little rabbit? I'm going to fucking eat that little bastard. What sort of lies has that little fuck been feeding you?

"Jack..." he whispers my name and it makes my stomach flip again, but I'm not fucking throwing up. That's confetti coming out of my throat, you fucking bastards. Confetti and poker chips. I feel his hands touch my bare back. I'm in a pair of pants but I don't have anything on under them. I don't remember when I lost my shirt so I figure I don't have any shirts and try to make a mental note to go and buy some. I do, however, remember discarding my shoes and socks by the bedroom's door when I came in earlier.

A chill permeates my skin when he touches me. That fucking rabbit. Thinks he can go and touch me whenever he damn well pleases.

I don't know how long I lean over like that, coughing up confetti and poker chips and probably some type of baby Pokémon. Maybe baby humans. For all I care, they can be baby bunnies. I do know, however, that occasionally my bunny flushes the toilet and wipes my forehead with a cloth. He says he thinks I have a temperature and that I should cool down. I agree that I must have a temperature, but insist that rubbing lava on my face won't help. He might actually be using cold water, but for all I can tell, it's right out of a motherfucking volcano. Sometime between the point when my stomach stopped heaving anything up other than spit and the time I woke up the next morning, enveloped in darkness, I suppose Blair brought me back to my bed.

My breath escapes me in husky grunts. I can't even inhale at first; there's too much shit coating the inside of my mouth. I have to stumble into the bathroom and swallow some water before my lungs will fill with fucking air.

"Jack? What are you doing?" I didn't realize Blair was awake. I jump, looking over to the door as he enters the bathroom. He doesn't trust me alone in a bathroom, does he? When he sees I'm just getting some water and splashing some on my face, leaning over the sink, he sighs. Is he relieved? Did he think I'd shoot up before my day's even started? "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." I can barely talk. He doesn't seem to believe me. "I'm fine." I splash more water on my face and run my fingers through my hair. I need a shower.

"Diamond called."

I freeze. Just what did you go and tell her, you stupid little rabbit?

"She's stopping by soon. She'll be here in fifteen minutes or so."

"I'm going to catch a quick shower, then."

He nods and leaves me. He closes the door behind him, but not completely. I grunt in annoyance and shove it into place and lock it. I can almost hear his paranoia firing up like battery acid lit on fire.

I take my time peeling off my pants while looking around. It seems Blair cleaned up after my little mess from last night. I wonder what time it is. It's probably past noon, I reason, since Diamond is coming over, but I can't be sure. I turn on the cold water. When I step under it, I nearly go through the back wall. It's way too fucking cold. But when I try to turn on the hot water, even at full blast by itself, all that comes out is cold. I curse multiple times. It must be past noon for all the hot water to be used up. This is a fucking large building. How does the hot water get used up?

Somehow I manage to wash my body off under the icy current. When I finally get out I grab a towel and dry my body quickly. I can hear voices outside the door. Diamond's, definitely, and the other is certainly Blair's.

I attack my hair with the towel as I step outside and stare them down. Diamond glares at me.

"Put some clothes on, bro!" she yells, throwing a pillow at me. It hits my chest and falls to the floor limply.

I shrug nonchalantly and turn slowly to go over to the closet. "Nothing no one here hasn't seen before." My sister--get this, she's my daughter, too, but I won't fucking go into that--glances over at Blair. I can see them in the mirror glued to the inside of the closet door. He stares after me for a moment, glances at Diamond as she turns to him questioningly, and bows his head down, probably completely embarrassed.

"I thought you swore by being straight?" she challenges. She's pushing my buttons. I'm going to kill her. Instead, I toss the towel aside and pull on some boxers, then some jeans. I grab a black wife beater and crumple it up in my hand while turning to them. I'm not sure if I want to wear a top, but I do anyway.

"I ain't no fuckin' fag. You know that, Diamond. You're just twisting things around in that fucking brain of yours."

She seems insulted, but she knows me. She knows me fucking better.

"Listen, Jack." She sighs heavily. She doesn't want to be the one to bring it up, but she knows all too well that neither of the males around her are going to. I secretly hope, pray, wish that she wouldn't. But she fucking does. "I, we--" She looks at Blair as if to make sure he was with her on this. He nods slowly. "We think you need help."

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, and if I did, I'd say you were fucking babbling out senseless nonsense and had gone completely into brain-space." I shove my feet through some socks and into my boots. Collect my keys. I leave my phone and wallet, but I grab a few bills from it and shove them into my pocket.

"Don't just push us off to the side like that!" she growls, shoving herself between me and the door.

Fucking stupid butterfly.

"I don't know who the fuck you think you are," I curse, grabbing her arm and shoving her aside. She falls to the ground and for some reason, hurting my sister makes me feel like a fucking man. Makes me feel proud, accomplished, powerful, fucking dominating. It's the same feeling filling me that drove me when I raped some kid in an alley some months ago, and then did the same to Blair not long before now. Though I wonder if it could even be considered rape, considering how much the fucking little bunny was thrusting up against me and moaning his little voice box out. "But you don't control my life. You're not fucking mother, and you never will be." I can see her close to tears when I spit the accursed woman's title out. "Don't get confused, you fucking little girl. You're my sister. And I'm your fucking father, so you have to do what the fuck I tell you." I don't even fucking care that I've let it slip. I have completely forgotten Blair's in the room. Until her eyes stream over.

She's frozen solid in spot. She knows the secret. I know it. And now Blair knows it, and I only realize this when I notice she's looking at Blair as if he were colored blue.

She glared over at me, ashamed, betrayed. "You said we wouldn't tell anyone. Promised!"

"We haven't. Blair's no one." I shove the door open. Slam it behind me.

I saw in the room that it's past seven in the evening. I know a few clubs already opened. But I want to stop by a bar first.

I spent an entire three hours at Spirited, a really cheap bar. By the time I'm heading down the street to Release, I can hardly tell people apart from street posts; the ones that are moving I assume are living beings, but I don't care. And after a few hours at Release, I'm so fucked up that I'm reintroducing myself to Mr. Decapitated Purple Worm with Light Eyes. He's glad to see me. He missed me.

I don't know how I got home. I think someone drove me. I might have walked. I might have raped some bitch on my way. Bit her. Drew blood. I could taste blood, but it couldn't be hers. Bitches don't bleed, they spit out babies and cry their little heads off. Fucking useless things.

When I managed to get into my room, the lights are all on. It hurts my eyes and I wince. Diamond's sitting on one of the chairs. Blair's on the edge of a bed, touching her knee, hugging her with one arm. He was saying something to her. I don't know what.

They look up at me. I glare at them both in turn and go to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. Diamond pulls it right back open, she's at me heels, but I grab her shoulders and slam her to the ground as hard as I can. I feel like such a fucking man for it, too. The adrenaline rush is like fucking spiking me right through, and I want more of it.

I pull away from her, though, and slam the door closed again. Lock it. She beats her little, weak pathetic fists against it. I ignore her. I've got a nice little mix with me. It's cold and a bit stale, but it'll do.

I miss at least ten times trying to get the damn needle into my vein. Eventually I press my arm up between the wall and my shoulder until the entire limb turns a blue-purple but I swear it's green and pink. I punch my arm a few times, and when I finally get the needle into that fucking vein, I'm feeding myself the key to paradise.

The light in the middle of the ceiling, the two googling purple beast eyes, are suddenly the most interesting things. I know my pupils are probably the size of watermelons. The thought even occurs to me. I touch one and sniff my finger. It smells fruity. For a minute I try to dislodge the thing, but then the thought of eating revolts me and I punch myself in the eye for it. Slam my head backwards against the tub. Forwards against the toilet. Back and forth, back and forth, to some symphony of rock-metal-junk-acid.

I sniff at my fingertips. There's traces of coke on them and I lick them clean. It tastes like paint, but it rings music in my ears, a hum of lights, and the sight of my own blood splattering the toilet. I pull myself up and stare in the mirror. I must have split my eyebrow open. It's oozing a lime margarita; I collect some on my fingers and slide it down my throat as far as I can, but the damned thing sends me reeling. I think I hear the toilet seat flaps break when I shove them up so suddenly and my empty stomach tries to empty something, anything, but I have nothing to offer. I don't have a fucking thing to offer but whatever it can produce itself, without my orders--bile and saliva.

I hear the door clicking behind me. I see my little bunny come in. He must have picked the lock. I don't even remember if I locked it. I probably didn't. I could have broken it.

Worry fills his cute little blue eyes. I can't look at him.

"Diamond went home, Jack." he says. His tone of voice resembles that a parent would use accusingly against their child. I ignore him, I don't want to hear it. Bitch deserves it. When finally he realizes he won't get any emotions out of me he sits beside me, pulls my head against his shoulder. I let him keep me there for a moment. I'm convulsing. My body's shuddering. I'm riled up with so much pent-up sexual longing and aggression and none of it will fucking come out no matter how fucking high I get.

His fingers are on my cheeks. I smell fear. I open my eyes a bit and notice he's crying. My eyes roll into the back of my head in annoyance. Stupid little bunny.

My weight droops; my desire to support my own body's impairment to gravity leaves me. He tries to hold my head up, tries to get me to open my eyes, but I don't. I just mouth wordless replies to his whimperings. I don't care, bunny. I'm so fucking hungry. I haven't eaten in a week. Why won't you let me fucking eat you? Why do you cripple my body so?

He feels my stomach convulse and helps me lean over the toilet again. He pulls my hair back, holds it in his delicate fingers. I settle and lean back against the toilet's rough surface. He wipes margarita from my cracked eyebrow with a small hand towel. I stare at his arms as he works. He's not wearing his usual gloves or armwarmers or whatever the fuck they're called.

I'm sickened by the arms I see. Lines, scars, red and so fucking obvious against his pale complexion. And I'm so fucking sickened that they're so obvious now, before me, that they matter so much that no matter how lucid I certainly am not, I notice them, and I fucking care. I fucking hate that I care about this stupid little rabbit. God damn it, bunny. Why do you do it to yourself? My stomach tries to empty itself again. It should know by now I have nothing for it.

"Why do you do this to yourself, Jack?" he asks. I think he's crying. He probably is. My little silly rabbit is such a child. He cries too much. He thinks I don't hear him at night. He thinks I'm asleep. He thinks I don't fucking know his sexual fantasies about our boss. I wonder if he knows that the whole reason I show him any sexual interest is because I know Malcolm is not fucking interested and never will be. I wonder if it's pity. And then I realize that he's asking me a question that, right now, I want to ask him, and it makes me sick because I can't, I have no voice, not even to answer. Not even to yell at him or make a single sound. All I can do is try to magically create some form of substance in my stomach to settle the gagging, the dry, dry gagging. Occasionally I rouse up some bile, and when my stupid body realizes that's all that will be produced, it fucking lets itself vomit up a shitload of disgusting-smelling fucking filth. I think it's pretending that bile is food, because I know that's what it wants. I know that's what it fucking wants but I'm not going to give it any. I'm not going to give it anything to produce every time I come home at night.

I don't know how I got here. I know how I got here--to my physical place relevant to time and space. I'm right here, in my little bunny's arm's, choking out confetti and poker chips and babies and carnivals of green funnel cake and soda. He's whispering in my ear, I don't know what he's saying. But I know that he's telling me I need help.

But I don't know how I got here, to this point in my life where I fucking need someone to hold back my hair out of my face, wipe me down with cold water that feels like acid, and tell me that everything's going to be okay, everything's going to be fucking dandy and great and we're all going to join hands and go walking into the desert together. I know my life's not fucking perfect. I've fucked up. I've been fucked up. I've been tossed a shitty hand in the card game called Life, and I've done with it what I can so far. But I can't remember exactly what those things I've done were. I can't remember exactly what I've done between the time I'm in and the time when all this started. Hell, I can't remember exactly when this started. I think it was when I got us, me and Diamond, out of that hell hole we called a home many years ago.

I don't know how I got here. But I don't want to be here. I don't want to be in this little, self-injuring rabbit's arms if the only point of it is to keep myself from throwing up in my own fucking hair. If we're going to be fucking touching, I want it to fucking matter. I don't want it to be like this. I fucking hate this. This has to stop.

My fucking god.

I need help.

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STORY TWO - Right Through the Stratosphere.

characters: Blair, Jack, Diamond.
perspective: First-person [Blair's]
tense: Present

notes: Yes, technically, this is not "Jack", it is Blair. But... uhm. Yeah. Whatevs. And yes, I am trying to write a short from the first-person perspective of Jen's character. Let the fail begin!

; ^;'' alli is sorry jennyyyyyy. ;-; -/has officially butchered Blair-
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He's doing it again.

I stare through the bathroom mirror at his reflection. He doesn't know I'm here, but I am; I'm standing right outside the bathroom, glaring through the slit-thin opening, right through the mirror and to this man, this man whose become so much a vital part of my everyday life.

When did it all begin? I can't really remember. Ever since I met him, he's been on the verge of being an alcoholic. But I cannot, for the life of me, remember when the drug usage began. Though I can vividly recall my own--and that's what kills me, that's what drags me down so damn far is the fact that he's forcing upon me, without even realizing it, memories that I wanted to keep stashed away for prying eyes to never see, prying eyes even my own.

My breath hitches as the needle breaks his skin, as the liquid carelessly flows through the metal and into his veins. His eyes roll back, he slowly leans back, lays on the ground, sprawls out a bit. One arm slowly urges up and rests against his forehead. When his eyes open they're as wide as the ocean, but they see nothing real. They're fixated on the florescent light attached to the bathroom's ceiling.

White powder smears the ground beside him and when I see it, I realize he's far beyond himself. He's high out of his mind, he's way up there. Hell, he's probably gone right through the stratosphere.

I slowly, quietly, press the door closed. The room envelops in darkness before me; I stare into it, imagining it eating me. I wish I could disappear into it. Nervously, I touch my bare forearm, unable to remember when I pulled my armwarmers off. My fingers run along the scars, feeling the light indentations and bumps.

I don't know why he does this to himself. I don't know why he does this to me. I think he might just hate me after all.

I slip off my shoes, toss off my jacket and throw it over Jack's open laptop; it's displaying information that probably relates to whatever mission Malcolm, object of my fantasies, has assigned him to. Jack never shares the details of his missions with me, so it's tempting to take a look, but I'm so disgusted by that man that I cannot stomach it.

It's cold in our room--it's always cold in our room--but I try to ignore it. Instead, I curl up on my bed, tucking my face into Katsu. I don't want to fall asleep without something hiding my arms, but I'm too tired, to mentally exhausted by thoughts of Jack, to bother moving.

I do fall asleep, but sometime afterward I awake to the sound of a door opening, a light flicking off, and footsteps. I become sleepily aware that someone's hovering over me, staring down at me, but I can't urge my eyes open. He crouches down, touches my cheek, brushes my hair out of my face. I want to snap open my eyelids, stare straight at him, seethe hatred in his general direction, but I can't, and I don't know why I can't. I just want it to be a dream, a hallucination. He runs his fingers over my arm, touches my scars, and it disgusts me to the point that I almost want to shove him away and go lock myself up in the bathroom and create more just because he knows, he fucking knows. But I can't. I don't.

I hear a heavy sigh and a shift of weight, and realize he's walking away. My brain finally listens to my orders and my eyes slowly open; I barely manage to catch the sight of him walking past the foot of my bed. Tears bead in the corners of my eyes and I shrink, I tighten into an even smaller ball, somehow.

I just want to disappear.

He sits at his desk, probably moves my jacket. At the sound of typing, of work, of birds chirping their early-morning melodies, my eyes snap back shut.

I can't stand living at the same time as that man.

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The first thing that I notice when I awake is that my clock is telling me it's noon. I breathe heavily and glance over towards Jack's laptop; he's slumped over, his work still open. Obviously asleep. I get up and go over to him, touch his shoulders, gently close the laptop. His arms are wrapped around the small, crumpled pile that is my jacket, his head and hair all but lost in the purple material.

I get dressed. I want to shower, but I definitely can't be in that bathroom now. I don't really have anything to do today, and it's snowing, but I don't want to stay here.

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"Y-yeah, I'll be right down." I inhale sharply and set the phone back on the hook. Breathe. Snatch up my jacket and shove my feet into my shoes.

I take the elevator down to the first floor, shakily stepping out into the lobby of Nox headquarters. Outside, snow is falling like rain and lights are shining through the front doors. Diamond is leaning up against her car, tights curving around her legs, showing off her perfect shapes.

For an instant, I can see why Jack is so overprotective of her.

"Hey," she breathes, trying to smile at me as I step outside. "Thanks for coming."

"Yeah." I slip into the passenger's seat, strap on the belt, and close my eyes. Under me, the car starts up, roars to life, speeds off. Silence spreads between us like some infectious disease.

When pull up to the hospital. We park outside the front door, but apparently we're a bit late. Jack's standing there, talking to Malcolm, eyes rolling every now and then. They're talking, but their voices are hushed. I feel a chill run down my spine when I realize Jack's in just a t-shirt and jeans, not even shoes--in snow, at that! But he doesn't even seem cold and I can't help but think that Jack is something far beyond human.

"I guess he's alright." I mutter, turning my head towards my lap. My eyes glance back over to Jack, though. Diamond's getting out of the car and Jack's looking over at us, now. So is Malcolm. He stares at me and I raise my head, try to smile a bit. Try to look happy to see him. He just looks back at Jack.

"You idiot!" Diamond screams, grabbing her brother's shoulders as she steps between him and our boss. She slams her tiny fists against his chest angrily as she curses off complaints and anxieties. He just stares down at her. He looks a bit out of it, as if he doesn't even recognize her. Then he slips his arms around her shoulders, hugs her tightly, and kisses her forehead.

And why does that send pangs of hurt and jealousy through my chest, constricting my breathing? The fact that it does fills me with anger, but I bite it down and slip out of the car and go over to them.

"What happened?" I ask Malcolm, trying to look him in the eyes. He just shrugs, as if he doesn't know, but I know he does. I stare at the little bandage covering part of a bruise on Jack's forehead.

"Calm down, Dia." he coaxes, grasping her wrists tightly. "Just take me home, alright? I have a lot of work to do."

"That's what got you in the hospital in the first place!" she argues and swerves a three-sixty, glaring right at Malcolm. "This is all your fault, for putting him on such dangerous missions, you bastard!" She reaches out, as if about to shove him, but the second her flesh touches the material of his shirt my hand shoots out, grabs her wrist, holding her back.

"Don't touch Malcolm." I hiss, all but glaring at her. Her eyes fill with tears of anger and it fucking hurts. Why do I find her so important?

"Just whose side are you even on?!" she screams, snatching out of my grasp. She looks between the three men around her and grabs her brother's wrist, pulling him towards the car. I glance at Malcolm; he merely nods his head towards the two and I follow wordlessly, slipping in the back seat of Diamond's car. The question left a sour taste on my tongue, and I can't bite it back.

By the time we get back, Jack's yelling at both of us. We're trying to calm him down, but he's beyond pissed. And as soon as we get inside, he slams the door to the bathroom behind him. He doesn't even lock it.

Diamond collapses on my bed, hides her face in her arms.

I want to comfort her, but I wouldn't know how, so instead I pull the bathroom door open and glare at Jack as he rubs his nose, white powder streaking the back of his hand.

"Get the fuck out!" he screams at me, grabbing the nearest thing to him--a razorblade--and chucking it at me. It hits the wall and bounces off and I notice it left a cut on his hand. "Just get out!"

"Jack--" I try to say, but he's up in an instant. He tries to slam the door but I won't move and it just collides with my arm. He rips it back open and grabs my shoulders, shoving me to the ground. He hovers over me, about to punch me, but Diamond's at his side, trying to pull him away. Instead she gets shoved backwards, as well.

This is so fucked up, and I realize it barely sooner than I realize I'm in pain, that I've been kicked in my stomach.

I squint towards the door, watching as Diamond flees. I can't blame her. I'd leave me to die, too, if I were her. And I really do think I'm going to die. I try to pull myself up, but Jack only kicks me again, and it sends me back a few feet. Somehow I manage to scrape at the ground and drag myself closer to my bed. Jack's fingers clasp around my neck, pull me up, slam me into my bed. As soft as it is, it feels like concrete.

"Stupid fucking piece of shit!" he growls, fingers tightening around my throat.

He's really going to kill me, isn't he?

He leans his head down; his cheek presses against mine. It feels like hours pass but after a couple of seconds, his fingers loose slack around my throat. I'd pull away, but I can hardly breathe, let alone summon the energy to escape. In reality, I don't have the will to. What does it matter if I die here?

A few minutes pass. After my breath has returned I realize something peculiar; my shoulder feels damp, as if my shirt is wet and the liquid is seeping through. And then it dawns upon me exactly what is happening.

I try to move my head and glance over, but Jack's is there to stop it. His veil of scrappy blond hair is falling in snow-dampened chunks about his face.

I can feel his chest against mine, and the fact that he's hardly breathing sends flurries of worry through my chest.

"My fucking god..." he chokes out. He sounds so pathetic that it absolutely kills me. "This needs to stop." he whispers. I realize he's shaking and raise my hands, trying to help steady him, but all I manage to do by touching his arms is send chills racing up and down my own spine. My world practically freezes when I glance over and realize he's looked up at me, eyes vibrant and red and glazed over.

"I need help."

I can't speak, I can't breathe, I can't even think, because this man, this manly men among men, this power so strong that he could move worlds with his own two bare hands, is crying to me/, admitting to me the thing he cannot even admit to himself.

I can only hold him, touch his neck, press my lips numbly to his forehead.

What can I say to him? What can I possibly say to calm this Hercules?

I just look up, look up to the ceiling, past it, long past the sky and far beyond heaven.

Right through the stratosphere.

His head ducks back down, hiding his tears once more.

I swear I just saw Halley's comet.