Title: This Too Shall Pass
Summary: Follow's Jack's rough transition into the Mercer family.
Warnings: language, violence
Author's Note: I've had the idea to write this for a while, but I've been to busy to actually do it. I've finally gotten the first chapter down and I'm in the process of writing the second. Unfortunately, writer's block decided it wanted to become my new best friend, so if you guys like this story feel free to leave reviews on ideas of where you want it to go next!

PS- For those who aren't sure, this story is written from Jack's point of view and takes place before the movie. Jack is about thirteen years old.

Enjoy!

THIS TOO SHALL PASS

CHAPTER ONE

I sat on the back porch, breathing in the fresh air as the gentle night breeze blew across the littered lawn. These back steps had been my safe-haven ever since I can remember. Mom and Dad kept the house reeking of smoke and alcohol, and out here I didn't feel as suffocated.

The wind blew again, except this time it was stronger and much colder. I pulled my knees close to my chest to find warmth, but it didn't do much good. I sighed, wishing my dad hadn't ripped and bloodied the new sweatshirt my mom had just given me for my birthday.

I rested my head on my knees and closed my eyes, taking in the sounds of the night. The wind rustling the leaves, the crickets chirping, the glass shattering... I flinched slightly at the sound. I actually thought that maybe I would get a few moments of quiet.

I heard the sound of more glass breaking I could already tell what was happening. Dad was probably drunk again. And he was probably fighting with Mom again. And Mom was probably in tears again.

And here I was sitting on the steps again, sadly listening to the exchange of harsh words accompanied by the sound of shattering glass. For a while I just ignored it, pretended like it wasn't really happening, but the noise kept getting louder and louder and I couldn't just sit there and do nothing anymore.

I opened the door and walked into the battlefield, coughing slightly from the thick cloud of smoke.

"Who the fuck do you think you are to talking to me like that?!"

"I'm sick of your shit, Brian! I'm taking Jack and I'm finally getting the fuck out of here."

She turned to walk away, but he grabbed her arm, pulling her toward him before forcefully slapping her across the face. She cried out in pain, but that only made him madder. He kept hitting her, each blow getting more and more powerful.

I started to yell at the top of my lungs for him to stop, but it didn't do much good. He still wouldn't stop.

Mom fell to the ground and I could see her blood seeping onto the carpet. She had stopped screaming, stopped resisting, stopped fighting.

I had to do something, anything to make him stop. I ran to their bedroom and began fumbling through Dad's drawers, looking for the gun I knew he kept.

"Damnit, where is it?" I was starting to panic, but I kept digging, throwing everything out of the drawer in hopes of revealing its location.

It wasn't there. Why wasn't it there? Dad always kept it in the same place.

Then I heard it. There was no mistaking the sound. I ran back out into the living room in just enough time to see my dad standing over my mom, the gun still pointed at her chest. I watched in horror as he pulled the trigger again, and again.

And when the shots finally stopped, he turned and looked it at me, as if noticing me for the first time. He smiled, the most sickening smile I'd ever seen in my life, and he pointed the gun straight at my chest.

All I could do was stand there and watch him. He was going to kill me.

I wasn't going to stop him.

"DO IT!" I was starting to get hysterical now. Tears were streaming down my face and I felt like I couldn't breathe.

"Shoot me! Please! I don't want to live anymore." The sobs were making my whole body shake.

His smile broadened, and he raised the gun higher.

"I'm going to send you straight to Hell, just like your mom."

He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened.

There were no more bullets.

My legs gave way and I found myself on the floor, screaming and begging God to bring her back. She was the only thing that had ever mattered in my life, and I didn't know how I was going to go on without her there by my side.

I could vaguely hear Dad shouting in the background for me to "shut up," but I didn't care anymore. I closed my eyes and tried to make myself believe that I was still sitting on the back porch, enjoying the fresh air. I pulled my knees tight to my chest and started rocking myself back and forth. I don't know how long I stayed like that, or who called the cops, all I know is that I heard the sirens, and saw the blue and red flashing lights outside the window, and felt someone scooping me off the floor. They kept telling me that everything was okay now, and that I was safe, but I didn't care.

I didn't want things to be okay, I didn't want to be safe. I'd rather be dead.

They took me to the hospital and the doctors asked me some questions, but I didn't answer them. They took pictures of every bruise and cut on my body, and I didn't try to hide them like I used to. I heard them muttering in the corner to the people that brought me here.

"...signs of sexual and physical abuse..."

"...emergency foster home placement..."

And when we left the hospital a few hours later they took me to a house. I remember how warm it felt and how nice the white-haired lady was. And I remember how for a moment I wished she were my mother, and that I lived in this house with her, and that I never had to go through what I went through to get here.

And for a moment I was glad I wasn't dead, because maybe I could get a new start here, but it passed by just like all the other moments, and I found myself back where I started, wishing I was dead.