A/N - So this is a letter that Jack wrote to his brothers on the night that Angel and Bobby killed the two shooters who murdered their mother. I think that he more or less did it because he became a little more aware of mortality, and wanted his brothers to know that he was grateful and loved them just in case something happened to him. And, let's face it, you can't tell your siblings that you love them to their faces or they mock your horrendously. My brother would, anyway.

This is not my favourite thing that I've written, but I'm happy with some sections, so I decided to put it up. Most of the fanfiction I write is Harry Potter, so this one is a little out of my usual ball park. Reviews, please!

Hey.

If you're reading this, then one of two things must have happened. The first thing that might have happened is that you lost a sock or something and while you were looking through my guitar case for it, you found this instead. If that's the case, then I am never, ever gonna live this down. I'll have to leave in the middle of the night and change my name. Maybe I'll move to Kentucky or something. Set up an electric fence. Bury my phone. Then, you know, do whatever it is they do in Kentucky. Raise chickens. Fuck if I know.

The other thing that might have happened is that I died, and you're going through my shit because someone's gotta do it, right? That's a little more sobering.

I need to explain myself. Look, I don't usually walk around thinking, damn, today's the day I'm gonna cash in my chips. But ever since I saw Bobby and Angel waste the shooters who killed mom, I've been thinking a lot.

Man, it's not like I've never seen anybody die before. I knew a few guys who OD'd at parties or whatever, had a foster mom who had a heart attack halfway through the goddamned Young and the Restless, but let me tell you, it's not the same thing as watching someone get their ticket punched by someone else. I thought that was what I wanted, you know? Those two assholes killed the first person who ever gave a shit about any of us. But it didn't make me feel any better about watching them die. People aren't supposed to go that way, laying alone in the snow, thinking, please, God, if you let me live, I'll quit smoking, go to church more, help out at the goddamned soup kitchen. They're not supposed to discover, in those last few seconds, that all they're gonna get in response is a huge, yawning silence, shouting and screaming into their ears: God isn't listening.

They're not supposed to realize that somewhere up there, there's an insurmountable sheet of checks and balances and totals, and at the end of the day, somebody's gotta go home and there's nothing they can do about it.

I mean, people die all the time. Lightning strike, car accident, kidney failure. People drown in the goddamned bathtub, for Christ's sake. Nobody lives forever.

I'm pretty sure that I'm not going to die today, and tomorrow's not looking real threatening, either. Being 'pretty sure' is no guarantee, though. I could have a brain aneurysm, step out in front of a bus. Maybe I'll get shot, point blank, alone in the snow. Yeah, I know how that sounds, but hey – those poor fuck-ups who snuffed it tonight probably didn't think it was real likely, either. Listen, I don't blame you guys for doing what you had to do. You just gave me a little perspective, is all. I don't want to go out like that, and that means that I've gotta tell you guys a couple of things, just so that I know that, no matter what happens, I didn't leave the important things unfinished. You know how awkward it is to do this shit, so I'll make it quick.

I remember when I first came here and I thought that it was going to be just like the other places I'd been, where everything's fucking roses until you hear the door close behind the social worker. I was eight years old and already I'd decided that nobody else was gonna hit me, fuck me, or push me around, so I spent a lot of the first few days hiding out under the porch. Your chances of survival with a family you don't know are always a whole lot better if you keep your head down. I think Bobby knew where I was the whole time though, because he came out the first chance he got and poked a cookie through a gap between the slats in the porch and asked me if he could come and sit down there with me. I just looked up at him and took a bite of the cookie. All I could see was his eye through the crack. Then the next thing I knew, he was crawling through a hole in the lattice-work that lined the side of the porch. He had to crunch up to sit beside me, because I was sitting under the lowest part, right at the front.

I was kind of embarrassed, because I was in pretty rough shape and I could see that he was starting to feel a little sorry for the scrawny new kid who had bunked down in half of his room. I had a nasty shiner from when my foster sister at the old house had pushed me and I'd caught the corner of the table on the way down. My hair was a mess because I didn't own a comb and I wasn't about to ask mom for one. I had been through a string of foster parents, and not one of them would have been altogether pleased to actually have to, you know, spend some of that money designated for me by the system, on me. I didn't really begrudge them for it. Everyone's gotta make a living. I was wearing some of Angel's hand-me-downs, too, which practically swallowed me. Mom used to say that maybe it was because I was always drowning in my clothes that I always looked half-starved.

I think Bobby thought that I must be one of those crazy wild kids you read about – the ones who are raised by wolves or whatever. He definitely thought I was going to bolt, because he tensed up and said, "Hang on, kid." I just looked at him for a little while, all sideways, because he looked so funny crunched up there and I knew that it would take him a good ten or fifteen seconds to get un-stuck enough to chase me if I did decide to take off. I crouched down out of arm's reach and gave him my best creep-out-the-prospective-foster-parent look that I dug out on special occasions. Most people don't get this, when you tell them. They think that every foster kid's dream is to be adopted. I thought, fuck that. Nobody wants a fucked-up kid who's been through the system unless they want to fuck him up more. Kids like me are too hard to fix, man. It's easier to take babies, because they ain't been through the ringer yet. I knew it, and I wanted to be the one to do the rejecting before they could decide that they didn't want me.

You know, it's funny how heavy this shit sounds, all written down.

Anyway, Bobby looked like he knew exactly what I was trying to do, and he wasn't going to let it get to him. Maybe it's when he saw right through me that I started to trust him.

I don't remember a lot of what Bobby said to me, on that day. He talked about all kinds of things, I think, like road hockey and Christmas dinners and how Jer wanted to go to college for business or architecture but mom wanted him to get an apprenticeship in something more dependable, like carpentry. None of it was really important. I think he was just trying to fill in the quiet.

Finally, he told me that he was going back in the house because he'd lost all the feeling in his legs. I think I must've smiled at that, almost, because he looked at me and shook his head. I guess he thought he'd gotten through to me or something, so he wanted to be honest, even though I could've called the devil on a lie in those days. People look at you sideways enough times, you learn to figure out when they're going to fuck you over.

"Look, kid," he said, and I can still picture him saying it, hunched over in the dark like he was, "Things are rough all over. People get fucked up, get high, get laid, light fires, piss their lives and their money away and let each other have it when they should be blaming themselves. But sometimes, in some small corner of this mess, there's someone trying to make things a little better. You should give us a chance, kid."

If you'd asked me then where I saw myself in ten years, you wouldn't have liked the answer a whole lot. I wasn't heading anywhere good. I saw myself laying in a pool of my own vomit somewhere, maybe in some shit-hole apartment, trying to see the stars through old fiberglass and two layers of concrete. Maybe, I'd be dead. At least, I'd be as good as. The worst part was that I didn't even care.

Then, mom threw me a lifeline and once I took hold of it, I sure as hell wasn't letting go. I couldn't believe that she wasn't giving up on me.

I started believing in angels.

This next part is the most important. You're always bagging on me and fucking around, but don't think that I don't appreciate you guys looking out for me. For the first time in my life, I had a reason to hold my head up. You guys helped give a kid his dignity back. I don't know if saying thanks is enough, but now it's out there and you can take it whatever way you want.

Remember that guitar that you guys saved up for to get me for my twelfth birthday? Bobby wasn't living at home anymore by then and things were tight, but mom told me Angel worked overtime for three weeks so that he could pay his share.

I still have that thing, man. I can't believe how long it's lasted, when I've been through about six other ones since I left that one at home when I moved out. It's still my favourite to plunk things out on. I don't have a will or anything, but if something happens to me, Jerry's girls can have it. It'd be cool if one of them got into music and got some use out of it, but they can sell it or whatever too, I don't care.

I think that's everything I wanted to say. Wow, and I said that I'd make it quick, huh? Feels better now that I've gotten it all out, though. You guys are probably never going to read this and I don't even know why I'm writing it, but whatever.

Go out and have a drink for me or something, okay?

See you around.

Love,

Jack