Breathing was simple.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Nothing complex. No effort necessary. Never had a person died because they forgot to breathe. Of all the hard things in life- breathing was easy.
At least it had been.
Jesus couldn't quite remember the last time he'd experienced such shortness of breath. The awful clenching feeling in his chest as he gasped in what air he could. The pain of his lungs on fire. The utter hopelessness.
The man was no stranger to panic attacks. He'd grown up with them- experiencing his first one at 11. The bone crunching anxiety was something he'd grown accustomed to. Long gone were the days when he lived without a care in the world.
The apocolypse had not helped ease the anxiety, he was most certain of that. But somehow- somewhere near the beginning of it all- the panic attacks stopped. They became an old memory of a dark time. Even with the dead rising to eat human flesh- he had been glad for the change in reality.
He hadn't experienced this torture in years. God, how long had it been since he'd curled in a ball on the floor, gasping for air?
What had triggered it? He wished he didn't know. How desperatly he wanted to forget. He wanted to sink in a hole and die. When last had he felt so pathetic? When was the last time Jesus had actually been as pathetic as he felt?
"I had you pegged as the softy. Not pretty boy."
It had been days since. Days. And he could still hear the words in his ear. He could feel the man's nose buried in his hair. He could feel his breath on the back of his neck.
He wanted to cry. To scream. To empty the air from his lungs and die of the suffocation he felt.
Nothing could compare to the shame he felt after that. To the disgust he felt. The failure. God, he let himself down yet again.
He remembered therapy sessions, from his youth, explaining how and why he was the grandest failure of them all. How humbling it was- to believe that again. Jesus had thought the feelings of worthlessness were behind him. But they would never be behind him.
A half assed sob escaped his lips as he tried so hard to breathe.
In.
Out.
In...
But the rythm broke. He couldn't. His lungs were so tight- they were seemingly incapable of holding his breaths steady. Tears began to roll down his face and into his beard, encouraging his ever growing desire to rip it out of his face.
His hands, long and trembling, rose to his head, fisting at the hair he treated so delicately.
He couldn't take it. The pain. The voices. God why wouldn't they shut up?!
Shoot this beautiful man here.
Beautiful man.
Pretty boy.
"Jesus?" He wanted to answer, but no words came. He wanted to speak, but he felt so worthless at Maggie's feet- just as he had when she told him off for taking the Saviors prisoner. He couldn't even do that right. Failure.
The tapping on the door came once more. "Jesus, I know you're in there. I just wanna talk."
Talk? About how badly he'd screwed up? What else could she possibly want to say to him? He wasn't worth anything else.
The door squeaked open. His eyes clenched shut as he tried to breathe. Now she would see him for what he truly was. Pathetic. Worthless. Weak.
"Jesus? Shit, what's wrong?" He could hear her rushing into the room, but his eyes refused to open. He'd been holding back everything for too damn long, and now it broke out of him like water bursting through a dam.
"Paul?" Her voice grew softer, less urgent. The use of his given name triggered whatever was wrong with his screwed up body, and his eyes fluttered open, his vision blurred by the never ending river of tears. "s'alright. Just breathe."
She sat down beside him, rubbing his back soothingly.
There was nothing disturbing about her touch. It was familial affection, he reminded himself. And yet in spite of his best efforts he flinched away.
Maggie was seemingly unfased by his harsh reation. "In and out. C'mon, breathe with me okay? In through your nose, and out through the mouth."
He tried it, counting them in his head. One rattling breathe. Two rattling breathes. Three...
Pretty boy
The voice echoed in his mind, making his head pound painfully.
"I can't." He gasped desperatly. "Can't."
"Yes, yes you can." The widow insisted, cupping his tear stained face in both her hands. Her eyes were kind, not filled with pity as he thought they'd be. Somehow they soothed him, anchored him. His vision sharpened ever so slightly, and he brethed in shakily. "That's it." She said. "In, and out. In and out."
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
Jesus exhaled. They sat there in silence, breathing. He didn't know how long. He just breathed, greatful for the relief in his chest as he tried to sit up straight. Maggie had yet to pry, and he could feel her need to ask growing. How he dreaded the moment as it drew closer. Just the nerves alone would make him break into another panic soon enough, lest he prevent it.
"There was a guy, when I was a kid. It was a group home... there were lots of guys..." His words were a jumble in high contrast to his usually coherent form of speach. "Mike Johnson. He was 15... blonde... big... he was huge... I was 11, and he... he liked to mess around. With everyone I guess, but me mostly..." He dared a glance at Maggie's face, which was full of understanding. "He left after a year or such, but I was his favorite... kept coming back to visit me, and the grown ups thought it was sweet. Had me confused... He was my first boyfriend, if you could call it that. Stuck around till I was 15. I called the cops on him. Put him in jail. But... it messed me up..." Jesus took a deep breath. In. And out.
"You don't have to tell me. It's okay if you can't." Maggie said gently.
"No, I do." He said, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly. "If you don't mind, I mean... I did therapy, so... you know... I have to."
Maggie simply nodded.
"It had me confused, more than normal. I didn't like girls, I knew it. But after what Mike did... that shit screwed me up... thought it was disgusting, after what happened to me. I was disgusting. So I cut myself. I fucking starved myself. It was stupid, it was pathetic, but it helped me forget. It shut up the voices- and they wouldn't ever shut up."
"Jesus.." Maggie whispered.
"Landed myself in the hospital when I was 22. It should've happened sooner, but it didn't. So I was commited. Got better. Relapsed. Got better again. I'm 11 fucking years clean. And now..." He could feel the bile coming up in his mouth as he stumbled over the confession that had been eating away at him since that moment. "I can't think about anything 'cept taking a knife and making myself bleed."
"Have you?"
"Not yet." He whispered.
Maggie nodded. "May I...?" She asked, gesturing lightly to his weapons belt. Jesus nodded once, averting his eyes as Maggie extracted the knife from his waist.
"There was a Savior, at the satalite station. Tara and I cornered him. He was unarmed, on the floor. Peed himself. Said he was a worker, that he had a family. I believed him. Told Tara we couldn't kill him...and... well I was wrong. He grabbed me. Held my own fucking gun to my head." Jesus could feel himself shaking at the memory, still fresh in his mind. "He kept smelling my hair... Grabbing it... I could feel him against my leg... called me pretty boy." A shudder ran through his body. "Mike called me that. And I couldn't take it, because I failed. I failed myself. And I failed you. 'm sorry."
"Don't apologize." Maggie said firmly. "You were doin' what you thought was right. It may have put us in a tough place, but I would have done the same damn thing. It's the humane thing to do."
He nodded absent mindedly, but with his fingers he traced the faded white marks on his arm.
They sat in silence, for a while. Jesus could feel Maggie itching to say something, but she remained silent as before. This time, however, he was not going to go first. So he waited, breathing.
"There was a man once," Maggie said, her hand rubbing her bloated stomach. She'd only just started showing. "After it all started. Daryl's brother kidnapped Glenn and me. Brought us to him." Jesus wanted to inquire about Daryl having a brother, but he knew better. Nowadays everyone had someone they'd lost. "We were seperated. They were torturin' Glenn in the room right next to mine. Heard every second of it. So then this man comes in my room. Tells me to take off my shirt, or he takes Glenn's hand. So I did. He bent me over the table. Pressed himself up against me. Didn't rape me, but he sure as hell had a nice time. I thought I was gonna die of the shame, but then he made it worse. Brought me in to where Glenn was, and held me up to him. I blamed myself. It was stupid. I shouldn't have. But I did."
Jesus felt her eyes land on him, but he closed his own. He couldn't hear her say it.
"It's not your fault, Jesus. You don't gotta feel ashamed for what they did to you."
He shook his head. "I know that. Somewhere inside, I think I know that. But right now... It's too fresh... too real..."
Maggie leaned her head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry you went through that."
Jesus sighed deeply, allowing hia own head to rest on hers. "Me too."
"There's still hope, you know? Shinning in the dark, my sister would say. You ain't broken. There is beauty, in most things. You'll get through it."
He hummed tiredly. "I hope so. I've got this secret hope that Daryl is gay."
Maggie laughed good naturedly. "I would love to set that up." She said with amusement coloring her voice.
"Someday, maybe." He whispered. "Someday."
And as hopeful as he tried to sound, his scars and bleeding arms kept comimg to mind, the horrid voice echoing in his skull.
Pretty boy.