Saviors and Illusions

Part One: Drowning

The wails and bloodcurdling screams could be heard throughout the small Quileute Reservation. It wasn't the first time La Push had heard them knife through an otherwise peaceful night—and no one doubted that it would be the last. These nighttime disturbances caused heartfelt sadness to the entire Tribe, but not like the very real pain and sorrow that it caused those closest to the one causing the disturbances. Within the confines of the little red house, a broken father couldn't control the tears that escaped his eyes and rolled silently down his aging cheeks. Within the cover of the forest rose the distressed howls of wolves and brothers. Within the four walls of the tiny bedroom, the man shook, cried and prayed for an end to it all.

The descent into darkness is rarely sudden, and it wasn't for Jacob either. In the beginning, he was simply melancholy and quieter than usual. Everyone agreed that this was to be expected and understandable. Who could blame the man really after all that happened in such a short amount of time? His friends and family continued to be very supportive, confident that all would be healed in due time.

Sadly, that wasn't mean to be. As time went on and no one heard a word from her, the melancholy escalated until Jacob's life became unrecognizable. First, he became impatient and irritable with everyone to the point where most people just stopped trying to speak to him at all. Next, he began to skip his assigned patrols without warning. He wasn't just grumpy with everyone; he eventually stopped communicating with everyone, even his best friends, Embry and Quil. Even though people begged and pleaded for him to let them in, to allow them to help him any way they could, he ignored everyone's attempts. Jacob Black became a loner.

Simple, necessary things like eating and showering became an afterthought. While his sister and Emily attempted to feed him every chance they got, he refused the meals more often than not. He no longer cared at all what he looked like, so he didn't shower regularly, and allowed his hair to grow shaggy. Before long, he even stopped phasing completely. He claimed that he couldn't stand being inside the Pack mind any longer. He couldn't even tolerate being inside his own head anymore. The depression started to swallow him, piece by piece, before the shocked eyes of all that knew him.

It all culminated to the night that produced the nightmares and wails. It was the worst night Jacob had experienced, and not one he ever wanted to repeat. But how do you prevent something that happens every time you shut your eyes even for a minute?

Jacob hadn't slept for days. He gave up the luxury almost a week after he suffered through that night filled with nonstop nightmares, tremors, tears, and thoughts that brought him to his knees. He couldn't stand even the thought of a repeated night like the one he had endured. He knew they would come again. He knew that rest—true, restorative rest-was not an option right now. He also knew that he was exhausted and sick. He was keenly aware that he was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. For this reason, he decided that he was willing to chance sleep again. All he asked for was to sleep perchance NOT to dream. He just had to figure out how to make that happen.

With this need in mind, Jacob stumbled into his garage and looked around with the wild look of a man on the cusp of breaking apart at the seams. Somehow, some way, he had to find the stiches that would, at the very least, hold him together a little longer. He wasn't sure he would ever be made whole again…too much of his essence and spirit had oozed out in the cracks and tears of the seams that had snapped apart. He would have to live with that—what choice did he have really?—but perhaps he could do something to save himself from becoming an empty shell void of any substance altogether.

The only question that remained was how to accomplish this.

Jacob decided that he needed to exhaust himself to the point where he simply passed out. He reasoned that if his mind and body simply could not find a way to function in a conscious state any longer, then he would be able to fade away to the realm of the black and empty unconsciousness. What better way to tire himself out than to deconstruct and then reconstruct the garage from top to bottom? Determined, he pulled every single object off of the shelves that had not seen a scrubbing in years. He cleaned them now with a vengeance, scrubbing to the point where varnish and stain faded and disappeared completely in spots. He dumped every drawer, choosing what to keep and what to discard haphazardly. He organized each tool he owned in a desperate and slightly obsessive-compulsive manner. And he got down on his hands and knees to clean the concrete floor until not even a miniscule piece of dirt remained. Never before—not even when his mother was still alive, not even when his father finished building it—did the garage of the Black home look as pristine or organized as it did now.

Hours had passed. His heightened senses were aware of that fact. He scanned the garage once again, his eyes still wild and his body still sending desperate vibes. What he saw as he gazed came eerily close to breaking his will and self-control, though anyone else who viewed the scene would fail to see what was amiss. There was a shine to that old garage that was apparent in even the dull, naked bulbs that hung from the wooden beams of the ceiling. Nowhere would anyone find a spider web, a stain, or even an errant fingerprint. In each shelf, drawer, and available space, there was order and organization. Jacob had done magnificent work. Unfortunately, there were no words that could be expressed that would convince him of that fact. After all, he had failed at his set objective.

Despite the hard work and hours spent, Jacob Black was still not tired. Yes, he still felt the exhaustion that he had felt before he had begun the garage makeover, but it was still not enough. His mood was still as dark as the densest part of the forest surrounding his home. His emotions still ebbed and flowed in waves that alternated between depression, agony, wrath, and hysteria. His body still buzzed with so much electricity that Jacob himself wondered how he didn't shock himself as he raked his fingers through his greasy and shaggy hair.

"What else can I do?" Jacob whined as he turned around and around in circles. "What the fuck is it going to take?"

No sooner had Jacob screamed the question than his jet black eyes fell on the red motorcycle. It was difficult to discern the meaning behind the look that flashed across his face. There was the peculiar way that his mouth pulled at the sides, a look that was difficult to decide was a grimace from an unseen pain or a slight smile of satisfaction. There was a shine in his eyes that could either be interpreted as relief or disgust. His body language, with the hunched shoulders and absence of any movements, may be either a sign of defeat or of a newly found determination. In truth, it was doubtful that even Jacob would be able to fully or honestly explain his feelings at that moment. The sheer erraticism of each and every emotion of his at any second was overwhelming and consistently in a state of flux, and typically a combination of many all at the same time.

Regardless of his true feelings on the matter, Jacob attacked the unsuspecting bike with a vengeance. It was, after all, his last hope at achieving the exhaustion he craved. He also hoped beyond hope that the concentration and brute force that was necessary to work on the bike forced the never ending thoughts to vanish for a while. He was absolutely desperate for a quiet mind even more than he wished for a peaceful body.

Once again, Jacob encountered a problem: the bike was perfect. He had rebuilt the hunk of metal from scraps with his own two hands. Since the initial rebuilding, he had ensured that the bike continued to stay in the same well-maintained condition that it had started in his capable hands. This fact almost proved to be Jacob's ultimate failure and downfall, but he refused to allow that to happen. Not now. Not because of this damn motorcycle. Not this time.

"You think you are so fucking perfect, huh?" Jacob hissed at the motorcycle as he circled it menacingly. "Well, guess what? I can destroy your perfection. And then I alone will decide whether I leave you ugly and broken on the floor, or if I will make you beautiful and perfect again. Don't fuck with me. I am through with being mind-fucked."

A small part of Jacob, the part that still retained its purity and still cared what others thought, wondered silently what he must look and sound like to anyone who entered the doors as he lashed out at the inanimate object before him. He imagined that he appeared psychotic and somewhat deranged. Jacob narrowed his eyes, worried that it was true and that he had fallen into the realm of irreversible psychosis. That brief concern retreated quickly enough though once Jacob realized that it was nearly two o'clock in the morning. If he didn't do something quick, it would mean yet another night with no rest and no escape from it all. He would risk the deranged label.

Jacob spent the next hour all but destroying the bike that he had brought to life in the first place. In some places, he just took parts off or apart, while at others he bent and broke the parts completely. He worked at breakneck speed, and in the end his face was flushed and sweat poured down his neck and back from the effort. In a strange way though, it was very therapeutic for Jacob. There was power in destroying something, in dissecting something that was nearly perfect in composition before decided that he no longer desired it in that state.

"Not so perfect are you now, are you? Perfection is so overrated—and so unnecessary. Now you can stay like that until I, and I alone, decide that you should be anything else."

He laughed then, although there wasn't any humor in it at all. He had tried for hours not to think about anything but the task at hand. Now that it was finished, he couldn't control as they rushed to the forefront now. He wondered what she would think of the half-broken and battered bike lying before him. After all, he had built it at her request and for her.

He tried to convince himself that he could care less what she would think. He tried.

Jacob trudged over to the old, much worn couch that sat in the corner of the garage and sat down heavily. After a few minutes of glaring at the broken motorcycle in front of him, he sighed loudly. He slumped forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and grasped his head in his hands. He felt defeated and like he had failed. Even after all the work he had completed, he still didn't feel as though he could sleep uninterrupted. Dawn's arrival was coming closer and closer, and yet he was still aware of the electric coil that snaked and slithered through his core. He was out of ideas, and soon he would be out of time.

Unless…

Jacob suddenly remembered the bottles of booze that had been leftover from the last time the Pack had celebrated some event in the garage. He couldn't even remember what they had celebrated, or even when exactly it had taken place. It seemed like so long ago that his soul had been eased enough to be happy about anything. Now those bottles seemed like a glass salvation. Maybe, if he drank enough, that burning amber liquid would seep into his senses enough to erase all thoughts, emotions, and even consciousness for a while. In his mind, it was certainly worth a shot.

With a weariness that is usually associated with the very old or the very ill, Jacob limped over to the cabinet and reached for the unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. He quickly cracked the seal and held the bottle up to the light. Although he no longer believed in their power to help or protect him—or even of their existence—Jacob sent a muttered prayer up to the spirits that this would work.

"Cheers…or whatever bullshit they say before you drown yourself."

Jacob hesitated for the span of two heartbeats before he brought the Jack eagerly to his lips. He guzzled the contents like a lost traveler in a desert who had found an oasis moments before certain death. Jacob's throat moved rapidly as he sucked every last drop from the bottle, barely breathing until nothing remained. He tossed the bottle to the side, not caring when he heard the glass bounce and then shatter all over the newly-cleaned floor.

Jacob fell against the couch once again, nearly knocking the thing over with his weight. He tossed his head back and smiled tightly as he enjoyed the feeling of the liquor slide down his throat and ooze to the different parts of his body. The feeling was a slow, burning meander, but it did not take long before the full effects began. In a matter of minutes, his limbs started to go numb and his thoughts became fuzzy. He swayed on the couch, not sure if the movements were in as slow motion as they seemed to be to him. Then again, he truly didn't care. All he cared about was the fact that, for the first time in a very long time, he felt numb and good.

A chuckle escaped Jacob's throat as the liquor continued its assault on his senses. The edges of the garage blurred, and his vision started to become blurry and gray. He howled in a mix of relief and agony as that unconsciousness he had sought fervently took hold and pulled him into its grasp. With a thud that shook the entire structure, Jacob Black collapsed on the cement floor. His head lolled to the side, his arms splayed open in submission, and his movements ceased to an eerie stillness.

He had finally succeeded.

Meanwhile, the wolf that patrolled outside the property froze in fear and howled in panic. Jacob had no clue that one of his brothers lurked outside. He never knew it, but ever since his descent into depression, there was always a wolf not far away. Jacob, in his current state of mind, couldn't see that the way he was now affected everyone that cared about him. In all likelihood, he wouldn't have cared if he had realized it. He was so consumed by his thoughts and emotions that there just wasn't any room for empathy or understanding left. The Pack knew this, but despite his alienation of them, they still watched and attempted to protect their brother at all costs. Just as Jacob was at a loss as to how to help himself, so too was the Pack at a loss as to what else to do but keep a close eye on him. They had tried talking. They had tried consoling. They had tried distractions. They had even tried yelling and screaming at him, but all that had accomplished was a near disaster between Jacob and Sam. They had no other choice but to keep their around-the-clock silent sentry.

The wolf that heard the thud was Embry. In a way, it was both the best and the worst person that could have been patrolling at the time. The fact that Embry and Jacob had been friends since infancy made it the perfect choice to find Jacob passed out on the floor. Who else would have more concern and sympathy for Jacob than one of his closest friends? At the same time, the bond they shared caused Embry to panic and lose any objectivity.

The entire scene tore Embry apart. He phased and rushed into the garage. He stilled instantly as he saw Jacob, motionless and prone, on the floor. Fear flooded him instantly as he thought the worst thoughts possible.

"Jake? Jake, can you hear me? What they hell did you do?" Embry whispered.

He looked around frantically. Jacob wasn't moving and he wasn't answering. Had Jacob committed the ultimate act and found a way to end his own life? And with what? It was as these devastating thoughts ran through his head that he spied the shattered glass that covered the corner. Embry rushed over to it, noticing the Jack Daniels label in the middle of the ruins. He sighed audibly, and looked back over to where Jacob laid.

"So you just pickled yourself, Jake? Good. That should wear off soon enough."

Embry knew that, with their wolf metabolism, the amount of alcohol that Jacob had consumed would be enough to knock him out, but only for a short time. Soon enough, the stupor would wear off and Jacob would regain consciousness. He also knew that if Jacob had resorted to this, then he would be pretty pissed off when he did come around. Embry leaned over his friend, making sure that Jacob's heartbeat and breathing were steady and normal. Once satisfied, he covered Jacob with the flannel blanket on the couch before he stood up and watched his friend sleep. Embry hoped that Jacob's alcohol-induced slumber was peaceful. Convinced that there was nothing else he could do, and not wanting to be caught in the room when Jake awoke, Embry reluctantly exited the garage. He took one sad glance back at the closed door before running into the cover of the woods, phasing yet again and continuing his patrol.

This left Jacob alone on the floor again. He was still blissfully numb, yet tiny pieces of his brain began to register sensations. Although his eyes remained closed, he saw a shadow pass over his body. He heard quiet, subtle movements around him. He had no idea what it was saying, but he could swear that he heard a voice murmuring something close to his ear. And on his cheek and neck, he felt as warm teardrops fell onto him.

His lips strained to move, failing to utter any sound. He wanted to know who had disturbed his peace and quiet. He was furious that anyone had entered his space uninvited. Moreover, he was curious as to who cared enough to cry over his body. But none of these questions mattered enough for him to wrestle himself from the arms of unconsciousness. While the muttering and crying continues, Jacob once again gratefully surrendered to the darkness.

Embry had been right. Jacob had woken up shortly after the mysterious crier had faded away, and he had done so in a foul mood. He cursed the damn wolf genes that hadn't allowed him to stay passed out for hours on end like an ordinary person would have been granted. He would have even welcomed a nasty hangover at this point. A raging headache and nausea would have at least distracted his mind from once again dwelling on the current state of his life. If he was a normal person, the amount of alcohol he had consumed would have still rendered him drunk off his ass instead of stone cold sober.

Jacob would have sold his soul to the Devil to be normal and ordinary. Was it too much to ask for normal?

He was somewhat hopeful though. While it hadn't lasted for long, the drinking had succeeded in knocking Jacob out for a while. It had been bliss to not feel a damn thing. He had felt no pain, sadness or anger. For a precious span of time, he hadn't even felt his limbs or the aching in his stomach due to the general lack of food in it these days.

The only part of the situation that left him uneasy was the impression that someone had been beside him for at least part of the time. The presence had felt caring and soothing. It had even seemed devastated at seeing him as he was. He shook these beliefs off though. There had clearly not been anyone with him when he regained consciousness or a sign that there ever was. He excused it all away as both a dream and wishful thinking. He assumed that, deep down, he craved a loving presence so badly that his unconscious mind had created one for him. It made him feel even more pathetic.

But he refused to get sucked into the pit of negatives. In fact, Jacob decided that he hadn't failed at all, but rather he had simply not reached his ultimate goal. He came to the conclusion that one bottle of alcohol just wasn't enough for someone with his unique genes, so the next night he armed himself with another bottle of Jack and a case of beer.

Jacob cleaned up the shattered glass from the night before as he downed the bottle of amber liquid. Same as the night before, the liquor snaked its way through his system, leaving him tingling and fuzzy in both his mind and body. He was tempted to stop there. The buzz that ran through him was delicious and exciting.

"Too bad it won't last long, you pathetic bastard," Jacob admonished himself. He hated everything about himself at that moment. He hated what had happened in the story of his life. And he hated, most of all, how he had reacted to it and allowed all the circumstances to change him into what he had become.

Yes, he decided that the Jack definitely wasn't enough. He wanted so much more. Barely able to discern between one bottle to the next, Jacob chugged eight beers before he collapsed onto the garage floor just as he had the night before. Again, a brother rushed in—Quil this time—to ensure that he was just passed out and not something worse. Same as before, Jacob awoke after a few brief hours, pissed and distraught.

But most amazing of all was the fact that Jake again had the distinct impression that someone was with him as he lay in his drunken stupor. He could have sworn that someone had stroked his cheek, murmured words he could never quite understand, and cried while tears dropped softly on his face. Yet, when consciousness roared its ugly head, he was most certainly alone with no trace that anyone had been with him, nor any clue as to who it could have been.

What he did know was that he no longer believed in angels or guardian spirits. They didn't exist in his reality any longer, so it certainly wasn't one of those that soothed him on the floor. And these days, his savior came in the form of an empty bottle. That left only one explanation...illusions.