I do not own Four Brothers, though if I did I would probably make a prologue and have an hour length segment focused on Jackie.

I do own the character in which I am writing this point of view in and I want to know if anybody who reads this thinks I should continue with my idea of doing a full out story with this.

As my hand sat in the water while it slowly rose to the brim of the sink, I hesitated. For once in my life, I actually thought about what I was doing. My shaky, blood-stained left hand held the broken piece of glass from the fallen cup. It laid lightly across my most prudent vein in my right wrist.

I waited. I waited a minute. The minute turned into five minutes. The five minutes turned into an hour.

Jack was my angel. He would open the bathroom door. He would look in, his head would tilt to the side, letting his soft hair fall over his eyebrows as his light eyes would scan the small room. Then his eyes would land on me. He stares at the glass, and follows my hand up to my face. He'd know I was serious this time. That I was going to have my wrist turn the clear water red. That I wouldn't stop it.

He'd walk in the bathroom. He'd bring his soft hand, which was usually scratched a bit from his guitar, up to my face, and tuck a loose hair behind my ear.

His cool eyes would stare into my lost ones. He wouldn't react. He wouldn't stop me. He wouldn't even take the glass from my hand. He'd see the tiny mark I have from when I broke the glass cup, and he'd ignore it. He stares at me, waiting.

I let go.

I dropped the piece of glass in the cloudy water in the sink. The stopper was doing its job, so I knew the glass was lost somewhere in the water. I took two steps away from the sink and leaned against the bathroom wall.

I could feel his arms wrap around my curled figure. I could hear his breathing. Steady, but deep. I could smell his scent, the usual cigarette mixed in with a heavy cologne, and probably some burned 'grass'.

He was my oasis in a sandstorm. He never had to say anything. He just had to be there. He was my rock, and I was his home away from home.

"Don't leave me alone here."

It was all he ever said. Whether he knew it or not, that was all I needed to hear. He needed me just as much as I needed him. I had always dreamed of a moment like that to set me free from my thoughts of suicide, but he won't come. It doesn't happen that way.

Jack was dead. He wasn't coming through the door anytime soon. He wasn't going to stop me. He had left me alone. Alone to deal with this world.

After I had dropped the glass, and leaned against the cold wall, I realized just how alone I actually was. I was never gonna hear Jack's soft guitar strums, or his deep humming as I fall asleep. I was never gonna be able to bathe him and wash his hair on those nights he got far too drunk with his friends. I was never going to feel his ridiculous tongue ring when we would kiss. I could never trace his tattoos, or mend his wounds after some stupid brawl or idiotic stage dive.

Jack was gone.

And for the first time in the last ten years, I cried.

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