Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.
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Jack
Not all stories have a happy ending. Sometimes even the mightiest of heroes have to fall.
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Francis Sullivan, prisoner number 041292, you're looking for him? Well, you got the damn number right—I ain't gonna deny that—but Sullivan… that ain't my name, buddy. And, besides, who are you to be looking for him, anyway?
No, no, no… I don't care what the fancy piece of paper in your hand says. That ain't my name. If you came down all this way to see me, then you better damn well know what my name is first.
It's Jack.
Jac-kah.
It's a good name, right? A strong name. Four letters, one syllable (two if I'm pushing it) and, I'll be damned, all mine.
So what if it wasn't given to me, not like the name of that ass or the nickname I can't live down? Cowboy, all because I had a silly dream and a desire to escape. Ha! Cowboy, because I was stuck in the middle of the biggest city this side of the damn Mississippi and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.
So don't call me Cowboy, or Sullivan, or even Frankie. The name's Jack. Understand?
Good.
Now, what can I do you for?
Recognize you? Shit, I'm lucky if I can pick my own mug out of a mirror. It's been years since I'd seen anyone who didn't belong here and I can tell by looking at you that you sure don't belong in this joint. And you sure couldn't be a pal of mine. My old pals, they knew my name, they knew who I was…
…and none of those bummers came to see me once since I'd been tossed in the slammer. Nine years is a damn long time without a familiar face. 'Sides, with eyes like that and your hoity toity clothes, I'm sure I'd remember you.
What was that? The strike? That was another life but, yeah, I remember it. What, you mean—
Tell me you're kidding. Tell me you're fucking kidding me. Here, do me a favor. Tilt your head that way and look down your nose… oh, yeah. Hell, I guess I do remember you after all.
What are you doing here? You're the last one of them I'd ever expect to see, especially since…
Oh, so that's it, huh? That's why you've come, after all these damn years. I should've known. You never asked enough questions when I went away. I should've known you'd come after me. I just didn't think it would've taken nine years.
A newspaper, you say? Some big newspaperman now, are you? I ain't surprised. I could've been like you, a big shot too, if it wasn't for what happened. But why dig it up now? It won't do anything, will it? I'll be stuck here until I die and she'll still be gone. Your fancy words ain't gonna change that.
Look what you done to me, got me shaking to think about it. Say, you got a cigarette? You know, to help with the nerves? Yeah?
Really?
Thanks.
And a light?
Yeah, that'll do.
Now… what was I sayin'?
Listen, I know what happened back then was awful. It must've cut you up as bad as me to see her like that. But I'm the one who ended up in here, and you with your fancy job. Why now? Didn't have it in you to try and spring an innocent man earlier? Or didn't you even want to think I was innocent?
Man, this cigarette takes me back. I haven't had a smoke this good since they locked me up…
You know, she used to hate it when I smoked. Called it a filthy habit, said it made me taste like ashes. She was always after me to give it up but I never did.
Alright. You got me. What is it you want me to say? What is it you want to know, that you couldn't ask me nine years ago?
Of course I didn't do it. But ask any of the dumbasses here, and you'll get the same response nine times out of ten—hell, you can't account for the crazies who didn't do but think they did. Only difference between me and them is that I'm telling the truth.
You don't believe me, do you? Come on. I never would have hurt her the way they say I did. Damn it, I loved her. You of all people had to have known that. We was even married, wasn't we? 'Course, that's why they all said I was the one who did it.
I know the same things that most did, but I was there so, yeah, I could say for sure that I didn't do it. Someone else did, and I only wish I could give him up. I never saw the face of the bastard. He was running through the tenement, running with her blood hot on his hands, just as I was coming in that night. I found her in an abandoned flight of steps, just holding on. I tried to help her, I tried to save her, even as I wanted to run after the man who did this to my wife. But she died.
Is that what you wanted to hear? Your sister died right in my arms, clinging to my so tight that I still got the scars from her fingernails. That's they way they found me, and they had me cuffed before she even went cold.
You was there. No trial, nothing. Remember? Cuffs on my wrists and then I was thrown in here to rot. They didn't even let me see her get buried. But that's what you get when you're young, Irish and living on the lower east side, huh?
The first year I was here, I blamed him. I blamed that bastard who did this to me. Stealing my girl from me, stealing my freedom… he took everything from me when he knifed her for some damn reason.
The second year I was here, I blamed me. Maybe it was my fault after all. No one knew why she died, why she was killed, and I shouldered the blame myself.
The third year I was here, I blamed her. If she hadn't died, I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be alone.
After that I blamed everyone. The coppers, my ma, my old man, Medda, the fellas… even you. Especially you. I thought we was pals, and you turned on me. Nobody backed me up. Everyone looked at me as if I done it. A kid of twenty killing his wife—it happens all the time in these slums, don't it? Nobody believed me when I told them I didn't.
They tossed me in here, locked the door and threw away the key. They never once looked back.
I kept on blaming them until I finally realized what a bitter bastard I'd become, so I stopped blaming anyone at all.
The way I see it, I never even had a chance. My old man landed here, right? It was only a matter of time before I did something that tossed me in Sing Sing, too. I did my stint in the Refuge a couple of times so I knew that, in the end, I would end up caged. Caged, like an animal, stuck behind bars for good.
I just never figured it'd be because I tried to save her life.
Ah, well, what can you do? Nothing can bring her back, right? And like I told this other pal of mine once: we was beat when we was born. I'm just gonna do my time, get it over with, and maybe do my best to move on. The next time I get to see her, when I'm free and it don't matter who thinks I'm innocent or not, she'll thank me for trying to save her.
Heaven sure sounds like a nice place, don't it?
Damn, that was a fine, good cigarette. Thanks. I appreciate it.
Wait, what's that? That was it? That's all you wanted to know? And you're getting up already? Leaving?
Yeah, you're right. I guess it is time for you to get going. I ain't got anything else to say about it, and the shakings just about stopped. I shake a lot when I think about her… I really miss her. Just like you do.
So, maybe you'll come see me again some time, huh?
It was good seein' you again, too. You look good. Smart… classy. I like it. And good luck on that, uh, story of yours. Who knows? Maybe someone'll finally believe me. Maybe you'll finally believe me.
But… hey? The next time you come? I want you to remember something.
Call me Jack.
Author's Note: Well, for my first entry to a character week (Mush), I went the depressing route. With the second (Skittery), I tried a humorous spin. I guess it's time to go back to the depressing, eh? Poor Jack -- and he's my absolute favorite character to write, too. I guess that's why most of my Jack oneshots (and an epic or two) seem to put him in a bad position. I have a fixation with exploring the character's futures, even if they don't always have happily ever afters, and I could see him getting himself into a load of trouble. Sometimes, in the fics I do on Jack (Diabo, Cowboy Song, Snow... just to name a few x_x), I wonder if maybe he should've just headed out west...
This short, the story of Jack post-strike told in his own words, is only a quick snapshot of what could've been. Maybe next time we celebrate a Jack week (or the next time I have a sudden burst of inspiration for our favorite singing/dancing cowboy) I'll give him a happier future. Maybe Sarah will be alive in that one ;)
Anywho, happy Jack week everyone!