A/N: First of all, I think it's a shame this side of FF is so dead. And that there are so very few fics that have actively piqued my interest. Hell, I ended up turning towards the crackfics which were... uh... really something.
Anyways, I realise the pace of this will be somewhat... erratic... but my hope is that it is seen as a reflection of Jack's deteriorated (and ramble-tastic) mental state rather than shoddy writing on my part. But if you readers feel that it's the latter... then I can place the blame squarely on a lack of consistent writing for almost the entirety of this year. Which is no fault of mine. No siree. *slapped* Seriously though, writer's block is the bitchiest of all bitches. Especially when coupled with real life problems...
In any case, don't be afraid to pull me up on my mistakes. I kind of really need the concrit to pick up my slack and improve... Thanks.

Tipping Point

Continuing to live is hard when you've got nothing left to live for. Your family's dead. And you shot the man who killed your pa about an hour ago, according to the cracked pocket watch clenched tightly in your hand. You stow it away in your pants pocket, allowing your eyes to drift listlessly over your small camp and the sands of the Nuevo Paraiso desert. Now that justice has been served, you are empty. Nothing. All you have left in regards to a feeling of "home" is memories; memories of Uncle slumped on the porch, already losing his warmth; of pa's body full of bullet holes and swimming in blood outside the barn; of your ma finally coughing her way into her grave last month; and of Rufus getting mauled by a bear - always with the bears! - when you went hunting with him last year. Now you also have the freshly made memory of Edgar Ross - pa's murderer - falling back into the San Luis river with a hole in his skull.

After three long years you've finally avenged your father's death. Your job is done, so what's the point in going on?

The revolver lying next to you in the sand is looking incredibly alluring at this point. It's one of your pa's, all your weapons are, and it's the gun that took down his killer. You pick it up gingerly, feeling sixteen and giddy with excitement and fear, just like when pa finally came home and took you hunting for elk for the first time up in Tall Trees. It's a different gun though, and so is the intended purpose.

"Take it slow," pa murmurs so as not to startle the elk. "Rushing is gonna make your aim sloppy. That's it, Jack. Good," he praises as you raise the gun towards the head; yours and the elk's. "Deep breaths now. And relax your shoulders. Recoil's a bitch, otherwise." Both the nineteen and the sixteen year old you do as he instructs and your actions are met with more quiet praise. "'Atta boy. Now pull the trigger."
You do.

Click!

Your horse ceases grazing to blink at you curiously. The gun slips through your shaking fingers and hits the sand with a soft thud. You fall onto your hands and knees to retch violently.

The elk bolts and you're left stunned and wondering why the beast ain't dead. Pa's scars stretch with his grin as he leans over his horse to tap your gun with a gloved finger. "You forgot the safety," he chuckles. "The gun won't be of much use to you like that."

A choked sob leaves your throat. Following it are several more. And several more after that. You were so sure, so very sure that you had left the safety off ever since you blew Edgar Ross's brains out so that you could join your family in whatever life followed this one.
This is your pa's doing, it has to be. The old man must be interfering from beyond the grave to keep you from "doing more stupid things", as he was so annoyingly fond of saying. And to keep his silly, selfish dream of you becoming an honest rancher alive.

"You can take care of us when we're old," pa grins as he and sixteen year old you ride home from selling the elk you'd skinned. But you can't do that now that he and ma are dead.

Halting, wheezy laughter that tastes of snot and salt water fills the air, accompanying your sobbed curse.

"Damn you, you selfish, grizzled old bastard. You ain't been in my life long enough to dictate how I live it, so stop it! I don't wanna live no more! I miss you and ma, and Uncle and Rufus too much. Please... Oh, please, God..." The rest of your words dissolve into incomprehensible sobbing. You feel like a worm with the way you're grovelling pathetically in the sand, but you're too absorbed with self-pity to care much. Something big nudges against your shoulder. The soft snort of breath that washes over you reveals it's your horse. She's a plain but incredibly gentle thing, even when you overwork her running across the west, screaming your curses and frustrations at her to go faster, faster! Work, ya damn nag! It's not her fault your family's dead, but using her as an outlet for your pent-up rage is better than succumbing to depression; even if after every ride you are left with overbearing guilt when you see the wounds inflicted by your spurs have reopened, yet again.

You uncurl to sit up and stroke her neck. The mare nuzzles into your touch and rumbles soothingly. It's funny that she still tolerates you after all the abuse you screech at her as you dig your spurs into her sides every day to run, run, run from your dark feelings. Any other horse with half a lick of sense would have just bucked you off and galloped away into the wilderness ages ago. Briefly, you wonder if this horse is as broken as you are. You're not exactly sure how the thought makes you feel, aside from vaguely uncomfortable, so you quickly shove it away.

"Good girl," you whisper. Her muzzle and neck are soft and warm under your hands. "Good girl, good girl. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

Pa's revolver shines invitingly in the sunlight, once again catching your attention with its siren's call. You snatch it up only to holster it quickly, since the full implications of what you almost did are making you feel sick. The mare nickers and you resume petting her neck until the nausea passes. Now that your thoughts have gained some semblance of order, you are left pondering what to do with yourself; your life. This leads you to recalling one of your last conversations with ma.

"You're nineteen years old, Jack," she has to pause to cough. It's violent, and you can see how much pain she is in. Ma's always been a strong woman, so seeing her figure thin out, and hearing her cough herself into her grave with increased harshness every day makes your heart twinge and your eyes sting. "You're talented and, unlike your father and I, you have your whole life ahead of you. The sky's the limit, so reach for it." After another coughing fit she cracks a grin. You think you see red on her teeth. "Just don't become a no-good outlaw hillbilly like your father, you hear?"

More tears threaten so you hastily swipe at your face with a sleeve.

"I'll try not to, ma," you whisper hoarsely.

But you fear you won't be able to keep your promise. Your pa used to be an outlaw and you, at the very least, want a good taste of what that feels like so that you have another connection to him. Lord knows you have so few. And those few are so badly frayed by the passing of time that you only recall tiny, obscure details. Like the uproarious laughter of drunk men who are dancing around a campfire. And burying your tiny face into a shirt that smells of tobacco, horse, and earth and falling asleep listening to a younger, less gruff version of your pa's voice singing about the man who didn't want to be buried on the lone prairie; a song you've heard hummed and sung in equal parts throughout your entire childhood by ma and pa both.

Sighing, you stand on shaky legs in search of water to soothe your raw, parched throat. The horse stays in place, watching you with ears flicking as you rummage through your saddlebag, another of your pa's possessions. It's so hard to think of these objects as yours because it feels as though you are simply holding onto them for pa; like you're waiting for him to ride home again so you can return them. The concept is silly - you know this - yet it's kept you going more than once, so you still cling to it desperately.

You don't have to rummage through the bag for very long, and soon you're tipping the contents of the canteen down your throat. It had originally been filled with whiskey, which had come as a nasty surprise to sixteen year old you. It had taken the better part of half an hour for the taste to leave and for your eyes to stop watering. And it took an additional hour and a half laying in bed with a damp cloth over your eyes until your head finally stopped buzzing. But that was three years ago now, and the canteen has long since had the scent and taste of whiskey washed from it. You also have a better hold on your alcohol.

You stop drinking when the canteen is about half empty and stopper it back up, sated. The horse gives you a reproachful look when you toss the canteen back into the saddlebag.

"I'll take you to the river for a drink soon," you sigh. "Just hang on."

The horse snorts but otherwise raises no complaint. You shuffle towards your tent, eyes focused on a scholar's satchel half hidden by your rucksack. You crawl in and flick it aside. Gently, almost reverently, you remove the satchel and unclip the two silver buckles keeping it closed. The faintly yellowed papers within crinkle as they are removed. Scrawled on them are the patchy fragments of a story; although, most of the papers are full of more angrily scribbled and crossed out words than actual sentences or paragraphs. It's disheartening at times, but every so often you manage to pull some meagre scrap of positivity from your ass. Positivity in this case being a less harsh mentality in regards to your heavily work-in-progress writing; which basically consist of thoughts such as, "Well, at least I wrote more than I did last time," and "You're still a novice author. Good writing takes time and dedication." It doesn't always work, but it never quite fails you.

You skim over the contents of one of the rare cleaner pages. This one is your list of ideas, almost all of which have some kind of mark or comment next to them. You trail a finger over them, eyes not quite focused. You've always loved books; loved how the words evoke strong feelings and attachments towards the fictionally constructed protagonists, as well as the escape that the equally fictional worlds provide. They were, and still are, your only friends. Rufus used to be your friend too. The best. Now that he's dead, your horse has, in some fashion, taken up that role.

Again, your fingers trail absently over the words. There's one idea on the page - it's the biggest and most added to - that has been sitting there for some time, practically since the beginning. It's also one of your more vague and obscure ideas. Really though, it's more of a skeleton of an idea with scraps of flesh clinging to it. Whatever the case, you don't exactly know the specifics of what this story will be about, story-wise, but you do know it will have something to do with living life as the last dying ember of the old west. Pa's legacy. Or maybe it's your legacy now that he's gone... Boy does that leave a strange taste in your mouth.

Slowly, you replace the papers into the satchel and flick the silver locks shut with twin clicks. There is now a small smile on your face as you bring the satchel closer to your chest.
Perhaps you still have a purpose after all.

You turn your back on the precipice and face the beginnings of a more hopeful future.

A/N: Wow. I dunno how I feel about this ending... But damn, does it feel good to finally finish something.

Sooo... I'm thinking of creating an accompanying piece to this. It'll be a sequel of sorts, but multi-chapter instead of a oneshot. And probably less angsty. And without present tense second person PoV because it gets rather tricky to maintain over time. That being said, if this is ill-received then I'll scrap that idea and work on one of the thirteen or so other ideas - in half as many fandoms - currently floating through my thick skull; one of which happens to be another RDR fic.
So, um... penny for your thoughts, reader?