A/N- So, this story popped into my mind while I was in the shower. I'm not entirely certain where I'm going with it, but I have a vague idea. I will warn you, though, this story is probably going to be rather depressing and (possibly) triggering. (Probably not, but I want to cover all of my bases) I just wanted to let you all know, before we ventured into this together.
Disclaimer: I don't own ROTG.
North found Jack, sitting alone on the bed of the room he hated being in, but couldn't bring himself to leave. He pushed the door open gently. Jack didn't make any outward signs that he recognized the Russian's presence. North had a book in his hand, a small thing bound in soft black leather. A thin cord wrapped around it, keeping it shut. A tree was engraved on the front. Other than that, there were no decorations or writing of any kind. North held it out for Jack, but he didn't take it.
"Jack, it's hers," he said. "She left a note. She wanted you to read it."
He still didn't respond, so North set it on the bed in front of him. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but it simply came out as a tired sigh. He gave Jack one last concerned glance before leaving the room.
Jack stared at the book. After a long time, he mustered the will to take it, opening to the first page, where the name of the owner was written in neat print. A tear slid down his face as he stared at that page, pain and grief, sadness and longing weighed down his heart, just seeing those few words. Again, it took him a long time to open to the next page and read it.
Blood is not family. They say that you can't choose your family, but they're wrong. Of course you choose your family. Sure, in most cases, your blood is your family, but not all. Take me, for instance. My best friend, Alexis. I call her my cousin, consider her my sister. But we're not related, not really. Different blood runs through our veins. But we are family. Another example would be my mother.
I call her my mother, for sake of convenience and out of habit. But she lost that title. She lost that right. It wasn't the fact that she punished me. No, it wasn't even that she didn't pause to think that there may have been a reason for my mistake. But I'm getting a bit ahead of myself. Perhaps I should explain the situation first.
This is not the first time something like this has happened. No, this has been happening my whole life. But I bore the burden. Because I didn't have another option. Especially once I had a little brother to take care of.
October 5th. My birthday. Not that my mother remembered. My brother and I had a long list of chores, but this story only pertains to two simple tasks: dishes and laundry. I'm not gonna lie, we didn't do it right. Hell, we messed up pretty bad on the laundry. But that was all my mother saw when she was punishing us. She never stopped to consider that there may have been more to the story.
While I had been doing dishes, my brother was folding the laundry. I had been checking up on him, and eventually, he finished his task, before I did mine. So, I asked him to put the clothes in a basket, so I could later take them upstairs and he could put them away. That was when the dishwasher- or, more correctly, glorified drying rack, as it didn't function- fell on me. Nothing broke, save the pot of a plant that had been sitting on top. But it hurt. And I would certainly feel the bruises for a while to come. Not that I wasn't used to that. Of course, it made a mess, which I had to clean up. Now, I don't know what my brother was doing when this all happened. But, I do remember telling him to get out of the kitchen, not wanting him to accidentally step on a shard and get hurt. But, I was understandably shaken up. Plus, I was scared, terrified, of what would happen when my mother came home. (Luckily, it was my stepfather that came home first.) When you make a mistake at my mother's house, one of two things happens. The first is that she shrugs it off, saying it wasn't a big deal, or at least not making a big deal out of it. That was a rare occurrence, and you counted your blessings when it happened. The more common option was Number Two. Number Two is that she flips her shit, and you end up getting yelled at- or worse- and generally feeling a thousand times worse than before, no bigger than a speck of dust. And there is no in-between betwixt Numbers One and Two. It is one, or the other. Beyond my immediate worry as to my impending fate, everything in my life had been happening at once. I had just moved to a new school, entering high school for the first time. My grandfather was in the hospital, intensive care, to be exact, and I rarely got updates as to his condition. On top of all this, as soon as my mother got home, the four of us went to the movies, a rare treat in the household, like giving lobster to a starving person. So, when she asked if my brother and I had finished our chores, I said yes. In my mind, we had. I had seen the folded laundry. I had told him to put it in the baskets. I had finished the dishes and cleaned up the spill. That was that.
It wasn't until the next day, after school, that I found out that our whole mission had not been completed. By that time, my mother was yelling at us. My brother was in tears beside me, holding back sobs. And there was no trying to explain myself. Oh, no. That would get me yelled at even more. Or worse; beat.
Our punishment was to lose everything, what little we had. All our spare time was to be spent cleaning- not that it wasn't already- slowly earning back our freedoms. She even mentioned taking away my books, though I know not whether she will actually go through with it or not.
Day One of cleaning, and not five minutes in, my brother of seven years old did the worst thing he possibly could: he made a mistake.
I saw her beat him, saw the look of pain and fear contort his young face. I heard his cries, the sickening sound of her hand hitting him. Then, I heard her yell. She screamed, she cussed, at it was all aimed at this poor seven-year-old that made a mistake in the cloud of his thoughts. A moment later, and I'm not entirely sure what happened. She made a sudden movement, and I flinched, hard. My littler brother started crying again, all but jumping into my arms in an attempt to escape her wrath.
(I would like to make a note here. To all the parents who hit their kids- stop. There are other ways to discourage bad behavior. It does not make us love you any more, nor does it show your love. I have never loathed my mother more than looking back at the times she hit either one of us. It does not make us respect you. Often, you are twice our size, up to five times our age. There is no respect to be earned from hitting a child. The only thing it may do is instill fear. But is that truly how you want your child to look at you?)
It was not until later that I made a decision that would change me, and my outlook on my mother/daughter relationship. I decided I would turn the other cheek. I would be her little slave. But I would not be her daughter. No, I would not be the daughter of such a woman. And I would never, under any circumstances, let her lay a hand on my brother again. In the solitude of my room, the dark of the night, I shed my tears. For I would do all in my power to never let her see me cry again. I would not show her weakness.
I try, with all my might, not to pick a favorite parent. But I would, without hesitation, choose my father, every time. For my father always listened to me. He never hit me. When he did punish me- though it was rare that he did- they were reasonable and corresponded with the crime.
You may have noticed that I spoke of my father in the past tense. That is because he died, years ago. It was horrible, and the memory haunts me to this day. The worst part was that it left me at the mercy of my mother, for years to come.
I can easily tell you the last time I had a good day, came home, and was able to fall asleep happy: October 4th. Years ago. It was USA Day at school, the second day in Spirit Week, and I was happy to talk about some of the people I had seen, the things we learned in class. My aunt had also come out from Iowa that day. I had dance, and shared laughs with my father. Sure, there was a little bump in the road, but it is not until writing this that I remember it.
On the contrary, I cannot tell you the last time this happened at my mother's. From my mother upsetting me, to my impossible lists of chores, to my annoying (but endearing) little brother. Even the state of our house, it being the shitshow it is. Sure, I've fallen asleep content, my eyes tear-free, but never truly happy.
My mother also has a tendency not to listen. She'll interrupt, yell, speak, and basically turn the whole situation back around to make you the bad guy. The one time I was able to get my whole story out, I had had to specifically request that she not interrupt. Looking back, I'm amazed she listened. And, if you're in trouble, you quickly learn to keep your mouth shut. I learned a long time ago to simply accept my punishment. It doesn't matter how innocent I am. It will only be made worse by trying to prove my innocence.
October 6th was no different. My mother never stopped to consider that there was a reason behind our mistake, beyond the two of us just fucking around. But, it did not matter, for we were to suffer our fates no matter what we did. So, I made my resolutions, and hope to stick to them.
I know not who will read this. I may share it with the world, so that they may learn from my words. Perhaps only a select few. Perhaps no one. These words may never leave the pages of this notebook, and the depths of my mind.
These words aren't the whole story. No, there is more here that I could say, but I shan't. Not on this topic, not on this day. But, I want these parting words, if nothing else, to be remembered:
Blood does not equate family. And though these words may be written in the aftermath of anger, they ring not any less true.
Jack closed the book, not able to read any more. He set it on the bedside, turning the light off and curling up on top of the covers. He clutched a necklace in his hand, holding it close to his heavy heart. He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking about the girl he had known, and letting silent tears fall into the night.
A/N- The Guardians will make more of an appearance later. For now, I'm mostly setting up the character. What will be seen by the Guardians (specifically Jack) is small, and not in italics.
In case you're confused, Jack is reading the notebook in the future, after all the events which were written have passed. The picture will be more clearly painted as the story goes on. Just stick with it, please. I'm kinda experimenting here. I haven't written anything like this. So, any feedback would be greatly appreciated.