Jack walks back into his old house and looks around with mild curiosity. He hadn't come back to this place since that last night, but it seems appropriate to come back here, to where his life began, to end it.

He closes his eyes and the voices come back.

Just do it. Just kill yourself.

Look at you, so pathetic and useless that you're going to end your life.

They've seen through your cover.

They know.

Just kill yourself already.

They know all about you now. They know you're crazy. You may as well just give in.

Smile, Jack.

Smile…

A scream rips from his throat and he smashes his hands into his mirror. It shatters around him, littering his purple coat with sparkling pieces of glass.

He takes a deep breath and picks up a shard of glass.

Smile, Jack.

For a moment, he stares at the fragmented reflection of his honey-gold eyes in the piece of mirror.

Just smile.

Why won't you smile?

Smile.

.

Smile.

.

.

Smile.

.

Anger and pain floods up in his chest, and the voices start chattering faster, telling him how worthless he is. Telling how worthless love is. How worthless the world is.

There's no point to trying anymore, Jack.

No point to pretending.

.

Smile, Jack.

.

Laugh it off. The world is just as insane as you are.

.

Slowly, he lifts the shard of glass. Opens his mouth wide and presses the sharp edge against the corner of his mouth.

There you go, Jack. Just smile.

It's not so hard.

.

Just…

.

.

.

smile.

*_scene change_*

A steady beeping wakes Jack up. His eyes flutter open. There is whiteness all around him. It makes him sick. There should be no white in the world. It should all be blackness, darkness, pain…

"You're up! That's wonderful," says a cheery, female voice.

His entire chest contracts with anger and frustration and he sits up. Opens his lips to speak. When he tries, the action pulls on stitches at the corners of his mouth, and he gasps in pain.

"Don't talk, honey. You'll pull the stitches. Just lay back, okay? Relax. You've been in the hospital for about twelve hours, ever since you were found last night. Lucky that somebody heard your screaming and called the police, otherwise you might have bled to death."

"I shouldn't have screamed," he mutters, careful to not open his mouth too far.

The nurse blinks. "Oh… well. If you get hungry, press the button beside your bed."

She walks out and closes the door behind her. He sits perfectly still for a moment, then reaches up and touches his face.

The skin is rippled and swollen. He can feel the thread of the stitches, woven through his skin, forcing it to grow back together. Without even seeing it, he knows it won't be pretty. But that's fine.

He stands up and jerks the IV out of his arm. The hospital gown doesn't exactly provide excellent coverage, but luckily his coat is hanging on a chair nearby. He picks it up and examines it – the collar and back is bloodied. There are holes in the fabric. That had probably happened when he'd fallen – the shattered glass must have punctured his coat. Probably his skin, too. Now that he thinks about it, his back is throbbing and burning.

He tugs the coat on, wincing at the pain in his back, and walks out of the room and down the hall until he finds a bathroom.

At the door, he pauses, wondering if he even wants to see how horrible his face looks. Then he shoves it open and walks in.

The picture in the mirror startles him.

His cheeks are swollen, red, and lumpy where the stitches hold them together. The rest of his face is covered in small scratches and cuts. He's deathly pale, except for the horrific red of his torn skin, and the black circles around eyes – he looks like he hasn't slept in six weeks.

He pulls off his coat and gown and drops them on the ground. Cold air drifts across his body as he examines himself. His skin, which has been near flawless white for his entire life excepting the occasional bout of acne, is marred with red cuts and scrapes. He has some stitches in his back where the glass must have punctured his skin.

Automatically, he reaches up and brushes his green hair out of his eyes. It's growing back in dark at the roots. He hasn't had it re-dyed for probably two months.

Another patient who's about Jack's age walks into the bathroom, pauses in surprise, then examines him with a raised eyebrow. "You look like hell, man."

"Fitting, since that's where I'm going." Jack picks up the gown off the floor and slips it back on, and pulls the purple coat over the top. "You don't exactly look like sunshine and daisies yourself."

The guy shrugs. "Attempted suicide will do that to you."

"Yeah?" Jack leans against the sink. "Why'd you try?"

"Boyfriend was killed in the shooting at the school. He's the only person who ever loved me, and when he was gone…" Another shrug. "Life just didn't seem to be worth living anymore."

Jack nods slowly, and the laughter that's been building in his chest starts to tumble out. "Was life ever worth living in the first place?"

"It's not exactly something to laugh about."

"Isn't it, though?" Jack asks. "Don't you find it funny? All the struggling, the pain, the pointlessness. People puttering along, pretending… pretending that there's some point to it all. It's just a joke. It's all just a horrific, black, god-awful joke of nature."

The man takes a step back. "Are you insane?"

The laughter bursts out, and Jack is helpless to stop it. "You know what? I think I am! I think… I think I'm crazy. I think I've always been crazy, underneath all the lies and the pretense and the acting." A stitch at the corner of his mouth snaps, and he hisses in pain. His jaw tightens, and he closes his eyes, feeling the pain, absorbing the pain… his chest starts shaking with laughter.

The other man runs out of the bathroom, and Jack just sits there, laughing at the world and at the pain.