Peace – Part 21
Jack raised the gun to his temple in one smooth, fluid movement. There was no hesitation, no fear. He knew he was doing the right thing and his mind was at ease. He was still flying from the heroin but he was focused, single-minded, determined. This was the right thing to do. He needed release – he couldn't do this anymore. All the fight had left him and he was tired. It was time to rest.
He allowed himself a final run of memories. He deserved this pain. He thought of Savannah – that last glimpse of her golden hair in the moonlight. She had died trying to help him, died because he was too scared to finish a job. This would make up for that.
Teri…he smiled. He so wanted to be with her. It wouldn't be long now. He could remember her touch, the way she felt in his arms. He wanted to hold her again, tell her he loved her. He could feel her waiting for him.
Kim would be alright. She was a grown woman and she'd seen his struggles. She would understand and she knew that he loved her. The letter would explain everything and although he knew it would hurt at first, she would get past that. He just hoped that some part of him had made her proud, once. Maybe she would remember that eventually.
He was doing this for freedom. His freedom – and for the freedom of those around him. Kim would no longer suffer for his behaviour. And he'd never have to kill again. The relief was so strong…all the death had added up and the bill needed to be paid. That was how he saw this. He was just settling up.
Those things he'd done in Mexico haunted him. The people in that hotel. Every innocent person that had ever died because of his decisions, every one that had died by his hand – Jesus, there were so many he couldn't remember them all. That was disgusting. He should know them all.
Saunders. Drazen. Maybe they deserved it. But what had their deaths achieved in the long run? There were many more lining up to take over their work. It would never end, he'd never be able to stop. And look at what he'd had to do to Chase. Look what had happened to Tony and Michelle. To Gael. To Mason. To Chappelle.
Oh God…Ryan.
His gut tensed and the gun started to shake slightly.
Images flashed across his mind , memories attacked him and suddenly Jack couldn't stop the tears that filled his eyes. Ryan walking on shaking legs, knowing he was about to die on the whim of a madman. Knowing that his death would serve no purpose whatsoever. But he did it anyway.
Ryan trembling in fear, asking if they'd done everything they could. Asking if Jack could think of anything they'd overlooked. And he'd come up blank – he couldn't think of anything that would save this blameless man's life. He'd failed him.
The gun shook some more and he had to concentrate to keep it steady. But the images wouldn't stop.
Ryan begging to be allowed to take his own life.
The tears on his face.
Ryan on his knees – in exactly the same position Jack was now….
No! Fuck, NO!! Jack tried to steady the gun, to banish the thoughts. It was too late for this shit! He'd given in, he'd fixed. He had promised himself he'd die if that happened again.
The pictures wouldn't stop. They just wouldn't. Tears rolled down his cheeks and pain – indescribable pain – pierced through the haze of drugs and made him gasp for breath….
Ryan hadn't been able to take his own life. Jack had had to do it. He'd had to blow the back of the man's head off, listen to that dull 'thud' as the lead had smashed through the skull and embedded itself in his brain. What had he said…'God forgive me?' Had God forgiven him? Because he hadn't forgiven himself.
The gun wobbled and slipped. He placed it back in position, feeling the hot metal bruise his skin as he pushed it hard against his head. His grip tightened so his knuckles were white, but he didn't pull the trigger. Not just yet.
Jack closed his eyes, tried to will himself to regain his focus. He wanted to go out with a peaceful mind. But no matter what, all he could see was Chappelle's face as he had stood in front of him, watching the man on his knees in the dirt. Watching as he tried to summon the courage to end his own life. He couldn't do it…but he hadn't tried to run. He'd given up his life, even though he knew his death would serve no purpose. That was the bravest thing Jack had ever seen…
…and here he was, on his knees, a gun to his head.
The tears dripped onto his bare thighs and ran down to the dry wooden floor.
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Con nearly collapsed when he reached the house, his chest heaving and his breath coming in huge ragged gasps through his injured throat. But he forced himself to keep moving, praying all the time that he'd made it in time. He didn't care if Jack could hear him coming, he ran as fast as he could through the house and up the stairs, dreading what he might see but unable to stop.
What he saw was an image he knew instantly he would never, ever forget. There was a used needle on the floor by the mattress, a tourniquet discarded next to it. Jack was kneeling in the middle of the room wearing only a pair of shorts. His body was convulsing with sobs and he gently rocked back and forth on his heels. Both hands were pressed to his eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears and the barrel of the gun in the right hand rubbed against his forehead and mussed his hair, his finger was still on the trigger….he hadn't put it down when he started to cry.
He looked so small, so boyish – so broken. Like a ten year old with a gun. Con couldn't begin to comprehend what had happened to bring him to this point, it was so alien – and yet so human at the same time. Incredible suffering, unimaginable pain and sadness and grief – Con had only to look at the figure in front of him to truly understand the full meaning of those words. Sorrow for his little brother engulfed him in a great flood and tears began to roll down his ashen face. The pain coming off Jack was overwhelming and Con could hardly bear it, he could feel its suffocating presence filling the room, and he could barely breathe through it.
He didn't even think about what he was doing. He walked into the room and fell to his knees in front of Jack, wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close. He didn't even know if Jack was aware of him doing it, there was no resistance but no movement to show he was conscious of Conrad's presence. But Con held on tightly, desperately, too scared to let go.
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Jack hadn't been able to pull the trigger. When he thought of Ryan's bravery he just couldn't bring himself to do it. It would be the biggest act of cowardice, the biggest sell-out. He had thought it would be brave, that it would be the best for everyone…but it wasn't. He was just running away. Just as Mason had pointed out to him on the plane. Jack had never thought of himself as a quitter, so to suddenly see himself as one – to see himself at his worst….there were no coherent thoughts. He couldn't think any more, he was a mass of painful confusion and conflicting emotions and his brain just shut down. He was not aware of his surroundings or even who he was; all he could do was cry.
Conrad held onto him for dear life, his own tears falling onto Jacks naked shoulder. The guilt was incredible – that he had been part of this, that he had contributed to driving someone this far. He knew there was more to it than his part but he realised somehow that it was his comment at the lake that had prompted Jack to think of this – he never thought his words could have this impact. He'd never seen anyone in this amount of pain and he didn't know what to do.
Eventually Jack's body softened. Con leaned back and reached forward, gently moving the gun from the unresisting hand. He placed it on the floor and studied the face in front of him while keeping one hand on his trembling shoulder.
'Jack? Are you with me?'
The blue eyes were uncomprehending as they stared, the hands that had covered them dropped to rest on his thighs. Con glanced down and could see the needle mark on the left arm. It didn't matter. He moved his hand from the shoulder to the back of the neck, holding it carefully but forcing him to look at him.
'Jack.'
'Con…' The tears were still falling but relief washed through him once again as Jack responded – he was afraid he had lost his mind there or something. He smiled a watery smile and pulled him into another hug – this time Jack held on. Adrenaline started to flow and he couldn't stop talking.
'Jack I'm so sorry. So, so sorry. I should never have said what I did. I didn't mean it. I was angry and jealous – God, I've been so jealous! Ever since you told me what you did, what you've made of yourself. I could never do the things you've done and I hated you for it. But I never meant for you to do this, I never thought you would ever….' he paused, unwilling to spell it out. But he couldn't stop for long '…..and back when we were kids, that was my fault too. Savannah died because of me, not you. I was such a jerk and you didn't deserve that, you didn't deserve any of it, oh God I'm so sorry….'
Jack didn't trust himself to speak. He didn't know what to say, what he felt, how he was going to cope. He just let go as Con babbled on, he didn't listen. His thoughts drifted aimlessly, not touching anything, a fog in his brain that he didn't try to find a way out of. He was so tired. He could have slept for years. And he couldn't pull himself together enough to form a response. He felt his eyes closing as he leant on his brother's shoulder and he didn't try to stop himself as he sank slowly into the silent, waiting darkness.
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Con realised the body he was holding had gone limp. He was alarmed for a second until he felt Jack's chest moving steadily next to his. He had just passed out, or fallen asleep. He smiled with relief and moved into a position where he could lift the weight, then he picked Jack up and carefully carried him over to the mattress. He laid him down and covered him over, then went and retrieved the gun. He weighed it in his hand. Conrad's brain told him that he should take it away, move it out of temptations reach – but his instinct told him that was wrong. Jack was his own man. Something said that this was significant – he needed this gun. It was not Conrad's place to take it away and deny him the right to choose his own fate. He sincerely hoped that Jack would never use it in the way he was planning to a few moments ago…but if he did, that was his choice. Con couldn't control that – all he could do was be there for him and hope he would choose life.
He walked over to the shelf and placed the gun back where it had been before, next to the drugs. The white envelope caught his eye and he picked it up – it was addressed to the niece he'd never known he had. A thought crossed his mind and he smiled. He'd seen the girl's picture. She'd looked beautiful and had instantly reminded him of Savannah. He would have liked to see the picture again but he wouldn't go looking for it. No, it was up to Jack to show it to him if he wanted to.
He turned to look at the sleeping figure on the mattress. Jacks face was red from crying and he'd broken the skin in a small circle on his right temple. Conrad shuddered as he realised it was from the barrel of the gun and it hit home again just how close he had been to losing this man. Yesterday – hell, a couple of hours ago – he would have blustered in his mind about how he didn't care if the motherfucker died or not…but now he saw that that was stupid. He did care. He'd just had to nearly lose it before he saw it.
There was no point standing here doing nothing. He needed to think. So he walked slowly down the stairs and automatically started to make a coffee while his brain tried to come to terms with what had happened.
He couldn't deny it or walk away from it – he was a prize idiot. He hadn't considered Jack's feelings when he spoke; he hadn't even tried to gage the full depth of his brother's emotional distress. He'd just bulldozed his way through the situation – just like their father used to do. Conrad's heart sank. He couldn't deny that similarity either. He had treated Jack just like Sam had; no wonder the guy broke down.
The image of Jack sobbing upstairs with a gun in his hand crossed his mind again and his insides clenched with horror at what might have happened. And for the first time, he realised that things should be different between them now they were adults – he had approached the situation as though they were kids, because the last time he'd seen Jack he'd been fifteen years old. Somehow he'd forgotten about the twenty five years that had passed and reverted back to the way he had been then. And shit, he'd known for years what a prick he'd been when he was younger. But somehow he'd forgotten.
He picked up the coffee and walked back upstairs. He wanted to be there when Jack woke up, just in case something happened. And he wanted to be close to him. He would try everything he could to stop Jack getting back to where he'd just been – there must be a way to help him somehow.
He hadn't moved and the first thing Con did was to check he was still breathing. He was, so he grabbed a chair from another room and sat down, watching the sleeping face and sipping his drink, trying to figure out what to do and what he was going to say when he woke up. But he couldn't focus on practicalities somehow, his thoughts dragged him back in time instead, back to how all this had started.
They had been close once, he remembered. All three of them. He'd been four when they were born and he could vaguely remember being excited when they'd been brought back from the hospital. He'd played with them when they were growing, he remembered their first words, when they first walked. But gradually, it all changed. He could recall feeling bad when everyone commented on how cute 'the twins' were and wondering why no one ever said he was cute. He had watched as their mother fussed over them even after they had started school and he had felt ignored. It was their report cards that got all the attention, their placements on sports teams that was celebrated. It was all made worse by the fact that Con knew they were smarter, he knew that he wasn't as athletic or talented.
He'd failed the exams to get into that private school when he was seven. Naturally, both the twins passed them. Provided they passed the final exams in a few years – which they would of course – they'd be going there, while he'd be stuck at Santa Monica High, a permanent loser. His parents would forget about him completely then, he just knew it. It hadn't happened because after Savannah died, Jack wasn't allowed to go to any private school. He hadn't complained, just got his head down and made sure he was the brightest kid in SM High. Of course.
So he had tried to bring them down. Or rather – he had tried to bring Jack down. He couldn't bring himself to hurt Savannah because she was a girl and wasn't really a threat. Conrad was very glad about that after she died, at least he wouldn't have to feel guilty about being deliberately horrible to her.
And anyway – he hadn't thought anything he did was that serious. He just broke things and lost things and blamed it on Jack so he got the brunt of their father's anger. He watched for whenever Jack stole a cookie from the jar, then reported it to their mother. He bullied him into doing his chores and threatened to beat him up if he squealed. Jack did once and Con went a bit too far, breaking his arm. Jack said a baseball had hit it and his parents believed him. He never squealed again. He tried to get even a few times but it generally didn't work – he was too young for any counteraction to be really effective.
It seemed like normal fraternal rivalry to Conrad. He never thought that Jack would see it differently and never imagined that one of his pranks would lead to the death of their sister. He knew afterwards that he should just own up and say the whole thing had been his idea – but somehow he just couldn't. So he told their Dad that Jack had dared him. He would retrieve the shotgun from the lake one night, and if he managed it, Jack would do it the next.
Sam believed him because Jack admitted it was true. The beating had been horrific and Conrad had watched. By the end of it, he'd somehow managed to convince himself that their story was in fact true, and that Jack deserved it. He stopped tormenting his brother for about a year though, mainly because he was so withdrawn that Con knew their mother wouldn't believe that the kid had done anything wrong. She fussed over him constantly and things were quiet in the Bauer house as they all fought to come to terms with what had happened. Con remembered spending a lot of time out of the house with his friends – and Jack became a shadow. Another reason he didn't bully him. He hardly even registered his presence.
It might have continued that way but everything changed a year later. They were supposed to go to the graveyard to pay their respects on the anniversary, Sam insisted upon it. Con thought back to one night in their LA house when he'd been walking back from the bathroom. It had been about midnight and he could clearly hear his parents arguing downstairs. He could hear his mother pleading, saying that she didn't want to go, that she couldn't face it. And Sam insisted, forced her, told her that she would be no kind of mother if she didn't.
Even though he wasn't around the house much if he could help it, even he noticed that their mother's behaviour was becoming erratic. She was forgetful, she would cry at the sight of little blond girls in the street, she would call for Savannah to get up in the morning when the boys did. She made three packed lunches for school every morning – Con pointed it out once at breakfast and their father had given them money for the school cafeteria ever since, after telling him never to mention it again of course.
Now Conrad looked back, it was clear that his mother had been building up to a breakdown. He wasn't surprised that he hadn't noticed at the time however, he knew he'd been completely self-absorbed. Her breaking point had come when they approached the grave site – she'd started sobbing and yelling, quickly becoming hysterical. Con had been scared, he didn't know what to do – and part of him thought she was being stupid by making such a scene. She was completely out of control. Sam had slapped her face, trying to bring her out of it but Jack had misunderstood, and in the biggest show of emotion for months, he had launched himself at his father, screaming at him to stop hitting her. To hit him instead.
Sam had recoiled in shock at those words. He had tried to push Jack off him gently, not understanding that Jack thought he was hurting their mother. But Jack wouldn't stop pushing him, it was like he'd been saving up all his speech this year and it was now erupting at the same time in one angry, violent torrent. Sam didn't know how to deal with it, Jack wouldn't calm down – so eventually he got what he asked for. Sam whacked him across the face, right there in front of Savannah's grave – even Conrad was shocked. As Jack hit the floor, their mother's crying stopped. She went numb and silent and a week later was completely catatonic. She went into a mental institution and their life was turned upside down again.
Con shook his head to bring himself back to the present and realised there were tears dripping down his face. He hadn't thought about all this in so long and he was disgusted to recall his part in all of it. Maybe it was shock at the morning's events, but he couldn't comprehend how he had ever acted the way he did towards Jack. He was horrified by the realisation that he'd been acting like his teenage self for the last few days, as if he'd never matured at all. How had Jack managed to stop himself from seriously damaging him earlier? He wouldn't have blamed him….
…not like back then. Jack was blamed again, for sparking the fight that led to their mother's initial breakdown. Sam was so upset at what had happened, and still grieving so much for his little girl, that it didn't take much from Conrad to convince him that it wouldn't have occurred if Jack hadn't acted the way he did. And again, the kid accepted the blame and retreated into his shell. This time Jack didn't have his mother there to look after him and Conrad began his bullying all over again.
If anyone had asked him at the time why he did this, he wouldn't have been able to answer. Or he would have said that his brother was a waste of space and deserved it. Looking back now, Con thought that maybe it was all about grief. He'd always portrayed himself as tough, maybe he just wasn't able to admit that he was sad. He knew he had never cried about Savannah in front of anyone else, not even at the funeral. He'd done all his crying in private and pretended he was fine to the outside world.
Or maybe he really did blame Jack. Maybe he really was that horrible and blind and stupid.
He looked down again at the sleeping figure, so peaceful now. The redness on his face had subsided, he looked like any regular person. There was no indication on his face of what he'd been through, what he was going through still.
Conrad's heart ached. He cursed himself for being so pig-headed. Jack hadn't deserved any of the things that had happened to him, not one. None of it had been his fault – and yet he had quietly taken the blame and never once hit back at Con. Maybe that's why he'd beaten up on him twice in the last few days…and he deserved much more than that. There was about eight years of crap to make up for – eight years of torment before he'd left and Con finally grew up.
Well, Jack wouldn't be able to take it out on him with his fists. But maybe he'd do worse. Maybe he would tell Con exactly what the consequences of his actions had been. Maybe he'd let his older brother in on his life and then he, Conrad, would be forced to face what he'd done.
Con hoped so. He deserved to carry some of the burden and he was literally incredulous that he hadn't seen it up until now. Couldn't believe that he'd almost had to lose his brother before he saw that he needed to take responsibility for what he'd done. He'd had it easy up to this point – maybe it was time to pay his debt. And he was ready to. He wanted to. He would never forget what he'd seen that morning and it was a kick in the butt that he'd needed. He almost felt relieved – like finally he could do something useful.
He shifted in his chair and settled again, waiting. He'd sit here for as long as it took. He had to make Jack see that he was sorry, had to prove that he'd been wrong. Con felt almost giddy with his purpose and resolve – he suddenly laughed silently in his head. Was this what it was like for those people who 'found Jesus,' he wondered? Suddenly realising that they needed to atone for their sins and beg forgiveness, and in doing so they would be set free?
The silent laughing stopped as he realised – yes, that was exactly what he was going to do. And hopefully, he wouldn't be the only one set free.