Peace – Chapter 25

Jack sat and watched the sun rise. An empty and discarded bottle of whiskey lay at his feet and there was a small mountain of cigarette butts lying next to it. He was high, and drunk and his throat was killing him from all the smokes but he ignored it.

Was this what it was like to be invisible? To be so completely alone that not a soul on earth cared if you lived or died? That was what it felt like but he supposed it wasn't true – logic told him that Kim would be upset if he was gone. Maybe even Con, since they had made some definite progress. All the same – even if it was true that he was cared for, he didn't feel it. Conrad was displaying curiosity about him, it was true, and making an effort to get to know him. But the only real emotion he displayed was guilt, and that was about his own previous actions. It wasn't about what Jack was going through. And Kim – well, Kim had pretty much abandoned him. She had every right to, and he deserved it for sure…but at this moment, logic didn't help him to rationalise her decision. He just wanted someone to ask him if he was all right and really care about his answer.

He hated feeling sorry for himself, and tried all his usual ways of stopping it. He told himself that he deserved this, he told himself that it would be over someday and he'd look back and wonder what all the fuss was about. He tried to tell himself that he would find someone else in the future, when he was ready for it, and that unnamed, faceless person would care about him…he threw another cigarette butt onto the pile. This was bullshit. He did deserve this, so shut up and get on with it. It would be over someday? Everything would be over someday, that didn't mean it had to be fun in the meantime. Life might stay shit forever. And someone else? He didn't fucking want someone else. He wanted Teri. He wanted to turn the clock back and do everything differently. He wanted to be twenty again and decide to become a teacher or a doctor or a garbage man or a sewer worker or….anything that wasn't what he'd turned out to be….

Fuck this. Fuck everything. This was shit.

Why wasn't it getting better? It was crap for those few days that he'd been clean. He thought that getting back on the junk would be a relief, make it all more bearable. It wasn't turning out that way. Maybe it was all the talking he was doing. A few hours ago he'd had the briefest feeling of respite, the smallest glimpse that the load was getting lighter. And then he'd shot up again and while the hit felt as good as ever when it first went in, now he just felt like death.

He could blame the Scotch. But why make it easy? He felt this way because he was fucked up, and he would always be fucked up and that was all there was to it. Conrad should leave and let him finish what he had been counting on doing all along. The gun was still there, still loaded. So he'd be weak and pathetic by ending it all. So he'd make a mockery of the sacrifices made by people like Ryan. That would surely be a fitting end really, for someone who'd messed up like he had.

He started to laugh and couldn't stop. Suddenly it was funny and ridiculous and crazy all at once. This was madness! He felt like he was going nuts, he couldn't control what he was thinking. It was a non-stop stream of mental diarrhoea that befouled everything around him. His limbs felt heavy and unresponsive, his head felt detached from his body and his eyes seemed to be viewing the world through a veil of…something. Fuzz. Whatever. Who cared? This was shit.

Oh look, it was Conrad. Come for another round of 'Let's make it all better.' Jack picked up the empty bottle of Scotch and threw it in his general direction. Playfully, sure, but also not caring whether he hit him or not.

'Top of the morning Connie. Beautiful day huh? Let's get fucking trashed and see what wrongs we can right today. Let's fix the world while we're at it. Talking is the key to everything you know!' Jack laughed maniacally, while a sober part of his mind wondered what the hell he was talking about.

Conrad stood on the porch and looked over to where Jack was sprawled by his car. He had felt good this morning when he woke up, he thought the conversation the night before might have helped some. It had raised other issues that would have to be thought about, but it was a good start. At least they were talking.

But as soon as he saw Jack his optimism died and his heart sank into his boots. He had obviously been up all night again - he looked in a hell of a state and was clearly wasted. His face was pasty-white, his cheeks were hollow and there were huge dark circles under his eyes. And he noticed that the man was even skinnier than he had been a week ago, something Con wouldn't have thought possible at the time. He looked like he'd break if you touched him. Shit, he's going to kill himself like this… It was suddenly as clear as day to Conrad that this couldn't go on much longer. Jack wouldn't be able to take much more, his body would give up on him soon. Up until this point he had only thought of trying to help by offering an ear and a promise that the ghosts of the past would be laid to rest. Now, suddenly faced with the brutal certainty that Jack needed more than that, he began to try and think of some actual practical help he could offer. A few ideas sprang instantly to mind but getting Jack to agree might be a different matter. Well, he could only try. But he had to find out what was going on in his head first – why had he got into this state again?

He ran his hands through his hair, took a deep breath and walked over. 'What happened Jack?'

Jack pulled a face. 'What do mean, 'what happened'? Nothing happened. What are you talking about?'

'Well, you seemed OK yesterday. Better anyway. Now you look like crap. You drink that whole bottle in the last few hours?' Dumb question…

'Yeah I did. Which reminds me – we're running out. You should go down into town and stock up…' Jack raised a cigarette to lips that were curled in a smirk. He didn't know what he was saying, or why, but being rude was better than listening to his own thoughts right now.

'Well maybe.' He didn't plan on going for more liquor but better to humour him for now. 'So – why? Why didn't you just go to sleep last night Jack? I don't understand – why are you doing this to yourself?'

Jack noted the slightly pleading tone to Con's voice and wanted to laugh in his face. Because this is what junkies do to keep themselves occupied until the next hit Connie. Or at least – it's what this junkie does…

'Well, I'll tell you brother. After our little heart-to-heart yesterday I realised what a complete waster I am – again – and decided to feel sorry for myself. Anyone who knows anything knows that the best way to do that is to get really, really drunk. So I did. And then I tried to stop feeling sorry for myself, and I can't. So I guess I might as well just make the most of it. Go and grab me a beer would you? I can't be bothered to move.'

Conrad just stared at him. A bell rang in his head. He ignored the rudeness because he'd had a flash of insight as Jack had spoken, he remembered something someone had said to him once after Savannah had died. 'Why are you feeling sorry for yourself? I mean – no, let me rephrase that. Why do you think you're feeling sorry for yourself?'

Jack squinted up at him from the floor. What the fuck was he on about? 'Huh? Were you not listening yesterday?'

Con sighed and sat down next to him, feeling the dampness of the grass instantly seep through his jeans. 'What I'm saying is – you might not be wallowing in self-pity. What you're feeling might be a valid emotion that you should let yourself feel without beating yourself up over. You might be being too hard on yourself.' He paused while Jack tried to register that thought, and then continued to try and make his point. 'Look, what I've got from you over the last few days is that you set a high bar to live up to and you're tough on yourself if you don't reach it. Especially with what happened to Teri. I'm an outsider looking in, and I'm telling you that that wasn't your fault. If you've told me the whole thing, it honestly looks like there was nothing you could have done. But you still kick your own ass over it, years later. So all I'm saying is, whatever you're feeling now might not be self-pity. It might be something you need to deal with.'

There was complete silence and Jack's facetious façade dropped in an instant. He hadn't thought of it like that before. Of course, it was bullshit. But…interesting bullshit. He took a contemplative drag on his smoke as his mind tried to bend itself around the thought. Con sat and waited. He really thought he might be right about this, even though he didn't know what Jack had been thinking about all night. But it was obvious that Jack wasn't the type to feel sorry for himself, not often anyway, so this kind of made sense.

Jack tried to think of a way to explain why he felt the way he did right now. 'Connie, I don't believe in self-pity. I don't believe in 'try' either. You either 'do' or you 'don't' – there is no such thing as 'I tried my best.' That's just an excuse and a lame one at that. So when I sit here and feel sorry for myself – I don't deserve to. I failed. I have no right to whine about being alone, because it's my fault that I am. People saying to me 'You did everything you could to save Teri' - that means nothing to me. People have told me 'At least you saved Kim.' It's obviously great that Kim is safe but they don't seem to understand that it's not a consolation. You understand what I'm saying?'

Con was confused. 'So you would rather have neither of them? Both or neither?' That couldn't have been what he meant.

'No, of course not. Of course not. What I'm saying is, when people say that to me, in my head it sounds like 'You lost your wife? Drag. But hey, at least your daughter made it' as though still having Kim should make up for having lost Teri. Like I shouldn't feel sad that Teri is gone because I have still have my daughter. And of course, Kim is everything to me. Everything. But I still miss my wife, and Kim still misses her mother – and she's dead because of my actions and my fucking job and because I chose to live a certain way and in the end, because I failed to do my job and save her life. I've given everything for my work over the years and it was something I worked hard to be good at – but I wasn't good enough that day. And things have happened since, I've had to do some things that were necessary at the time but shit, I wouldn't wish them on anyone. And I have to live with myself now and I cant even fucking end it – one of those things I had to do has come back to bite me in the ass again. Otherwise I would have pulled the trigger yesterday morning…'

He trailed off. It felt weird being this honest. But this was a subject he'd spent hours, days, running over in his head and hell, it felt good to be able to say it loud for once.

'You want to tell me what it was? The thing that you did that stopped you killing yourself?'

'Maybe. I don't know.' Jack's head was swimming, this was a deep subject to be discussing when you were trashed.

'OK. Maybe later. You see my point though Jack? I don't think you're feeling sorry for yourself at all. I think you've been put through the wringer a thousand times and you're feeling the effects of that. There's no shame in admitting that you're at the end of your rope.'

End of his rope? Jack's mind recoiled at the suggestion, it was strange hearing it out loud like that. How could he be at the end of his rope? He was the person that was called on to do the impossible, he was paid to be limitless. Saying that he was at the end of his rope was saying that he was now useless.

Jack's thoughts wandered and took him back to a question he'd thought about a lot, something that he had never been able to get his head around. When he killed someone to achieve a greater aim – why did it rest on his conscience so much? Why couldn't he just say to himself 'I did it to save thousands of others.' Why didn't that excuse the action in his own head? He couldn't understand why it bothered him so much. It was better that one person died than a million…but why did the face of that one person haunt him so much?

Maybe too many people were haunting him and that was what being at the end of ones rope meant. After all, he had tried to kill himself. Almost anyway. But he hadn't done it, so maybe he could pull himself back up the fucking rope and that would mean he would be useful again.

Dammit, why had he drunk so much? And why couldn't he just let this stuff go? Why couldn't he just pull the trigger on a person when he had to and then forget about it and live a normal life? It was simpler in the Army. You were at war, some dude tried to kill you so you killed him first. It was a level playing field. But the stuff he did now – nobody knew the rules. And if anyone had known them, the bad guys wouldn't have played fair. So he was trained not to play fair either and in the end, it was just a bunch of guys running around in the darkness and no one knew which end was up. If he hadn't been carrying a badge that said he was authorised to do whatever it took, his ass would be in jail by now, waiting for the electric chair. But he had the authority so he'd done things that in another world would make him a terrorist and a criminal, and he'd got away with it.

And sometimes – sometimes the badge hadn't covered everything. Sometimes it had been a deep voice on the other end of a telephone saying 'You have to this Jack. I'm sorry. There's no one else.' So he'd done it. And no one else could carry the guilt for him either. There were times when he wished he was in jail. Then he could tell himself that he was being punished, paying his dues and then maybe he'd be able to let it go. But he was free and could live a normal life – except he couldn't. He was a trained killer, an assassin, a murderer – grocery shopping at the store on a Saturday, going to Tower for a CD, catching a movie, eating out with his daughter or a girlfriend…

It wasn't right. He had no right to escape judgement like this. So, in the absence of an authority to punish him, he was doing it to himself.

The revelation hit him like the zap of a taser and his mouth dropped open. Was that was he was doing? Was it that obvious and he'd never seen it….?

'Jack? Jack!' A hand was being waved in front of his face. 'Where'd you go? Are you OK?'

'Huh? Oh – yeah. Yeah I'm alright. I just…' I don't know what I am. I'm sobering up I know that much. Is that what it all comes down to? I'm punishing myself because no one else is? It can't be that easy…

'Just what?' Con was getting weirded out, more than usual.

Jack lit another smoke as a reflex, he was barely aware that he was doing it. A question formed in his head but he didn't know if he should ask it. It might lead to all kinds of other questions that he didn't want to have to answer.

Fuck it.

'Let me ask you something Conrad. I want you to give me an honest answer. Don't tell me what you think I want to hear and forget what you know about my job. Can you do that?'

'Yeah, I can do that.'

'If you had to shoot one good man in the head to save your own life, would you do it?'

Wow, that was a question. 'No I don't think so. I hope not anyway.'

'What if he was a bad guy that wanted to kill other people?'

'Then – yeah. Probably.'

'Why?'

'Because I'm not a bad guy. I don't want to kill a lot of people. If I shoot him, I'd stop all those other people dying. If I don't, all those people die as well as me and the bad guy wins.'

'But doesn't shooting him make you a bad guy as well?'

Hmmm. 'That depends.'

'On what?'

'Well, if I just took matters into my own hands and decided to shoot a guy I thought was bad – I would just be a vigilante. That would be wrong, then I'd be a bad guy. Probably crazy as well. But if I was a cop or something – then no, it would be OK I guess.'

'But you'd still have killed someone. Why does having a badge and a uniform make it OK?'

Con sighed. He didn't know where this was going and it was confusing him. 'I don't know Jack, it just does. Like – a cop who pulls me over for speeding. He's just another guy, a human being like me. But he's had training, and been granted the authority to pull me over if I do the wrong thing. So he does and I take it. Isn't this obvious? I don't understand what you're getting at.'

Jack decided to go for it and ask the question he actually wanted to ask. 'OK, try this. What if you still had to shoot a guy. But it wasn't to save your own life, it was to save a whole bunch of people you've never met. And it's a good guy, someone who's never broken a law. You're allowed to do it, you wont get in trouble for it. Would you?'

Con noticed a change in Jack's voice, just slightly. There was an eagerness to the 'Would you?' that was almost a challenge, as though he was daring him in some way. But he didn't know what Jack wanted to hear, so he was forced to try and put himself in the situation Jack had described. It was beyond his comprehension but he tried.

'Would I shoot a good guy to save a bunch of random people I didn't know?' There was a long pause and Jack stared at him intently the whole time. 'Honestly Jack, I don't know. I don't know if I could. I can see why it would have to be done – I guess I would hope that someone else would do it.'

Jack dropped his gaze and studied the grass. Con had answered the way he thought he would. 'Get someone else to do it.' It was something he'd asked himself for almost a year now. When Saunders phoned in the demand to the President, why did Palmer ask him to kill Chappelle? Why not have a soldier who had never met him to come to the train yard and pull the trigger? Did he think that Ryan would appreciate getting killed by someone he knew, would that somehow make it easier on the man?

Probably. Better the devil you know and all that. But it sure as hell wasn't easier on Jack, and – well yeah, Palmer had apologised for asking. But of all the things he'd had to do, that was probably the worst. He would always be glad that Stephen had broken before Jane was pushed through the doors of the Chandler Plaza, otherwise that might have been the worst. Cutting off Chase's hand was bad, but there really was no option and the kid would have died if he hadn't. But Ryan – there was nothing he could tell himself to make it better. It was cold-blooded murder and no amount of permission from the President or allowance from Ryan himself could make that right. Why hadn't he just asked for someone else to do it? Why had he agreed to be the one to pull the trigger?

Because then, someone else would be feeling the way he was right now. And it was better that he felt bad than someone else. Better that he shoulder the burden…

Oh man. It was suddenly so clear. Punishment again. He had created the Saunders mess by leaving him in Kosovo. And the man had returned for payback. So…he, Jack, was responsible. Therefore he would fix it. He'd do the hard thing. And the thing with Ryan - punishment? Jack had fucked up and so he wouldn't let anyone else suffer for his previous mistakes.

Was he really that much of a doormat? Did he really believe that he somehow deserved to carry all this weight on his shoulders, and better him than someone else? Or maybe he was arrogant. Maybe he just thought that he was the only one who could carry it all, that he would be able to take whatever life threw at him and he would remain unaffected. Only he wasn't. He was addicted to heroin.

Jack realised he needed something. Something he'd never been able to admit before. He knew what it was but he just couldn't think it, not even silently in his head. He'd never be able to say it out loud.

But if he didn't swallow his pride and ask for help, how would he ever get it?

He stood up suddenly, unable to bear being this close to letting his guard down completely. Because that's what he'd be doing. All the stuff he'd talked about, he could detach himself from it in a way. Sometimes more successfully than others but still, he could talk dispassionately and simply recount an event without reliving it completely. Apart from the thing with Teri, that was just too painful. It didn't occur to him that his behaviour right now might be a reaction to going through it all again the day before. He just knew that he was hurting and was tying to make it stop.

But admitting that he wasn't strong enough to do all this on his own – that was where the real failure lay, in his mind at least. That would be him completely exposed, leaving himself open to everything. That was all it would take to pull him apart. He had always been strong, ever since he was alone in the world at fifteen years old. He had always survived and got things done and been the person that others called on when they needed help. But he had never felt like he could ask for help in return, not once. It wasn't who he was. And he couldn't do it now. It would be the ultimate admittance of defeat.

Con stood as he did and was ready to catch him if he fell. It was possible, he was swaying all over the place but he reached for the hood of his SUV instead and leant against that. 'You OK Jack?'

'Stop asking me that. I'm fine.' He needed some space. He started to stumble back towards the house. 'I'm gonna crash for a bit. I need to sleep.'

Con watched him go, his heart hammering. Something was going on in Jack's head but he didn't know what, or how to get it out of him. What was the deal with all those 'hypothetical' questions? There was obviously something there but how could he get him to tell? Something occurred to him, something he hadn't asked recently and he called out to the retreating back.

'Jack? Why doesn't Kim know where you are? You talk like you don't see her anymore.'

Jack stopped. Yes, he could answer that now. He'd told the truth about Teri after all and it wasn't like his addiction was a secret. He turned and Conrad could see the anguish on his face as he walked slowly back towards him. 'She doesn't want to see me. She won't let me near her until I get clean. That's why I came here, to try and fix myself up. But…' He couldn't admit it, he couldn't admit his failure.

Con's heart wrenched in his chest. Jack had spoken so quietly, yet so clearly. The pain was so obvious. And it was obvious that he thought he had failed again, it was written all over him in the way his shoulders slumped and his body sagged and his eyes dropped to the floor. He reached out and grasped his brother's shoulder.

'Call her.'

Jack raised his eyes to Conrad's. He had spoken the truth, it had just kind of come out, straight from his heart. And Con looked so sad for him, it touched him. Maybe he did truly care after all.

'I can't.' It was a whisper, something that he couldn't say too loudly because it might just break him if he did. 'I have to respect her wishes. I've hurt her enough. I told myself I would do this for her – or die. But I haven't done it and I couldn't even kill myself. Now I don't know what to do.'

And it was true. He was floating without direction, nothing to hold onto that could give him his bearings and point him the right way. And he just couldn't shout for help, no matter how hard he tried.

Con reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. 'What's her number?'

Jack stared. His voice was firm and steady, he really meant to do it. He couldn't let him. 'No. No I can't. Don't…'

'Do you think this is what she wanted for you Jack? When she told you to get clean, did she really expect you to do it yourself and do it or die? I don't know the girl but I doubt very much that this is what she had in mind for you. After everything you did for her – and you're her dad for Cris' sakes. C'mon Jack, be sensible. Get a grip. Don't deny yourself this – you'll feel better if you talk to her and let her know what's going on. And anyway, you should be trying to get clean for yourself too. Not just for her.'

He willed Jack to listen to him. He could see the internal struggle going on behind those blue eyes, and he wanted so badly for Jack to give in to the part of him that wanted to hear her voice again. He held his breath as there was a brief flicker of something like hope…but then it died, and the eyes clouded again.

'I cant. I just cant. Con, please don't make me. Apart from anything else…I don't want her to hear about this. I don't want her to know anything that's happened here – she already thinks I'm weak, I know she does. I don't want her to know that I got this low…I'd never be able to look her in the eye again. Please don't…' He hated that he almost sounded like he was begging, but – well, wasn't he? And it didn't matter. Anything to keep Kim from detecting any part of this. 'And…doing this for her is the only way I got this far. Don't you understand? Without that, I wouldn't have even tried to get clean.'

Conrad sighed softly and put the phone away. He knew he couldn't force him, it would destroy the small amount of trust they'd built up. 'Its there if you change your mind.'

Jack couldn't describe the relief that ran through him. He felt so tired and beat up, but not quite as bad as he did before for some reason.

'Will you let me do something for you though Jack?'

'What?'

'I want to call Sheila and have her look up some rehab centres or hospitals or something. I could get her to book you an appointment to see someone too.' He stopped and held his breath. Since he had come outside this morning and realised that Jack couldn't go on much longer like this, he had been running through options in his head. And it was so easy really – get Jack into rehab, a good place where they would really help him out and get him straight. The hard part would be convincing Jack to go – and to let him pay – but suddenly Con was resolved. This was a fight he would win.

'Let me do this Jack. Please. We can get you in somewhere and you'll get clean and then you can go and see Kim again. Get on with your life. You need this. You can't keep doing what you're doing…'

Jack knew what he was saying. Part of him had known all along that his self-destructive behaviour might end up killing him anyway, and it would take the decision to commit suicide away from him at least. He just hadn't wanted to admit it. And this plan that Con was proposing…it had merit. But…fuck, he couldn't think straight. It was nice of him to offer. There was the problem of classified material that he wouldn't be able to talk about but…he scrubbed at his eyes that were threatening to close as he stood there.

'I don't know Connie. I need to sleep. Thanks though. Maybe. Can we talk about it later?'

Con saw that he was about done and decided not to press the issue for now. 'Sure Jack. Just – don't dismiss it without talking to me first, OK? Promise me that at least.'

Jack nodded. He'd promise pretty much anything right now if it meant he could pass out. 'Alright. Later.' He actually smiled a little as he turned and made his way towards the dirty mattress and welcome oblivion. He realised that the feeling he'd been dealing with since the sun had come up had gone away – he no longer felt like no one cared for him. And it was a welcome change, a feeling of relief that he couldn't deny. There was still a lot of shit running through his head from earlier but now that he felt he wasn't so alone, there might be hope for him after all.