JESPER

There was always something special one remembered about family. Of course, it was family who raised you, so everyone should have a happy little collection of memories and artifacts, dried flowers pressed against pages, mailed letters and the like.

For Jesper, what he remembered best about his family was Ma and her gun. More specifically, her teaching him to shoot. He remembered her showing him how to line up the targets, how to hold the gun steady even when it kicked with a shot.

Shooting was Jesper's life. Gory as it may sound, violent as it may seem, Jesper lived for a shot, a perfect shot, striking its target exactly. Jesper couldn't live wholly without shooting.

So Jesper thought he had good reason to shed tears.

When Anton Kissin, that bastard, had pulled a knife on Jesper, Jesper didn't have a doubt Jesper would pay for future crimes. For past ones, though, Jesper expected a free pass. But of course the world didn't give free passes, so Jesper was missing his forefinger and his middle finger; one for the attempted breakout by his friends, one for the lockpick that Scrawler had squealed on him for.

His fingers, lovely things they used to be, were now stumps wrapped in white gauze. And Jesper couldn't shoot without them.


Jesper lay on the ground, his breath coming out in gasps. His cheeks were wet with salty tears that humans were cursed to shed. His heart felt like it was in pieces, a vase shattered, spilling out water and dead flowers.

Jesper's world was falling apart and Jesper couldn't put it back together again, a child fixing a puzzle with missing pieces. His arm was bleeding, a nasty piece of metal stuck in it that nobody bothered to remove. He was missing two fingers, which he needed to shoot, let alone hold a gun. The boy he was falling in love with had left him.

He had managed to be dry-cheeked for two days. Two days when he wasn't bothered, two days clenching his teeth to hold back screams, two days in absolute agony while keeping a straight face. Then he broke. Scrawler and Phillip had both come in after two days, torturing Jesper with their words and smirks, their nudges to his arm, his face burning from holding back screams.

"Look at him now," Scrawler had laughed, his studded tooth flashing against the torch light.

"Black Veil does belong to us, you son of a bitch," Phillip had said smugly. "And Ketterdam will soon."

When they had left, Jesper finally started crying, his thin shoulders shaking, his breathing ragged, his throat aching from keeping his sobs quiet.

Men don't cry, he thought. What would Kaz think? Wylan? At the thought of Wylan, Jesper's cries ceased a bit. Maybe he would come back for Jes. Maybe they all would, the people Jesper cared about most. Maybe…

Jesper wiped his nose on his shoulder, dabbing at his face with his remaining three fingers. No. Kaz wouldn't come, neither would Wylan. Inej… Inej knew he deserved this, for what he did to her.

You deserve this, they all seemed to whisper. You did nothing for us, we won't do anything for you.

Jesper's head started aching as the voices grew in volume and numbers. Why should we help you? What have you done for us? Why shouldn't we hate you?

Jesper clutched his head with a shot arm and a fingerless one, the pain doubling, tripling, until Jesper could barely hear the water running. But he heard it, and he felt it too. The voices ceased as abruptly as they started, and Jesper stood on shaking legs. From the torch light, he saw water dribbling through the makeshift door and water started to seep through the tiny cracks in the floor.

Jesper heard faint screaming, and barks as well, drawing a shiver through Jesper.

But maybe, just maybe, his world could be put back together again.