Desperate, scrounging whore. Roger completely withdrew. He couldn't find the energy to even sit himself up in bed anymore, so he'd lay there facing the wall, eyes wide, heart racing. Jack was going to lie about him. Jack was going to frame him. Jack was going to have him sent to prison.
Not only was the very thought of going to prison terrifying for Roger, but he was still suffering from the immeasurable heartbreak that he'd just had to endure so suddenly. How could Jack do that to him—pretend to love him, pretend that they had a future together where Roger could finally be taken care of, where he could let his guard down and finally have a home in someone? Jack had known about Roger's struggles from choir. He knew that Roger was surrendered by his mother at a memorable age to an orphanage and that the boy was teased and taunted for never really getting picked to go foster with a family amidst his peers. He knew that Roger had become extremely introverted and guarded because of this. He knew that all Roger longed for was a place that cared about him and someone that loved him and could tell him that they loved him and mean it.
And he'd used that.
He'd used it all against Roger.
He got him to trust him, he promised him love and power. He promised him a life where he'd be able to settle and relax. And yet… Here Roger lay in his lonely little room in the hospital—abandoned, alone, destroyed. Desperate, scrounging whore. He didn't like staying awake so much because it left his brain more time to think about his pain. But he didn't like sleeping either because sometimes in his dreams he'd see a starry dark sky partially covered by tall palms and then that beautiful angled face and red hair would come into view with those eyes so full of need—and his hopes would soar, he'd pretend for a moment that he was so happy and that Jack really did love him in moments like these. Desperate, scrounging whore. But then the dreams would speed up and Roger would feel a choking sensation of hands wrapped around his neck, he'd feel himself being slapped, he'd feel his hair being pulled back. And then he realized…
Maybe that wasn't what love was.
Maybe love wasn't supposed to hurt or be scary. Maybe love was something that didn't make someone feel so nervous about not being good enough. Maybe love was easier to understand. Roger's head spun as he contemplated this theory—certainly what Jack had shown him couldn't have been love. It was too painful, it felt wrong because it required so much convincing, it was embarrassing sometimes. And it was something they hid. Jack would tell him after every single time that he wasn't to say a word about what they did to anyone, ever. Not any of the boys on the island, not anyone if they ever got rescued. This was simply between the two of them. Desperate, scrounging whore.
What about Eleanor though? Did she love him? She paid a lot of attention to him and stayed around even while he was here in the hospital and wanted nothing to do with her. But she didn't hurt him…so she couldn't love him that much. But…what if love wasn't pain? Roger's heart pounded and he broke into a cold sweat as his brain raced through this tangle of thoughts. He let out a small whimper without realizing it. Who loved him? Did anyone? Could anyone? With everything he had wrong with him—no one wanted him before he got so sick, why would they ever want him now? Desperate, scrounging whore. Desperate, scrounging whore. Roger felt a large hand touch his shoulder and he jerked away, ready to fight anyone that was going to make him their toy ever again—
But it was just the nice doctor. The man. The one that wrote to him every day on the chalkboard when he'd come in the room to check on him. The one that spent a lot of time talking to Eleanor. The one that kept the nurses with the sharp needles away. Upon meeting his eyes, Roger realized that the man was concerned for him. He had that kind look on his face but the worry in his eyes spoke volumes that didn't need hearing to be understood. The man set a biscuit down onto the bedside table near the glass of water. It had been this same ritual for quite a few days now—Roger didn't have any interest in facing this massive task at hand of lying to cover up a lie so that he wouldn't be lied about. The doctor paused to write something on the chalkboard. He reached over to pick it up off the bedside table and suddenly saw that there was writing already present on the surface; scrawled writing, messy, hurried. And it was the same phrase over and over again all over the board in different directions and sizes and varying levels of neatness. "Desperate, scrounging whore."
He presented the board to Eleanor when she returned from the orphanage, asking what she thought this may mean. Both she and the doctor felt equally internally heartbroken as they spoke with the board in between them. "Something's triggered him," the doctor said softly, looking over at the tiny mass huddled in the bed. "What if it's his mental illness getting worse?" Eleanor asked. "He's written the same thing over and over and clearly it makes sense to him but not to us. Couldn't that be his disease taking over his mind?"
"It's possible, but he's otherwise coherent. And he won't leave his bed, he won't make eye contact, he won't eat or drink. He's troubled more than usual."
"He hasn't said anything to me about anything bothering him lately."
A young nurse entered the room carrying a stick of chalk and proceeded to the bedside table. The doctor asked her why she was bringing in more when it had only been a few days of Roger being here without really writing all that much. "Sorry, sir." the nurse said. "I noticed that he was only down to one stick instead of two. I think he and that boy that was here must've used a whole stick just writing back and forth yesterday. I figured he'd eventually need more in his room if he needed to talk to you."
The doctor raised an eyebrow. "What boy visited him yesterday?" he asked. The nurse glanced at Eleanor. "The tall boy with the red hair—he said he was from Roger's school and was coming to see him. He said he knew Roger. They went back and forth like they knew each other. I figured he was another child from the orphanage or something so I let him in." the nurse replied, not knowing that this was the biggest clue the pair in front of her could've hoped for. "You said he mentioned this Jack kid had red hair in his letter, right?" the doctor asked Eleanor. She responded with a pale-faced nod. They both looked over at Roger.
They'd found their trigger.