"Jack?"
"Hmm?" He is tracing lazy circles on her bare back, running his fingers over the tiny, pale scars that mark her skin.
"Are you mad at me?" She can't help sounding a little scared.
Now Jack pulls back from her, just enough to see her face. It isn't the same worried, confused look she had an hour ago, but it's close.
"Of course not, Sam. Why would you think I was mad at you?"
"Well, I mean, this is..." She gestures in a wide arc. Most of the apartment now resembles the wake of a tornado. Clothing has landed in haphazard piles starting out from near the living room, Jack's cell phone has fallen off his belt somewhere before the bathroom, the bedside lamp is in a half a dozen pieces, and the closet doorknob is dangling by one precarious screw.
She'd never meant for this to happen. They had been sitting in the kitchen; she was telling him about the time in the seventh grade when she'd shown up to school with a black eye. Her best friend had covered for her, telling the teacher they'd gotten in a fight over some boy. The look on Jack's face had become too much, and she was desperate for him to stop looking at her like that. She'd leaned over then, kissing him with such ferocity it left them both breathless. She couldn't explain why she'd done that, instead of perhaps just saying something. If he had any insight to her motives, he made no move to object.
"My back hasn't been this scraped up since the razor wire on Fort Benning's obstacle course, but..." Jack chuckles softly, and then says quietly, "No, Samantha. I could never be mad at you for something like this."
"Why not?"
Samantha pulls away from him then, tugging the sheet up from the end of the bed and wrapping it tightly around her body. Jack makes no move toward her.
"Why do think I'd be mad at you, Sam?"
She won't look at him, and he can't begin to imagine what she must be thinking.
"Because I shouldn't have done this to you. We shouldn't be here. This isn't-"
"Sam, don't say things like that."
She turns to him then, her eyes blazing. "Why not? It's the truth. You shouldn't be here with me; you're supposed to be at home, with your wife. You should be tucking Hanna and Kate into their beds right now, not lying here in mine. "
Jack sighs. "Sam, listen to me for a minute, okay? You need to realize that all you've just done is taken all your anger and frustration out on me. You needed some way to let everything go, and I was around." He stares down at the space between them for a moment before speaking again. "Stop punishing yourself for all this."
"I'm not punishing myself for anything," she snaps back. "What, you think that all this is just me punishing myself? No, Jack, you're wrong."
"Then what is this about, Sam?" Jack asks.
She stands up quickly, carefully moving aside pieces of the shattered lamp as she walks to the window. Staring out, she realizes that nothing makes much sense anymore. Her life appears to be lying in ruins at her feet, and she has very little idea how it got there.
"I'm not sure, Jack. I really don't know-" she whispers helplessly, hoping maybe he won't hear it. Then she catches sight of his reflection in the window. He did hear.
"Sam, can you do something for me? Come over here, get back into bed, and try to stop being so angry with yourself. Even if it's just for five minutes, can you try?"
She stands there for a moment, much like a defiant child, handfuls of sheet in her clenched fists. Slowly, she relents and sits on the edge of the bed. Jack places an arm on her shoulder and gently pulls her down to the mattress. She doesn't object.
They remain still for a few minutes, neither of them speaking. Finally, Jack feels Sam relax into his arms, resting her head against his shoulder. Once she does, Jack speaks.
"Will you tell me what happened to your ankle?" He tries to keep his voice steady, hoping she can't tell how rattled he really is. He can't imagine her ever being vulnerable enough to allow someone to hurt her so badly. The Samantha he knows would never put up with it.
"He shoved me back towards the door, and my ankle smashed into the bottom step," she replies sleepily. For the first time in days, possibly weeks, she realizes just how exhausted she is. It's been far too long since she had a decent night's sleep.
"What about your jaw? Was that the same night?" he asks quietly, as he rubs her shoulder.
She doesn't answer right anyway. Instead, she runs a hand through her hair, managing only to mess it up further.
"No, it was later," she replies, her voice catching. "Remember when I told you I ran away when I was 17? That was why. My father, he came home one night, and we got into- all I wanted was to borrow the car that weekend. It was prom, and-" She chokes on a sob then, and it is a moment before she continues. "He ended his side of the argument by shoving me. It would have been okay, except that I was at the top of the stairs, and I-I fell."
Jack is stunned. He can't ever imagine how someone could inflict such pain on her. When he speaks, he can only manage a whisper. "Jesus, Sam, he- you could have broken your neck."
She doesn't seem to hear him. "I caught the second-to-last step, and there was this awful sound. At first, it didn't register, because it sounded just like when you break a tree branch over your knee, you know? And then, then the pain kicked in, and I'd bit through my lip, god, there was so much blood on the carpet-" Her voice fades out as she stares blankly at the opposite wall.
All these things she swore she'd never tell anyone, spoken aloud. After all these years, the relief of finally telling someone the truth is causing her chest to ache. Or maybe it's the memory of it all.
Either way, it still hurts.
End.