chapter word count: 556
warning: dark themes, including suicide and suicidal thoughts

noir heart: sixty-four

The other side of the coin to his routine is the alcohol. Normally it's used to suppress or forget, and generally that's what happens to Jack on the nights where he makes his liver regret having the misfortune of being a part of his body. Unless it's a night like tonight, where the whiskey not only fails to help him block out the memories, but makes them all the more intense.

Where is my son, Detective?! Why can't you find my son?!

Slumped on the sofa with the whiskey in one hand, he stares vacantly with a parted mouth at his father's old revolver as the images, voices, sounds and smells hit him all at once like a barrage of grief and pain, evil and shadow. Shirt untucked, necktie loosened, he's in a sorry state.

Your family was...they were involved in a carjacking. I'm...I'm sorry, kiddo.

Guilt and rage swirl around him like a self-destructive maelstrom. He couldn't prevent the kidnappings. None of the families will ever have the closure of their child's body - because that was the Fairy's design. His last hurrah, his laughter in the face of justice and decency. Every single one under Jack's watch, and he failed all of them.

You're useless, Jack. The great, brilliant, all-seeing Jack Frost, and you can't even find a child. How pathetic.

A tear slide down his cheek as he swallows past the lump suffocating him, remembering each and every one of the children's faces. Evey's blonde pigtails. Thomas' freckled cheeks. James' emerald eyes. Alexandra's winning smile. A line of photographs on a display wall, victims of the White Fairy. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and they are there, watching him. Judging him. Over a dozen children with deathly white skin, milky eyes and emotionless visages.

How many families, Jack? How many empty caskets? Face it, Jack the Ripper. You should die.

Maybe the Fairy is right. Maybe he should die. After all - none of the unit cares. Aster is perfectly capable of going on without him. No family. Hell, even Beatrice would be better off, at least he won't be enabling her drinking. Mrs Black? Hah. Her life has just begun, now she's free of that psychopath.

If you let me fall, you'll never find them.

So, for the thirty-ninth time in eight months, he numbly leans over and picks up the revolver in his left hand. One bullet, five empty chambers. Russian roulette. He feels like he's drowning in sorrow and frustration - and though leaving it up to chance is cowardly and more than likely a sign that he doesn't truly want to die, he still presses the barrel against his temple. Painfully so.

You always did underestimate me. I will find them, but you won't be alive to see it.

He wonders morbidly if anyone will notice. His teeth clench together, and his breaths come short and sharp exclusively through his nose. Scowling, his finger begins to squeeze, and the hammer pulls back.

Eyes streaming, his throat utters a sustained roar of anguish, and he prepares himself for the end.

The finger squeezes the trigger all the way back.

CLICK.

mood whiplash, anyone? after this, the plot really kicks into gear. Really pleased to see Beatrice went down well. OGaV is coming, but it's really tricky to write at the moment.

special thanks to: rainbowcolorw0w, oninoko, silverrain0, jpbake, stefalove, hornedgoddess, ghost angel14 and doomstone for the reviews!