AN: Thanks so much to anyone who's still actually reading this. I really should at least attempt to update my stuff with some regularity, but for whatever reason I never do. I think it's a college thing. A week seems like a day, a month a week, and so on. I'm also way behind on reading other people's stuff and giving them feedback, but someday I plan to get around to it--at least, I hope so... Anyway, muchos gracias for all the great support:-)

Days passed, and Jackie still didn't speak. He improved in the sense that he went where you told him to go, and ate if you sat and watched him do it. Still, more often than not, he'd just lay in bed, staring off at the wall. The schools in the area had closed for a few days, pending the arrest of the shooters from the park. Angel stayed home during the day with Cracker Jack, forcing him to get up every morning and eat while I slept after work. None of us were allowed to answer the phone during that time, because the police and reporters kept calling, even though Ma told them Jackie couldn't answer any questions.

It was a Sunday night when he finally came around. Must've been, because I'd gone to bed instead of work.

I woke up to a dark room, and an explosion of pain in my side knocked the air from my lungs. Someone was standing over me, beating me with a fucking bat.

I should've known right away. I didn't get hit hard enough to cripple me—just enough to bruise deep, and sting like crazy. Might've cracked a rib, but I wouldn't realize it until after my initial adrenaline rush.

I lunged out of bed, taking the fucker down and smashing my fist into their face. The resulting 'oomph' didn't come from some dude I had a beef with, or a burglar. It came from a child, a kid half my size.

Fear started freezing my veins over as I reached for the lamp next to my bed and turned it on, revealing Jack's bloodied features. My eyes widened in disbelief. What had just fucking happened? How had I ended up on top of my baby brother, smashing his skull with my fists?

He struggled, trying to free himself. I'd gotten him in the cheek, giving him a nasty abrasion that would sting for a week—never mind the bruise beneath it...

Grabbing his wrists, I flipped him over onto his stomach, holding him down. I hadn't been forced to restrain him in over a year.

"No! No, no! Don't stop," he sobbed, spit and blood from his nose flying onto the carpet, his eyes squeezing shut. "Don't stop."

"Don't stop what, Jackie? What the fuck are you talking about, what were you doing?"

The air he drew into his lungs whistled through a tight air passage, causing him to hiccup in his breathing. "Hit me! Fucking hit me, Bobby! I wanna die. I can't stand it, I wanna die!" he screamed, his eyes squeezing shut tight.

By that point I'd seriously started to freak out. "What do you mean you wanna die? What're you, crazy? You think I'd hurt you on purpose? Why would you try to make me do that to you, Jackie? Why?" I'd started yelling myself, only scaring him more.

He flinched, still crying and sobbing.

"It should've been me!" he screamed desperately, his cries reaching a pitch and volume that hurt my ears. "You don't even care Mike died! He was the only friend I've ever had. Why would you care if you killed me, Bobby? You didn't fucking care about Mike, and he's better than me! I tried to fight them when they took your skates off me! I got up and they would've shot me, but he pushed me out of the way. I never would've done that for him, I would've been too fucking scared. I tried to save him, I tried to keep the blood from running out, but he died anyway! He died, and you came to get me, and you didn't even fucking care!"

I was starting to see what had happened to him. He'd shut himself off, gone numb because he couldn't handle it. Now the hurt was smothering him; but at least he'd come back. He'd started to live again. I never had, not entirely. I'd never cried over losing someone I'd cared about, I'd just let myself become angry and mean.

I stroked his soft hair after a long moment, streaking the blood on my fingers through his dirty blonde locks, wishing I could say something that would take away the pain.

"That's because I didn't care, Jackie. All I worried about that night was finding you alive. I'm sorry you lost your friend, because I've lost friends too. I've watched my friends die, I've watched them go to prison, and I can deal with that. You know what I can't deal with? Losing one of my brothers. Mike was a nice kid, but he wasn't Jerry, he wasn't Angel, and he sure as hell wasn't you. If you'd died that night, Jack, I would've torn this city apart by now. Whoever did it would be dead. They can have my fucking skates, but they can't touch my family. You understand me?"

He shook his head. "I'm fucked up," he whispered, his sobs fading into an occasional hitch in his voice.

"Ah, Jackie," I said, trying so, so hard not to smile. "Do you really think we're normal, that I'm normal? We're all fucked up. We're the Mercers—ask anyone."

"I'm not really your brother," he said, his eyes starting to glass over again.

"Yes, you are, Jack," I said, squeezing his shoulders. I'd be damned if I was going to lose him again. He had to stop self-destructing, and face whatever the hell had dug its way inside him. He'd never learn to deal with anything if he didn't.

He shook his head. "No," he whispered.

"Don't you try that bullshit on me, Jack. You look at me. Look at me!" I yelled.

His eyes flickered in my direction, but nothing more.

"Don't you fucking tell yourself I don't care about you! Don't you start feeling sorry for yourself like a little faggot! You wanna know why you matter to me? Why I love you like a brother? I love you, because I need to love you. I need to love Ma, and I need to love Jerry and Angel. I need you all to love me back, because that's what makes me strong, Jackie. Being strong to protect myself isn't enough. If I only had to keep myself alive, I'd be dead now. I'm tough, because I've got a good enough reason. Protecting Ma and protecting my brothers is my reason. You're all weaker than me, and that makes me feel like I can get through anything, because I don't have a choice. If I'm not the man of the house, no one else will be. It sounds selfish as hell, but consider the fucking source. I need you guys, all of you. You have to realize I'm never going to stop needing you, Jackie. You're my brother. "

He still shook his head, but he'd choked up again, he'd started coming back. He wrapped one of his hands around my wrist and squeezed, dissolving into silent tears.

I let him up, but he didn't rise from the floor. He lay there, bawling. I patted him on the back, squeezing his shoulder, relieved he hadn't shut himself off again. "Just let it out, Jackie. That's all you can do."

He was too busy burying his face against the carpet to notice Ma peek in our door, wrapped in her bathrobe and squinting at us through the light in the room. She tilted her head as though to ask me if I needed help.

I shook my head. I had things under control by then. All there was left to do was wait it out until the kid could fall asleep.

Ma left us there on the floor of our room, silently shutting the door behind her.