Author's Note: I am going to give a warning for this chapter. It is darker than the previous ones, and will be a reoccurring theme in the story, only applying to the character it is given to in this chapter. I apologize now, because this is never a good subject, but I hope you forgive me and enjoy the rest of the story.
"I…I'm just so tired," a whisper in a silent room echoed softly from the bare walls. Jack leaned back against one white-washed wall, tears streaming down his cheeks and he wiped them away furiously. He would not cry, not now. He had lost a reason to cry. What was the point?
Jack slid slowly down the wall and let his head fall down to stare at his hoodie pocket, where he reached into his pocket and massaged a pair of scissors, opening them and closing them gently, numb to the sound as metal scraped against metal. The tears continued to fall, his emotions now too heavy for him to hold back and a silent sobbed escaped.
Why doesn't anyone ever listen to him? Jack thought, as he pressed his thumb into one of the blades of the scissors, causing Jack to flinch when it cut his skin, but he continued anyhow. Why did they have to leave him? Why did his parents abandon him like that? At such a young age? North says it was an accident, but they had no idea what they were leaving behind. And it would be a relief if they knew who Jack was going to turn out to be. He was a disappointment. Everyone but North knew it. Jack could not let North know. North has been the best family Jack could have ever asked for, and he only wanted to see him happy, but Jack could not take it. Jack pulled the scissors out and examined them with a dull expression, a void replacing what should have been Jack's inner voice telling him what he was doing was wrong. That he did not want to hurt North, to see him sad, but Jack simply did not care anymore. He loved North, but he could not find room to show that compassion as he once could.
What are you doing? A voice in the back of Jack's head spoke up. Jack stared at the scissors, absently opening and closing them, wondering lamely how sharp they were. He stared down at his thumb and noticed a small trickle of blood where he had made an incision. Must be pretty sharp, then, he thought, glancing back at the scissors and leaving them open, revealing the blade, which reflected the dim glow of the bathroom light.
This isn't going to fix anything. The voice murmured, rising just enough in volume for Jack to begin to notice it was there at all. A bit too late now, don't you think? Jack thought sourly, staring down at his wrists, which he had exposed just up to the elbow. Jack glanced at the blade, watching the light dance softly from it as he turned it, and then back to his wrists.
You are making a mistake! The voice became louder, but Jack continued to ignore it, not wanting to hear his own reasoning anymore. He was just so tired, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep. No one cared, and he wasn't going anywhere in life. What was the point in continuing?
Jack placed the blade against his wrist and pressed down, testing the sharpness of the blade against his pale skin, and pulled away to see a thin red line beginning to well up. Jack became satisfied with the results and pressed the blade against his skin again.
We have to stop him! He's going to hurt himself! I know that, but how? He can't hear us! I don't know, but we better think of something quick! Jack shook his head, trying to rid himself of the oncoming headache. It started at the back of his head and pushed its way to his temples, where it bounced back, in short waves. His own conscious was battling over him. Jack would have dwelled on it more, if he had not already began slicing slowly at his skin. A thin stream of red formed where the blade was and Jack felt a sense of guilt, dread, and satisfaction mixing into his numb state of being. He stared at the thin stream of blood with a sense of wonder, curious how he could be causing pain like this, yet he could barely feel it. He knew he was not pressing down hard enough to life-threatening immediately, but in a sense, that was what he wanted. He wanted to watch as the life seeped out of him. He wanted to think his life over before it was ended. That was why he was here now.
What would North think? What do you mean, what would North think? Jack asked himself bitterly, wondering why he was questioning himself now, after the first incision had been made.
How would he feel if he found out that the only person he cared about in his life… he did say his parents died, right? Yeah. Well, how would he feel if the only thing he cared about in this world died? It would kill him.
You do not know what you are talking about! Jack yelled in his mind, feeling the blood at his wrist begin to seep into his sleeve and drop onto his jeans.
You have to trust us; you have so much to live for! You are young, and can do so much with your life…
But, I can't. I don't. I mean… Jack stared down at his bloodied wrist, the guilt that he had been suppressing earlier suddenly streaming back into his body and causing Jack drop the scissors and begin to shake, his body wracked with silent sobs as tears began to flow freely down his cheeks again, some mixing with the blood on his wrist. Jack held his wrist into his chest and curled his knees into himself and cried, the voices in the back of his mind tell him soothing words and lulling him into a more calming state. What was he thinking?! Jack let more sobs wrack his body as he thought about what he had just tried to do. But Jack could still feel that same pain from before, knew that this would not be the only time. That felt… good in a way. A sense of relief. The overriding guilt consumed him, but the relief only came from the self-harm.
He finally calmed himself down enough to look at the situation. He was covered in his own blood, more seeping out as he let his emotions get the better of him. He stared down at the deep cut in his wrist, noticing how he had missed the major veins more towards the middle. He was so pale, they were hard to miss, and yet, subconsciously, he had missed them, stopping just short. His hands began to tremble as he realized that he had no way to get home now without being found out. Jack stared at the scissors lying on the floor and picked them up. He needed to get rid of the evidence, and soon, before anyone came in and found him in one of the stalls, bleeding everywhere with scissors. It would take no time at all to make the connection. So he threw them into the toilet, and flushed, and, by some miracle, they went down without a hitch.
After a few minutes of catching his breath he surveyed the scene around him.
The corner of that stall is sharp enough… Is it really such a good idea to tell him that?! Well, he would have thought the same thing after a minute anyhow. I just don't want him bleeding to death, is all.
Jack held his head gently, then, after the headache subsided, pulled his sleeves down, then tore at the one where his wrist was still bleeding. There, Jack thought, that seems like a likely story. He held his arm up against his chest as he made his way out of the bathroom and into the dim hallway of his school. The halls were empty, but only because he was supposed to be in class right now, along with everyone else. He walked down the hallway, finally making it to the nurse's office, where he stumbled in and was met with an upset, then worried secretary at the front desk. Jack was then helped into the nurse's office, and laid down, feeling more exhausted than ever. Consciousness slowly slipped from him as he wondered where the voices in his mind had gone off to.