1966 – 1973

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Audrey waited. She had just secretly muted her mic a moment earlier to blow her nose. She didn't want Jack to know she had shed a few tears. If he heard her, he'd instantly realize how personal the conversation had become, and that might make him shut down.

There was something different about Jack now. The way he had spoken those last few sentences about his father—it was like a switch had flipped. He had become a hardened version of himself, one she could easily imagine grabbing a gun and marching off into battle without hesitation. It wasn't the one who had spoken about his mother earlier, filled with so much love. No, this was a version of him that built walls, locked the emotion away, and focused on the facts.

Maybe she could use that. Maybe this hardened version of Jack could talk through the facts, leaving the emotion behind, just as he had done countless times before. Maybe he was strong enough, in this state, to say the things he'd been holding back for so long.

"Tell me about your dad," Audrey said carefully. She worked hard to make sure her voice was steady, even. If she wanted him to keep going, she needed to meet him at his level, matching the hardened tone he had taken on.

"There's not much to tell," Jack replied quickly, shutting her down.

Audrey didn't believe that for a second. She could see through the lie—there was so much to tell about his father, and they both knew it. "Do you hate him?" she asked, pushing just a little more, her voice still calm, still neutral.

"I never said I hated him," Jack responded, evading her question.

That wasn't an answer. Audrey pressed further. "Do you?" she asked again, more firmly this time.

Jack was quiet. He didn't want to answer this question. He hadn't allowed himself to think about it in years, not deeply. His mind flashed to the commandment—was it the fourth or the fifth? Honor your father and your mother. It was easy enough to honor his mother. She had been kind, loving, protective. But his father? The thought of admitting he hated him felt... wrong, even if parts of him did. Over the years, he had tried to push his father from his thoughts, tried to forgive him, tried to let it go. But forgiveness had never come. He had failed, and now, saying he hated him felt like a betrayal of something deeper, something he couldn't quite articulate.

Finally, Jack spoke. "No, I don't." He hesitated, then added, "I try not to."

To Audrey, that said everything. It was the answer she had feared when she first heard him say the word dad with that cold, distant tone. There was so much pain behind those words—decades of it.

"Was he good to your mother?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. The way Jack had spoken about the night his mother died told her all she needed to know.

"No, he wasn't." He was surprised at how easy it was to say that out loud. It had been a long time since he had consciously thought about his father in such direct terms. And even longer since he had said anything like that to anyone. It felt almost freeing to admit it, like a weight being lifted, even if just for a moment.

He paused again, but the memories rushed in. He hadn't spoken about those years in a long time. The years between 1965 and 1974—the years when his father had ruled their home with fear. Jack had been so young, but even then, he understood the tension that lived in their household. His father's anger was always there, simmering beneath the surface, ready to burst any time. His mother had borne the brunt of it, but Jack had seen it early on. He had heard the arguments, seen the bruises she tried to hide.

Jack thought back to those days—how his mother had bent over backward trying to avoid the small arguments that inevitably grew into full-blown disasters. She had done everything she could to keep the peace, always trying to do things exactly his way. His father had his rules, his expectations, and she had learned early on that stepping outside them—even just a little—meant facing his wrath. She had even brought Jack and Graem into it, making sure they acted how she thought their father would want, because if they didn't, she'd pay the price, no matter how much she apologized afterward.

His father was selfish. Jealous. Even when there was no reason, no cause for suspicion, he'd invent something. The man standing next to her in the grocery store line—who was he? Why had she looked at him? Or his own brother, who stopped by from time to time—why did she smile when she handed him a cup of coffee? Was she being too friendly? The accusations were endless, baseless, but she bore them quietly, just trying to keep the peace, to avoid the next explosion. But nothing she did was ever enough.

Jack swallowed hard, his mind swirling with memories he hadn't allowed himself to touch in years. He had tried so hard to bury them, to keep them locked away, but here they were, rising to the surface.

And now, all these years later, he was still trying to carry the weight of it all, still trying not to hate a man who had put so much burden on his shoulders. He was trying to control his own anger as it rose with these thoughts, the familiar heat of it bubbling under the surface. It was something that had terrified him for as long as he could remember—that he might become like his father. The idea that the same anger-control issues were in his genes, that it was something inheritable, had haunted him throughout his life. What if he carried that inside him too? What if, like his father, he couldn't control it?

That fear had made him walk away from any relationship when things became too personal, too difficult, too full of friction. He had never had an outburst like his father, not once, but he didn't want to even come close to that line. So, instead of risking it, he had always left, directing his anger at something else. Shooting range. Signing up for a mission. War.

Audrey waited, sensing the tension in the silence. She didn't push this time. She let him sit with it, knowing that forcing him to speak before he was ready would only shut him down.

Jack finally exhaled, as though the act of remembering physically hurt him. "He wasn't just hard on her. He was hard on all of us," he admitted, his voice low, almost a growl. "But especially her."

The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy and painful. Audrey's heart ached, but she stayed quiet, waiting to see if he would continue. She wanted to reach through the phone and comfort him, but she knew he wasn't ready for that. Not yet. Not with the version of himself he had become in this conversation.

Jack could feel the anger boiling up inside him. It was as if he were a child again, trapped in that house, trying to navigate the minefield of his father's unpredictable rage. The tension of those moments washed over him, the way he had been terrified of his father's wrath but still determined, with every fiber of his being, to protect his mother. He had secretly sworn to himself, over and over again, that he wouldn't let his father destroy her, even though he was just a kid and there wasn't much he could do. But still, he had tried. He had tried to fight for her, even if it was a fight he couldn't win.

"He controlled every aspect of her life, waiting for any misstep to unleash his anger, only to apologize afterward, pulling her back in." Jack muttered, his jaw clenched tight, the words coming out like a low growl. The memories surged, and he ground his teeth, inhaling sharply as if holding back the full weight of his frustration. "There was not much I could do," he admitted, his voice strained, "but at least I tried."

To Audrey, the words echoed like a battle cry—not from the man he was now, but from the young boy who had already been hardened by his short life.

1972

They had moved into the bigger house just a few months ago. Everything was new and unfamiliar, but they all had to be happy—Dad commanded it. His company was evolving, and he could easily afford a bigger house now. They had also moved away from Santa Monica to a better part of the city and a better school district, as Philip had said. Jack wouldn't complain, though he missed his friends from Santa Monica, especially Carlos and Juan. The new school, in this 'good' district, had very few Spanish-speaking children, and Jack missed speaking Spanish with his friends. It had been easy to pick up a few words and phrases early on because he had spent so much time with Carlos, Juan, and their families. Once, he had used a Spanish phrase at home. Dad hadn't liked it—because he couldn't understand Spanish. Jack had caught a slap in the face. A hard one. He could still feel it now.

Like everyone in that house, Jack had adjusted to his father's wishes. No more speaking Spanish at home. Though his writing in Spanish wasn't good—he'd never had any formal education in it—Jack would later still write all his personal notes in Spanish. It became his secret code, a way to hide his thoughts from his parents—mainly from his father. Philip never found his notes anyway. Jack was good at hiding them, and partly afraid that he'd catch another beating if Dad ever found a piece of paper with Spanish scribbling on it.

The first few months in the new house had been like fresh air for the whole family. Even though Jack missed his old friends, he was glad for the move. In over four months, there hadn't been a single one of those nights where his parents would start arguing—well, mainly it wasn't his mother. His dad would start it, get angry about something. At first, she'd apologize, then she'd try to defend herself when she saw that apologies meant nothing to him. And then Jack would hear that noise. The thump of a body being shoved or beaten to the ground. Pleas from her to stop. Crying, which she couldn't hold back. Sometimes, plates would be thrown.

Jack had almost dared to hope it had gotten better, now that they were in the new house. But that night, he learned it had only been a break. In the old house, he had his place to hide during those fights, when he was younger. His mother knew of the place—it was a cupboard in the supply room, a low, dark hole far enough away from Philip's rage so they wouldn't accidentally experience it. He would take Graem there and hide. His two-year-old brother didn't understand why. When he started to complain, Jack tried to calm him by saying they were playing hide-and-seek. That sometimes helped, but Graem would hear the fighting, and soon enough, he'd start to cry. There were times when Jack had to cover his mouth to keep him quiet, so Philip wouldn't hear them. His poor brother must have felt like he was suffocating. He couldn't tell abuse from being saved. He kicked Jack, but a two-year-old didn't stand a chance against a strong five-year-old.

In the new house, Jack hadn't found such a hideout yet. Well, there hadn't been a need. The old house had been cramped, with the living room and kitchen sharing a thin wall with Jack and Graem's room. Now, their bedrooms were on the second floor. Jack had his own room for the first time in his life, and Graem's room, down the hall, was probably far enough away from the dining room downstairs that he didn't hear the fight anyway. But Jack heard it.

He slipped out of his room and moved toward the staircase. He had caught enough blows from his father in the past to be afraid of getting too close. He could hear his parents arguing, but he couldn't make out the details. They were in the kitchen, and their voices were too far away for him to understand. Still, he heard his name. They were talking about him. He stayed on the upstairs landing, listening.

Inside the kitchen, Marianne and Philip were arguing. It wasn't about little Jack—it was about Philip's brother Jack, who had been in charge of the company while Philip was in Vietnam. Philip had enlisted long ago, never thinking he'd actually be drafted. But he was. He had to leave behind the company he had worked so hard to build (which hurt him the most), his wife, and his three-year-old son Jack (which didn't bother him at all). By the time he left for Vietnam, neither he nor Marianne knew she was already pregnant with Graem.

The two years Philip had been gone were heaven for Jack. He loved spending time with his mother and his Uncle Jack, who was over often because of the company. Uncle Jack walked with a limp. Whenever Jack asked him about his leg or why he wasn't in Vietnam like his dad, Uncle Jack would just say, "I've already had my fair share of that shit." The young boy nodded but didn't really understand. Marianne and Uncle Jack made a good team, and looking back, Jack sometimes wished his father had never come back from Vietnam, leaving things as they were. Life had been better then—just him, Mom, Uncle Jack, and baby Graem at who he'd sometimes get angry, because he took so much of mom's attention. It was then that his mother had told him, "Don't get angry. Never get angry." He hadn't understood her words, but the way she said them, with so much love, made him take them to heart. Anger was not an option.

But fear still was. Now, he was terrified, hearing his father scream and his mother cry, always pleading, "No, that's not true." Jack crept down the stairs. She cried, "How can I prove there was nothing when there was just nothing?!" His dad wasn't satisfied with her answer. Jack heard his name again. Was this about him?

He edged closer to the kitchen door, his body shaking. He heard his dad say, "I'll kill him. That'll solve the problem." Jack peeked into the kitchen. The way the voices sounded, he guessed his father had his back to the door and his mother was by the window.

He was almost right. They were both on the other side of the room, behind the kitchen counter. Philip had his hand around Marianne's throat. She wanted to answer, but he was strangling her, no words coming out.

Though he was terrified, Jack couldn't just stand there. He crept into the room, trembling but determined. He grabbed a frying pan—it was heavier than he'd expected. He climbed onto the kitchen counter, hoping to catch his father by surprise, but just as he raised the pan, Philip turned. Whether it was the reflection in the window or the noise Jack made, Philip had noticed him.

Jack's plan failed. His father blocked the blow and turned on him with all his rage. What came next was a blur of pain. Jack felt the strikes, his mother's hands pulling at Philip, her voice pleading, "Please, he's just a boy. You'll kill him! Philip, stop!"

At some point, his father stepped back, leaving Jack on the floor, unable to move. He saw his mother's legs behind his father. She didn't dare move either. There was a ghostly silence. It was as if everyone in the room had realized what could have happened. One well-aimed blow could have killed Jack. Philip knew it, Marianne knew it, and even Jack knew it.

"Get up," his father ordered. Jack didn't dare refuse. He slowly got to his feet, every part of him aching. "Undress."

He obeyed, not understanding why. Philip sized him up, looking for any visible wounds. There would be bruises, but they hadn't appeared yet.

Philip grabbed Jack by the neck and dragged him to the back door. Jack felt the cold rush in as the door opened, and in the next moment, he was thrown outside, naked.

Marianne hadn't dared to protest. She was left alone with Philip again. "Maybe that'll knock some sense into the boy," he said. His voice was almost soft now, a cruel contrast to what had just happened.

She despised him, but there was nothing she could do for Jack. Any protest would bring them back to square one. She forced herself to play the part of the caring wife. "Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?" she asked, even though a part of her had hoped Jack had hurt him—maybe even killed him. But her brain quickly reminded her: no, better not. If Jack had hurt him, his wrath would have been far worse.

Philip flexed the arm Jack had tried to hit. "No," he replied simply.

Marianne touched his arm gently. From that moment on, Philip became the nicest person on earth to her, apologizing for his outburst. He almost convinced her, too, if it weren't for the fact that the one person she truly loved was outside, naked, in the freezing cold. He kissed her, led her upstairs to the bedroom.

Meanwhile, Jack huddled on the porch, freezing. He had explored the surroundings of the new house during the past few months, but at night, they looked far more intimidating. Behind the house was an empty field, and beyond that, the forest loomed, dark and threatening. The house next door belonged to an old man with a large "No Trespassing" sign, and Jack feared his pit bull, which barked at him viciously whenever he rode by on his bike. The house to the left was still under construction. If he wanted help—which he never considered, knowing it would only make Philip even angrier—he'd have to walk far. Naked. Not an option.

So he hunkered down in a corner of the porch, hugging his legs for warmth. He felt anger rising inside him, but he heard his mother's words in his head: Don't be angry. He fought back tears, as he always did. He hadn't wanted to make Philip mad. He had only worried about his mother. But as he sat there, staring into the darkness, afraid of the forest, afraid of the pit bull next door, the tears finally came. And after a while, they stopped coming.

Hours later, Marianne lay in bed, wide awake. Philip had finished quickly and was fast asleep, but she couldn't rest. Her mind was consumed with thoughts of Jack. When she finally dared to move, she slipped out of bed, careful to avoid the creaky floorboards. She had learned where they were, just as Jack had (which she didn't know).

She opened the back door and gestured for Jack to come inside quietly. He understood without a word. She found him cold to the bone, his body trembling. She wanted to draw him a warm bath, but the noise would wake Philip. Instead, she led him upstairs, dressed him in his pajamas, and climbed into his small bed with him, wrapping her arms around his shivering frame.

He didn't cry, she realized. What a brave young man.

He had no reason to cry now. He was in heaven, cuddled against his mother, safe in her arms. He knew, instinctively, that this was the safest place in the world.

Marianne held him close. People always asked her if she loved both her sons equally, and she always said yes. But in moments like this, she knew the truth. She had two sons, but her love for Jack was different, deeper than anything she had ever known.

"You're my brave little one," she whispered, stroking his hair. She didn't sleep that night. She held him tight, afraid of the moment when she would have to let him go.

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Early 1973

They were in the second floor bath room. They had their routine. It was early morning, the kind of quiet that followed the nights they didn't talk about. Jack sat at the closed lid of the toilet, next to the sink, his body aching, though he said nothing. It would only make it worse, would add to the stack of sorrows she carried around all day. If he'd cry, she'd cry. She'd feel responsible for his pain, though she wasn't. So he didn't cry. He had become good at that. He and his mother didn't need to say much anymore. They understood each other perfectly, especially after nights like last night. His mother always got him from the porch at some point in the night, just as she had hidden that blanket under the veranda for him to use when Philip threw him out naked, knowing Jack wouldn't go anywhere in that state.

They both had caught blows the night before. With every other blow Jack felt older, stronger. He had started waiting on the stairs during the fights, watching until the moment came when his mother couldn't handle it anymore. He only had one chance of stepping into their fight, he had to hold back and wait, otherwise he'd not reach his goal of ending it. That's when he'd jump in, fighting with every fiber of his being. He had learned that once his father saw how badly he had hurt his own child, his rage would cool, and his attitude toward his mother would shift. It was like clockwork. His mother always played her role, staying by his dad's side, complaining about the boy who dared to raise a fist against his own father, but Jack knew it was all an act—one she used to survive.

Today, his father had already left for work, as he always did, leaving early before Jack or Graem got up. His mother stood in front of the mirror, carefully applying makeup to hide the bruise around her left eye. Jack watched silently. It was part of their routine. She'd cover up the marks, and life would continue as if nothing had happened. When she was done, she turned to him. He had a similar bruise on his face.

Without a word, she started dabbing makeup on his face. Jack didn't flinch when she touched the tender spot around the bruise, though it hurt. He was used to it. He knew her routine—makeup to hide the evidence. He was probably the only boy in his class who knew what makeup felt like. She had told him many times that they had to hide the bruises. It was normal now. He no longer questioned it.

He knew why she stayed. She had explained, in her own way. Leaving wasn't an option. She feared no one would believe her if she talked about the abuse. She feared she wouldn't have enough money to take care of the family. She feared that if she left, Philip would take the children, and she'd never see them again. And most of all, she feared that things would get even worse if she tried to leave and didn't succeed. It was safer to stay. It was safer to survive.

But today, something inside Jack snapped. He hadn't slept, not really. He had lain awake in her arms, thinking. The beatings, the rage—it varied in frequency and intensity, but it was always there, hovering over them, waiting for the next explosion.

"Why don't we just leave?" Jack asked suddenly, his voice quiet but firm.

His mother froze. She put the makeup pad aside and grabbed his face with both hands, looking him in the eyes, her expression filled with fear. "Don't ever say that again," she whispered, her voice trembling.

In her eyes, Jack saw it—a deep, all-consuming fear. She would never leave. She couldn't. Another time, Jack saw just how trapped she was.

Eventually, Graem got up, completely oblivious to what had happened the night before. They left for the school bus, just like any other day. Jack kept an eye on Graem during the ride, making sure to drop him off at the kindergarten next to the school.

As Marianne watched the bus pull away, the thought crossed her mind—What if she took the boys and left? She hadn't considered it in a long time. Jack's question still echoed in her mind. For a brief moment, she let herself imagine it—taking the boys and running far from Philip. But the familiar fears came flooding back.

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Late 1973

It was the funeral of Jack Bauer. Not the seven-year-old boy sitting quietly in the pew, but his uncle, the man who had been a comforting presence in his life. Jack didn't know exactly how his uncle had died. No one had said much about it. He sat in the church, Graem to his left, his mother to his right, and his father beside her. Philip shed no tears, of course. He never would. Marianne was trying hard not to cry, but Jack could feel how deeply Uncle Jack's death had shaken her.

The week leading up to the funeral had been brutal. Everything had started with one of Philip's usual outbursts. Jack still felt sore from the beating, and his mother wore long sleeves to cover the bruises, just as Jack's good suit hid his own. At least his head hadn't been hit hard this time, sparing him from the makeup routine he despised.

But this time, something had been different. His father hadn't followed the usual routine—beating them, throwing Jack out onto the porch, then making up with his mother. That night, Philip had beaten them both badly and then simply left. Two days later, the news came that Uncle Jack had died. A workplace accident, they said. It had happened at one of his Dad's oil fields, where his company drilled for oil. The house was suddenly filled with police officers, coming and going, both at home and at his office.

Jack watched them come and go, baffled by his mother's behavior. She said nothing. Not a word to the police about everything, not even when they were so close. She stood by her husband's side, supporting him through the investigation, just as she always had played her role. Jack and Graem were expected to do the same—put on their good suits and smile for the LAPD officers, offering them lemonade.

Jack remembered being fascinated by the officer's uniform, how it represented everything he thought of as salvation. The officer could take Dad away; it would be so easy. But Jack knew better now. His mother had been honest with him about the reality of their situation. Even if they told the truth, it would be their word against Philip's. The officers would stir up dirt, but when it all settled, nothing would change. He'd be gone for a few days, maybe even a few months, but he would return. Nobody got locked up forever, just for beating their wife and kids. They'd still be trapped in that house with him, who would only become more enraged. And if he were arrested, they'd lose everything—the house, the company, the only income they had. So, Jack kept quiet. He handed the lemonade to the officer, greeted him politely, and left the adults to their conversation.

In the rare moments when Philip wasn't home, Marianne allowed herself to be different. She cried openly, mourning Uncle Jack's death. Jack wasn't sure how to comfort her. Sometimes, he just sat at the upstairs landing, watching her quietly as she looked through old photos taken when Philip had been in Vietnam. They had been happier days.

In church now, Marianne sat staring at the photograph of Jack Bauer, her brother-in-law, the man in the casket. Over the past few months, she had thought about running—leaving Philip, escaping the life she was trapped in. She had even opened up to someone on the outside, someone who had believed her. But that person, who owned 20% of the company, was caught in the same web. He couldn't openly support her without turning against Philip.

Maybe it had been a mistake to reach out, to even talk to him. She didn't know how Philip had found out, but he had been furious, as always.

A workplace accident, they said. Marianne didn't believe it. She had never imagined Philip would go so far. He had beaten her, strangled her, but he had never crossed that final line. Whenever she lost consciousness, he always stopped. But now, with Uncle Jack dead, she wondered. Was he capable of killing? Was is really a workplace accident?

She didn't dare ask him, though. She knew the police had probably asked him the same questions. He had a motive, after all. After that Thursday, Philip now owned all the shares of the company.

She grabbed Jack's hand and held it tightly, so tight it almost hurt him. At least one of the Jack Bauers she loved was still in her life, and she'd never let him go.

Jack was unaware of the fear raging in her mind.

Her decision to run was postponed again.

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As he spoke, Audrey realized that everything in Jack's life had a reason, a cause. Nothing had happened without one. The longer she listened, the clearer it became: there was a reason why he had ended up on drugs, on a path of self-destruction. His world was so far removed from hers that she had never been able to imagine why anyone would willingly choose the life he had lived, or what could drive someone to put a needle in their arm. But now, hearing his words, it was like the scales fell from her eyes. His life had always been like this, from the very beginning. There was no peaceful world he had left behind to chase after war, terrorists, or danger. He had been raised in a war, long before he ever stepped onto the battlefield.