summary: a terrible fight leads to a tragic news report.
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You were staring at the television set in John B's living room, the one he had installed two weeks prior. You were in a state of shock, eyes awash with tears; your hands gripped tight on the broken oak table that was scattered with loose packets of chips and empty beer bottles. Gripping for dear life, like if you let go the earth would open up and swallow you whole.
It was as if you could feel your brain shutting down, desperate to block out the impending pain; the synapses were firing but your body refused to respond, not processing the words the newscaster had said. Your body wasn't functioning, you couldn't comprehend the news even as you read it on the screen. This can't be real. This isn't happening.
A raucous gale summoned you from your state of shock, rewiring your sockets to puncture the words into your pounding head. As the realization hit you, you sank to your knees in the direction of his bedroom, sobs erupting from your chest. His door was ajar, just in case. Your body was unable to bear it, the pain was palpable and it came in waves, just like the ones that had taken him from you.
JJ had been a gift from God, who snatched him back seemingly just as quickly. It wasn't his time, you thought, he wasn't ready. From your mouth came another cry, so raw that even the Tourons that walked past had troubled tears in their eyes. Everyone adored him, it was hard not to. Nineteen years wasn't enough, he needed more time. The way God took the blonde beauty from you, it wasn't an equitable nor strident way to teach someone a lesson.
The last moments you both shared together crept into your head, and you cursed your heart for letting him vanish. The unspoken words that didn't surface until now made you attack the tainted floor with the beer bottle that was closest to your palm.
The words from the tv rattled around in your brain, letting you feel the hurt that the blonde had felt not long before. You battled internally, begging the universe not to let you relive it, but you were reluctantly thrown back to the last conversation you had with him.
"Don't you fucking walk out that door, Y/N. I'm not done." The cacophonous tone that left JJ's swollen lips frightened you as you felt it rattle through your body, but it wasn't enough to make you face him.
"Turn around and face me," he demanded, discomfort coursing through him as he envisioned a piece of his father in the cracked mirror in the distance. JJ had absorbed all the phases that the bastard threw at him, and he knew from experience how to make you listen to him, like he had listened to his father.
"You shouldn't have gone through my stuff. It's private and you vowed you wouldn't the moment I asked you to be my girl." He gritted his teeth in annoyance; nothing could ever be kept secret, and JJ grew to hate that.
He was allowed to keep some things to himself, there was no rule stipulating that a person should always tell their significant others about every aspect of their life. Everyone is entitled to privacy, JJ especially, since his reputation made him an open book with terrible handwriting.
