Everything's Alright

Jack (End 1)

When I wake up, the first thing that registers is the absentminded plinking of Mark on his new guitar. He's been working on his EP, and it's quite good. Very alternative. Very uplifting. He's already finished recording 3 out of 6 songs. Sometimes I think he's gonna work himself to death, what with YouTube AND the EP taking over his brain. Sometimes I get to bed before him, which is something astronomically late. The second thing I register is I have a face full of pure cat. Schrödinger always sees my face as the best possible place to be any time it's accessible. The third thing I register is how fucking gross I feel right now. I get up and register bright lights, dark rooms, and scalding hot water. I get clean, inside and out, as the writer tries to not get explicit because her siblings are on either side of her right now. Anyways, after getting not-disgusting, I creep silently into the living room. I see the top of Mark's head peek at me from over the back of the chair. I still hear the plink-plonk of his guitar. I tiptoe over to him and plant a kiss on the center of his head. He looks up at me and I see how resigned he's become. I'm fairly certain he didn't sleep last night. He has rings the color of baby swans under his eyes; his floof is messy and unkempt.
"Mark..." I say. "Mark, your EP can wait. Take a shower. Get some sleep. Please." I plead. Silently, he puts down the guitar and leaves the room. Before he gets too far away, I tell him, "Mark." He looks at me expectantly. "I love you." He nods and disappears. I cross over to the kitchen, where I eat a half of a banana. Somehow, I'm still working on the whole anorexia thing. I always see the disappointment in Mark's eyes when I give him a half empty plate. I sit down and try to record. I do an RYC and the final episode of Life Is Strange. As I'm editing, Schrö paws at my leg, jumps on the couch, and does all but sit on the computer screen. I let it out and, as it's always been a little frisky, have to watch it play around for 15 minutes. We live right off of a backroad in LA, neighbors either side of us, and it wanders into the street. Usually, I wouldn't fret. But then I hear the honking of the horn and run as fast as I can into the street. I don't really know what drove me to this, but all I could think of was saving the cat. I hear 2 shouts simultaneously, a flash of intense pain on my left side, then darkness washes over me as I'm stranded in the deep, confusing sea of my consciousness. Once I feel some sort of sensation, I realize it's not pain. It's more... emptiness. It's like there's a hole in my chest or something. Then I feel a cold, unforgiving force leeching my body heat. It's hard and smooth against my cheek. Opening my eyes takes tremendous effort, but it happens. Once I do, I come face to face with the half-metal, half-plastic, all-sterile scene of a hospital. Was getting hit that bad? I get up surprisingly easily. Why was I on the floor? I'll have to ask the doctor. I survey the room. It's bright white and sterile. In one corner, I see a rather ugly chair with a rather not ugly person occupying it. It's Mark! I smile instantly.
"Hey, Mark! What's going on?" He ignores me and stares at the floor. His face is pale. His hands are shaking. He's not okay. Before I get the chance to survey the room fully, the door directly across the room from Mark opens and in walks a tall, gray-haired man with a grim expression and eyes that have seen all kinds of death and decay. He's seen devastation in a million different forms.
"So, Mr. Fischback-McLoughlin," he starts, in a smooth voice, "We're going to go over the facts just one more time, okay?"
"Okay," Mark manages to choke out.
"So, he got hit 3 days ago. The car was going 130 miles per hour. The causes are unknown, as the driver was DOA. Sean got hit on his left side. He suffered severe spinal damage, a few broken ribs, but it's a miracle he's still alive."
"Wait, what? I feel fine!" I tell him. He ignores me also. Why?
"He would've suffered a punctured lung if the cat didn't break his fall. Did you take him to the vet we recommended?"
"He died." Mark says, emptily.
"Oh, that's rather unfortunate. I'm sorry for your loss."
"Well, that's the only loss I'm planning on having right now." Mark tells the man, anger clearly bubbling up inside him.
"I see," the man tells him. "Anyways, he's been unresponsive for the last three days. He's in a coma. That's all we know for now. Any questions?"
Mark shakes his head quietly. "I'll just leave you two alone then." He tells Mark, and leaves the room. Mark crosses over to the side of the room I haven't seen yet.
"Mark, what does he mean I've been in a coma?" I ask. "Mark, please, answer me!" I begin yelling. Why won't he answer me? I turn to face him and see something that frightens me to the core. It's me. My body, in a hospital bed. My eyes are closed, my mouth is tilted slightly open, and the left side of my face and body is covered in bruises. There's also the injuries I've inflicted upon myself from years past, but that can't amount to the cast on my abdomen, where the gown isn't covering me and the sheets aren't pulled up to that height. Above me, in large red characters, I see something count down.
3:12:57:02
3:12:57:01
3:12:57:00
3:12:56:59
I gasp. "What?" Mark is kneeling by the side of the bed. I feel something spread through my own hand as he starts massaging the other Jack's hand. He brings it to his lips and keeps it there.
"I'm so sorry, Jack," Mark chokes out, "I still love you." He is obviously in great pain. I start to blink fast so my tears don't mix with his own on the floor. I hug him. I know he won't be able to tell, but I do it. Maybe he'll feel some ghostly presence or some shit. His glasses are getting foggy. He gets up, fixes his glasses, sits back down in the chair, and stares at the floor.