Write Your Own Song

Chapter 1

Drowning.

He was drowning. How fucked up was that?

Drowning. In the middle of Detroit. On his mother's front yard. Without so much as a drop of water anywhere.

What was that saying? Water, water everywhere and not a drop to spare? Yeah, that was it. Only in this case it was blood - lots and lots of blood.

He coughed, trying to clear his throat, trying desperately to breathe. All he could manage to drag into his lungs were short bursts of air, and even that was excruciating. The effort was tiring him out and it took all his willpower to keep his eyes open, to not drift off. He was pretty sure once that happened, there'd be no coming back.

Something was rattling in his chest, like something was broken - like he was broken. The longer he lay there - bullets volleying above him, the cold snow beneath him - the more scared he was that no one would be able to put the pieces back together again.

Shit. Why did he have to answer the fucking door? Even his niece, Amelia, could have seen that one coming from a mile away, and she was all of three. Well, it wouldn't come as surprise to anyone anyway. He excelled at screwing up and this was as screwed up as you could get.

He could hear Bobby shouting for him, an echo amidst the gunshots; the desperation in his voice an odd comfort to Jack. Bobby sounded terrified. Imagine that - his big brother scared. Not that Bobby would ever cop to it in a million years. He'd just as soon shoot you as admit any weakness. But Jack had seen the pain in his eyes that night they'd come home after their mother's funeral. He was just as hurt and angry as the rest of them.

No matter how much Bobby liked to act tough and talk big - and man, did he like to talk - he wasn't fooling anyone, least of all his brothers.

Jack tried to yell back, tried to let Bobby know he was still hanging on, but something was bubbling up the back of his throat, threatening to choke him. Blood, his mind screamed, but he tried to ignore it.

It was no use. He was alone. If anyone tried to get to him, they'd be shot, too. They'd be bleeding to death right along side of him on their mother's front yard. Not exactly what he'd call a fitting tribute to the memory of Evelyn Mercer.

The gunshots were quieter somehow, muffled and distant. The bright white of the sky was growing dark and gray; there didn't seem to be any colors left anymore. That didn't seem right. Everything was fading. Was he fading, too? He was still breathing, at least he thought he was. It didn't hurt so much anymore, not even his legs and they'd been shot to hell. They'd gone numb hours ago. Had it been hours? It sure felt like it. He was so tired. It would be so easy just to close his eyes and go to sleep …

"Jackie!" a sharp voice broke through the haze and he forced his eyes open - unsure of when he'd let them close. Everything was fuzzy and he was having trouble focusing. It didn't really matter, though, because his mind was obviously playing tricks on him.

His mother was dead. She died in a convenience store, shot to death while shopping for Thanksgiving dinner. He vaguely remembered her inviting him a few weeks ago, and he vaguely remembered telling her he'd try. It had been a lie and she knew it. She always knew when he was lying. It was easier than the truth, which embarrassingly amounted to: "Sorry, Ma, but we might have a gig that night at some crap bar in the really shitty part of town. Can't let the fans down - ya know, if we actually had any."

He hadn't seen his mother in months and their phone conversations had been few and far between; but she was here now, holding his hand when he needed her most. She looked sad, but determined. Yeah, it was definitely his mom. She looked like she was going to scold him for sneaking a smoke on the roof outside his bedroom window or for clumsily stumbling in past curfew. He always managed to find that one step that creaked. Ten years in that house and he never could remember which one to avoid.