Write Your Own Song

Chapter 11

His dingy laces skimmed the floor as his feet dangled above the dull gray linoleum. The chair was hard and orange. He never understood why anyone would make anything such an ugly shade of orange.

Instead of people watching, he was feet watching. It was just easier to keep his eyes glued to the floor than to risk making eye contact with the people walking back and forth. One thing was for certain - there were sure a lot of boring, sensible shoes in this place. Seeing the polished leather loafers and high heels made him want to tuck his feet up under himself to hide the holes and dirt of his crappy sneakers.

The weird thing was that even with his head down, he could tell which people looked at him. He could even tell what they were thinking as they glanced his way.

That guy in the brown shoes with the laces thought he was just another punk kid, probably headed to juvie. There was a woman in white sandals who hurried past because she thought he might try to steal her purse. And the bird-like lady who manned the front desk across from where he was sitting thought he was the most pathetic thing she'd ever set eyes on - broken and battered, like an old dog you'd find in the pound, days from being put down.

It was people like her that really pissed him off. He could take the suspicion, no problem; he was even kind of proud of it, figured it proved he wasn't completely worthless. But he was tired of the pity. Especially when the pity didn't do him any good.

He'd seen her before, been stuck in that chair more than once. She'd do this concerned chin-tilt thing and then shake her head sadly, her mouth turned down into a parody of a frown. She'd even offered him candy once, but he'd just stared at her without blinking - kind of hoping he'd creep her out so she'd stop looking at him. It didn't work, so he'd taken to staring at the floor.

His hands were in his lap, still for a change. He had to force himself to leave the bandages alone. He didn't want to draw attention to them so he kept pulling his sleeves down to hide them, but that put pressure on the cuts and hurt like hell, so he had to keep them pushed back past his wrists, practically to his elbows to avoid the worst of the injuries. He hated how white the bandages were, it was like some flashing neon sign pointing down at him. "Hey, come look at the kid who tried to off himself."

Thing was, that wasn't even what happened, not that anyone would believe him. Shit, he wouldn't believe him if he was in their shoes. But it was the truth - he wasn't trying to kill himself. He was trying to get away from that asshole, that asshole who had decided it was high time to show him what it meant to live under his roof.

He'd fought like crazy. Fought harder than he'd ever fought before. Clawing and kicking and punching.

But … Jack took a deep breath, not ready to let his thoughts go there.

He didn't think he was ever going to let his mind go there - at least not while he was awake. It was bad enough that he got to relive it every night when the lights went out. He'd stripped his throat raw from all the screaming he did during his nightmares. The nurses at the children's hospital told him he screamed nearly every night. He had to take their word for it because he could never really remember it the next day, just that his throat felt like he'd gargled with fire the night before and that he felt so dirty that he was sure there wasn't enough soap and water in the world for him to feel clean again.

He looked down at the healing cuts on his fingers that hadn't needed stitches, fighting the urge to pick at the scabs. His knuckles were still bruised, but they no longer felt like they were broken. Those cuts and bruises proved he didn't just wuss out and lay there. He could at least feel some pride in the fact that he'd fought back, or tried to, anyway.

Somehow … after … well, after what happened, Jack had gotten a hold of a beer bottle and smashed it, holding it in front of him like he'd seen in a movie once, ready to gut the guy if he tried to come near him again. Shit, ready to gut him even if he didn't come near him again. The asshole didn't let it scare him, though, and he fucking smiled.