Jesse stared up at the clock on his desk from where he lay in his bed, watching as another digit flicked to the next number. It was nearly four in the morning, and he hadn't slept a wink. Insomnia was nothing new to him. For as long as he could remember it had been a part of his life and, especially early on, he'd spent countless sleepless nights in this manor. Eventually he'd learned to make use of his time awake, slipping out to the garage to work on some project or another. When he was younger, it was piecing together a watch. But as he got older his interest in cars had won out over most of the others, and he quickly found his nighttime tinkering sessions falling in step. It had made those sleepless nights much more bearable. Enjoyable, even. Tonight, however, was much like those early several years that floated at the back of his memory. In fact, the past few nights had.
Ever since the night of the fight his head had been spinning, spiraling out of control with thoughts that crowded out the rest of his senses. He couldn't work, couldn't sleep, couldn't focus on anything but what he'd done. He'd been spending every waking moment since he and Fletcher's conversation trying to think of ways to make things right, and he was just about ready to give up trying to find a solution. Of course he was sorry, but how could he possibly say it? What could he possibly do to show it? He'd been asking himself this for three days. He thought of just saying the words but every time he said it out loud it just sounded empty, like it wasn't enough. He much preferred to show his atonement anyway. But the only thing he could think to do was help look after Wren while she was on the mend, and he knew Simon wouldn't be letting him anywhere near her when they got back from the hospital. He was stuck.
The truth was, even if he was able to do either of these things, it still wouldn't be enough. He'd already been through all of this once before with Jack. He'd apologized then, worked at making amends, and he'd done all of it with complete sincerity. He'd given the group his word that he would change and now here he was: right back where he'd started, making the same mistakes. What did his word really mean if he couldn't hold to it? Fletcher said he knew he was a better man than this but Jesse wasn't so sure. It seemed no matter how much he tried, he always fell right back into his old patterns. His anger had him in a choke hold he couldn't ever seem to break out of. It was making a monster out of him—no, it already had. He felt his chest tighten at the realization. A monster, that's what he was. A terrifying creature who seemed to be able to do nothing but make a mess and hurt those around him. He'd done it with Jack when he'd driven him away, and nearly beaten him up, and now again with his fight with Wren. Fletcher was wrong. He wasn't better than this. He could never be better than this. No matter what he did or said, no matter how much effort he put in, with time it would all come back around and everything he tried to build would come crashing down when anger would inevitably take its hold.
4:08. A sharp pain pierced his chest. And with a gasp his formerly quickening breathing suddenly caught in his throat. The numbers on his clock shifted in and out of focus as his vision swam. He shut his eyes tight as he felt his entire body go tense. His heart was pounding, feeling like it was going to explode, and his mind raced right along with it. He couldn't do it. He couldn't fix this mess. Anything he touched just fell apart. Even if he did manage to figure it out somehow, he would only make a mess of it again. The cycle would start over, getting worse with each round. His heart pounded harder, he could feel his whole body pulsing along with it. The pain was still there and getting sharper. He gripped his blanket tight over his chest, fear coursing through his veins. Fear of not knowing what to do, fear of how he'd screw it up next, fear of losing the few people he cared about if he couldn't figure this out.
I can't do it. I can't do it! His mind screamed at him. He couldn't do anything right. He couldn't do anything at all. His hands gripped his blanket so tightly he thought he might tear it. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, clenching his teeth. He needed to breathe. With a start he realized it: he hadn't been breathing at all for the past minute.
Slowly he managed to roll onto his side and brought his knees up to his chest. He could feel his chest pounding against his legs as his heart hammered away at its walls, feel his rapid pulse in his ears. He had to relax before he gave himself a heart attack. Focusing in on his lungs, he tried to take in a breath. His chest was so tight. It didn't want to relent. He tried not get more worked up as he curled up tighter and tried again. This time a choked gasp managed to escape, like he'd just resurfaced after inhaling a mouthful of water. He let it out, slow and shaky, doing his best to block everything else out. No thoughts, no racing heart, no impending feelings of dread, he just listened. Waiting a moment, he took another, and found it was a little easier. By the third breath he felt panic's iron grip on his body begin to relinquish and little by little the pain, the tight feeling, all of it began to ebb away. His thoughts quieted, and his heart began to slow to it's normal steady rhythm. His body relaxed and he let himself sink into his bed a little more, grounding himself in the reality of the physical world around him. A couple tears pricked at his eyes. He didn't fight them. He let them go, felt them run along his face and drip from the tip of his nose.
After giving himself another minute to reset, he tried to look at his situation again. He didn't know what to do. He felt all turned around and mixed up, and he couldn't make sense of the tangled mess he found himself at the heart of. If Fletcher were here he would have probably told him to take it a little easier on himself, that he could figure it out and beating himself up about it so much wouldn't help. But what else was he supposed to do? Nothing else felt like it would fix the issue. Feeling bad about what happened wasn't enough. He'd royally screwed up, and suffering for it was what he deserved. Making himself feel at least just a fraction of what he and Jack had done to Wren seemed the only way to show he was truly sorry. Maybe it would finally keep him from making the same stupid mistake over and over again.
Exhaustion finally came flooding in, something he hadn't felt in a while. The thought of slipping away for an hour or two was tempting, but he shook his head. He didn't deserve sleep. Not now. He hadn't kept his promise, and he would not rest until he made up for it.
