Broken Crayons Still Color [Rated SPG]

Chapter 14

He didn't have a chance, according to doctors.

He was never going to survive something that harsh.

Mark's body was too weak to be doing anything as dangerous or stressful as training, the doctor had said. He wasn't even eating properly.

Of course, Jackson had a feeling this was going to happen. More than a feeling, it was instinct. He knew, within himself, that it would end up like this one day. Just denied it, tried to ignore the constant thoughts that shrouded his mind. Attempted desperately to tell himself that it was all a dream, or it would all pull together, and they would link arms as a group and eat grapes in the tall grass and smile toothily. But Jackson always knew that wasn't going to happen.

He didn't even cry when he was told, because he knew that he was dead, he could see it on the elder's features. Or, perhaps, not see anything on his features, because there was simply nothing there.

He was empty, cold. There was no life. He wasn't a person anymore, only a corpse.

Jackson stared at it. Not a him, an it. Mark wasn't in that body. Mark was in Jackson's heart, he left the body he so much hated and went "somewhere better", said his manager. Somewhere better, like the heart of the person who loved him.

The doctors told him that the last request Mark had for him was to say he loved him.

Mark loved him.

Loved. He hated that, how the doctors used past tense. It wasn't a lie, but Jackson didn't like it. He still loved Mark. It seemed an awful shame that it was too late.

A bag was shoved into Jackson's hands, full of Mark's belongings that were left behind, including his clothes, phone and diary that Jackson had yet to discover before all the members hopped into their van and drove in silence to the dorms.

Nobody had spoken to Jackson since they got the news. He could see the anxious side-glances shot at him but chose to ignore them. Nobody had talked to him beforehand. Nobody had asked if he was okay afterwards either.

A single trail of thought crawled its way into Jackson's monochrome brain, drilling it into his head that there was nobody left to love him. Nobody left to look after. Nobody left to smile at in satisfaction, or to leave motivational post-it notes for, or to cuddle with under his doona with Netflix on in the background on cold Friday evenings. Jackson had nobody he loved left in his life, not even his family or the other members. It seemed he had done quite enough to receive the same response from them, despite the current circumstances.

His tears stayed locked behind his eyes, key swallowed and never to be brought up again. He was over crying, he was done with being sad. He felt nothing, he felt empty, just like Mark's corpse. Nothing. He was once a bright, leafy tree in a forest of other bright, leafy trees. Now he was alone, desolate in an empty area without leaves or colour. He seemed pointless, like he was dying too, and goodness knew he wanted to.

There was nothing to look forward to anymore, except maybe sleep. He didn't even look at Mark's old bunk when he went to sleep because he didn't want to cry. He didn't want to feel pain. He just wanted to feel nothing.

Two nights after he died, Jackson finally went through the bag the doctors gave him, gulping painfully when he tugged out the grey, sleeved sweater with the bloodstains on the right sleeve that still smelled like him. The trainee pulled it over his singlet, feeling the tightness against his biceps and shoulders, but leaving it on and continuing to go through the bag. Plain black sweatpants and long sleeves shirts overfilled it, Jackson dumping them lazily on Mark's old mattress. His hand fished through cords and bottles before clasping around a sharper edge, a metal binder. The trainee pulled the unknown object out, revealing a small white notebook with a black spiral binder and a small lock, which was open. A small name had been printed in thin marker on the back, Mark Tuan. Jackson stared at it with the most emotion he had shown in days; a mix of surprise, confusion and strange intrigue. His fingers fiddled with the cover, gently pulling it open and seeing an empty front page, lines upon lines printed across. He turned the page again, opening up to the 29th of August, 2013 and reading a small entry about how he finally got a diary and that he hoped nobody would find it, talking a little bit about his goals as an artist and how he ended up auditioning. He flicked through a few pages, emotion slowly trickling onto his features when he read about how much the elder had hated himself, and his constant measuring and contemplating. His fingers shook in terror slightly more every time he turned the page, until his eyes landed on a peculiar drawing of a capped bottle. Eyes narrowing, he studied it carefully. It seemed to be a medicine bottle, with some messy writing that Jackson made out to read, Sleeping Tablets, Strong. Do not take more than two in one hour. The trainee's mouth went awfully dry, and upon reading the corresponding entry his eyes had welled with tears. The diary was slammed shut, eyes copying as he squeezed them tightly, holding in his tears. He promised himself he could do this without crying.

He pulled himself together, once again opening to the drawing and quickly turning the page. That page was no less upsetting, talking about how disappointed he was that he had woken up and survived. At this point, the trainee realised he was nearing the end of the diary, teeth clamped together in anxiety as he turned the page twice, landing on the last entry the elder had entered.

He read through it, keeping his tears back, shaking head to himself in denial of what the elder had said to himself in the entry. Nothing of what he said was true. It wasn't until the last sentence that Jackson's eyes overflowed, tears falling slowly onto the page when he read over the words.

I don't even deserve to be alive.

I don't even deserve to be alive.

Everything about that statement was wrong to Jackson, he had a million reasons to oppose it and could think up thousands more in one minute if he had to. He felt physically pained that he knew this was half the reason the elder hadn't survived. He confided in a book, lines upon lines of droning words and pages that wouldn't reply and only listened. Absorbed his feelings, didn't help them. Didn't take them away, rather than talking to a person, Jackson, would have. He thought he was trusted by the elder, but at this point he had to question that. He didn't know how Mark had truly felt about him. Maybe he didn't love Jackson at all and that was a lie to keep him going.

He couldn't dwell on it anymore, he put the diary under Mark's doona and crawled into his own bed, tears dripping from his eyes into the pillow. The only thing he could think about was that last thing Mark had ever written in his diary. It was a lie, it was a false statement, it was not true. Ask a thousand people, they'd all agree. But that still wouldn't matter. Mark was dead. There was nothing Jackson could do about it anymore.

There was nothing Jackson could do. There was nobody for Jackson to talk to, to confide in. He suddenly realised why Mark had used paper, not people.

There was nothing left now. Nothing left to satisfy him, to make him happy. Simply, nothing. Empty. Mark was gone, and Jackson had to question; what was the point in even smiling at all anymore?