Fix Me

1: Jax

The boy stands on the edge of the thrumming city street, tucked in between two parked cars like a forgotten book on a shelf. His collar is pulled up high around his neck to shield him from the frosty night air. Breath comes out of his mouth in smoky tendrils, the sky threatening snow.

His skin is too pale, alabaster where it should probably be rosy from the cold. His thin form sways when a large truck sprints past, dark hair swooping away from his forehead. Every once in a while, a bit of it will fall across his eyes, and he'll flick it away. Something about the action is inherently attractive, perhaps because it implies a large amount of patience.

The boy is anything but patient. He knows he's standing too close to the cars, dangerously close, close enough that he could reach out and skim his hand along a chrome finish at seventy miles per hour. The thought excites him a bit, though he doesn't show it. Instead, he tucks his hands into his pockets.

He shifts his weight back and forth on his feet, beginning to have reconsiderations. Maybe he should just go home. But the boy checks his watch. It's 11:08. Far too late to go back now.

So, the boy edges his way closer still to the cars. His spidery limbs look heavy when he walks, dark eyes downcast like he's seen too much. He drags his feet. A car horn blares at him, and he ignores it, closing his eyes when another gasoline-scented, artificial breeze blows against him. He flicks his hair back again, pulls out his wrist. 11:09.

The boy begins to examine the passing cars, trying to choose one. Not that one; there's a small child in the backseat. Certainly not that one; the couple inside looks happy enough.

The boy knows that he is causing enough trouble as it is; he doesn't want to ruin anymore lives than he has to. Soon, he sees the perfect car, at least a half mile away.

It's expensive, shiny and black, polished to a sheen, the traffic lights bouncing off of it's surface. The man behind the wheel looks severely bored, driving with one hand, mouth half open. He's wearing a crumpled grey suit. The boy thinks that he could use some excitement.

The boy fingers the folded paper in his pocket, crisp and new, written on in blue ink. He hopes that he hasn't forgotten to address anyone. His watch's alarm beeps. 11:11.

The boy takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. When he opens them, a gentle smile has crept its way back to a place it hadn't been welcome in years. The boy, with purposeful strides, merges with the cars. A quick thud. Then, nothing.

***

The boy opens his eyes, then instantly regrets it. The light is so bright. He flinches. The light? Has he made it to heaven after all? It's a strange thought, but not one that he'll reject instantly. It's better than the alternative.

He opens his eyes again, slowly. Once he blinks away the initial haze, he immediately closes his eyes again. The boy prays for it to be a dream, a hallucination, anything besides what it appears to be.

He stares at the hospital ceiling with defeated eyes. He knows it better than his own house's, wishes that he doesn't. Sighing, he waves over a flustered looking nurse and tells her to unhook his IV.

If he's learned anything from his frequent visits, it's to be as cooperative as possible when you feel out of options.

The boy feels stuck between a rock and a hard place, so he simply lays there, blankly gazing at uniform ceiling tiles while the nurse tells him that she can't do that.

The boy doesn't have to move an inch to know that his arms and legs have been restrained. He knows how these types of cases work. He lets out a heavy sigh, wanting- ironically- to die.

He feels like he should be crying. So pathetic that he can't even kill himself properly. He's out of tears, though, done with crying, so he lays in the hospital bed.

When a doctor comes in to check his vitals, he keeps his mouth shut, keeping full enough eye contact that the other man knows that he's being ignored. The boy's parents enter the room, and the boy lets his eyes close again. He doesn't much feel like being around people.

He lets his mind wander, listens to vague conversations about sending him away, and action plans. The boy thinks that it's a bit too late for action plans, wonders how much damage he can do by trying to rip the IV out with his teeth.

He wants to die.

He tells the doctor this, likely cutting him off mid sentence, and the doctor fumbles with his words, looking confused. He looks quite young, like he's just been flung into this job and has no idea how to work in a hospital, let alone the mental ward.

The boy pities him a little, sighs. This whole suicide business is messy, especially when mistakes are made, he thinks. His mother is sobbing, his father asking him questions and rubbing his shoulders. The boy lets his eyes focus on something far behind his parents and this building.

Once his father begins to get angry at his silence, as he always does, shouting and raving, he's escorted out of the room. The boy feels like he's looking and listening through a heavy cotton ball. He can't focus, not that he's making an effort to.

The doctor says something to him, smiles reassuringly. The boy blinks back. When his bed starts moving, he squeezes his eyes shut, letting his hands go limp at his sides.

He doesn't think there's a point in trying to live anymore.

A/N: The whole thing won't be this depressing, I swear. Thanks for reading! Vote and comment if you feel the urge. I'm still a bit on the fence about this one, so any feedback would be appreciated.

Love ya!