Trust Your Instincts

-45- The Upper Hand

 It was Wednesday, and Mark was once again home from school, a sombre expression painted on his face as unshed tears began to fill his red rimmed eyes when he thought about Jack. Three days of school he had missed, and only now was Isaac convinced that something was wrong. The teachers didn't care much, it was just one less quiet misunderstood kid to have to deal with in their class, and it wasn't exactly uncommon for an illness to last three days.

 Mark knew for sure that something bad had happened though. All three days, he had climbed up that fire escape, and all three days, the house remained just as he had left it last, not a sign of Jack's return.

 He had called Jack maybe 30 times each day, Jack's voicemail answering his calls every time. He now knew the short voice clip like the back of his hand, able to recite it alongside the recording, adding an Irish lilt to his voice in places so that it would match Jack's.

 Mark used to love crying, he used to enjoy the sense of release that it gave him, as it was so uncommon for him to actually cry. Now he hated the sensation, it wasn't the same as crying over a sad movie or laughing too much that the tears eventually spilled. It was silent and uncontrollable, it cut off his ability to breathe properly, his body wracking with every quiet sob. 

 The worst part was knowing that nobody would be there to comfort him when he did so. His dad was oblivious to anything going on in Mark's personal life, and Isaac could only guess at how this was affecting him. The last thing Mark wanted to do was bring Isaac down with him anyway. 

 The only person who would ever be able to fully understand, the only person that Mark wanted to see, to hear... to touch, was the only person that he couldn't. Because how could someone comfort you when they are missing?

 As the hours passed by Mark began to realise how much he had fallen for Jack. He missed him, and he needed him. The worst part about it was not knowing if the feeling was reciprocal. Heck, he had no proof that Jack was even alive at this point. The thought stung harder than any knife could have. Mark called again. No answer.

 He looked out the window. A dull navy blue sky loomed overhead, almost covered completely by thick clouds. Even the weather was depressing. Mark sighed as he lay down on his back, ignoring the homework due tomorrow, not even bothering to turn the light on. He was content enough to stare at the ceiling, allowing his body to be consumed by the darkness spreading throughout the room. As stupid as it sounded, he almost felt hollow, empty, as if when Jack left, he took along with him what it was that made Mark... Mark.

 It was 10pm. Mark had been lying in the same position for almost two hours, he might as well have been comatose. It didn't help, it just gave him more time to think of the possibilities, but he couldn't force himself to get up or take his mind off of it. He'd have stayed in that exact same position until he had to get up for school the next day if the dull buzz of his phone vibrating against his bedsheets hadn't jerked his body upright. 

 He grasped desperately for the phone, the glimmer of hope returning to his somewhat deadened brown eyes as he struggled almost comically to get a solid grasp on the device. He managed to grab it, his eyes lighting up as he read the contact name to be none other than Jack.

 He started to tear up as he brought the phone to his ear, not even entertaining the possibility that it might be Jack's kidnapper on the other end, or maybe even a police officer, but he didn't have the time to consider such a scenario before he heard a frantic voice on the other side. The familiar thick Irish accent was almost therapeutic, as it disproved the worst of Mark's theories.

 But the green haired man was in no way calm.

 "Mark? Mark!" He whisper yelled through the phone, an erratic sense of danger cutting Mark's moment of euphoria short and smacking him back into the real world.