The Choir He Wanted, The LIfe He Had

Wednesday, March 15, 1935

A/N: CONTENT WARNING: Brief mention of domestic violence in Jack and Roger's conversation at the beginning of the chapter. Nothing too deep, but just thought I should note that it is mentioned.

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"You weren't at school yesterday."

I didn't respond. It was Roger who had spoken, and at that moment I hated him. What made me even angrier was that he didn't even apologize first.

"Where were you?" he asked.

"Getting surgery," I replied.

"You had to get surgery?" Roger asked. The question didn't have a mocking tone. If anything, the tone sounded remorseful. I looked up at him. He didn't look very good either. Turns out I had, in fact, broken his nose, but some of the bruises on his face were in places where I had not hit him.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Nothing," Roger said. He looked down at the table.

"I didn't hurt you that much did I?" I asked. This caused Roger to look up and quickly say,

"Of course not! The only thing you really did was break my nose."

"Then who did everything else?" I asked. Roger looked down again.

"I have a rough life at home," he said. "You'd never understand. Your parents love each other and they love you. You have someone who takes care of you..." His voice trailed off, and I swear I saw a tear fall down his face.

"Roger, who did this to you?" I asked. It was then that Roger did something he had never done before: he stood up, then came and sat next to me. Like, actually next to me. And close to me too. I didn't think he would ever do that.

"Roger?" I said. Roger whispered something that I didn't hear.

"What?" I asked.

"My father did this," Roger said. His voice was still quiet, but I heard it. It stunned me.

"Your father?" I asked.

"He's not the nicest man you could meet," Roger said. "He drinks a lot, and he can be really violent. Mum leaves the house a lot. She says she's working, but I don't believe her. Sometimes I'm left alone in the house with my brother. I have to take care of him a lot because my parents don't care about us. At least, that's what I've begun to believe..."

Roger stops talking and takes a deep, shaky breath. I expect him to continue but he doesn't. After a moment of silence, I ask,

"How old are you?"

"Seven," Roger replied. "Same as you."

"How old is your brother?" I asked.

"Four," Roger replied.

"Is he at home?" I asked. Roger shook his head.

"No," he said. "Mum took him with her somewhere. I don't know where."

"Who brings you to school?" I asked.

"Stop asking questions," Roger replied. He rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes, but a tear still fell down his cheek. Knowing him, I didn't say anything. Instead, I stayed silent and waited for him to leave. After several minutes of him sitting there, I realized that he wasn't going to.

I was about to get up to get something to do when suddenly Roger said,

"Comfort me."

"What?" I asked.