The Choir He Wanted, The LIfe He Had

Monday, March 16, 1938

A/N: Read the picture at the top first. 

Disclaimer: Mentions of attempted suicide in both the note above and briefly in the chapter.

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"Hello, Jack."

The red-haired boy jumped. He had not expected the woman who was in the room with him to speak so suddenly. His hair, which was considerably longer than it had been, fell in his face when he tilted his head down. He didn't mind this. After all, it hid his face from the prying eyes of his therapist.

"Is it okay if I call you Jack?"

The boy had expected the voice that time, and so it didn't startle him. He hesitated, then nodded slowly. He was sitting on a couch across from the chair the woman was sitting in, his arms wrapped around his knees which were pulled to his chest. He did not look much different from what he looked like when he finally arrived back home. He had donned a new outfit but had not bothered to wash himself or cut his hair. He couldn't stand to look in the mirror. The dreadful face that stared back at him carried memories of moments he didn't want to relive.

"Do you know why you're here?" he heard the therapist ask. He nodded again. He knew exactly why he was here. His parents were worried. Scared. He could lie and say he didn't know, but the bandages on his hands and the sharp, stinging pain in his wrists told a different story.

"I tried to kill myself," the boy, named Jack, answered suddenly.

"And why did you do that?" The therapist asked carefully. Again, Jack waited a long time before he had enough courage to respond.

"Murder is punishable by death," he muttered, only just loud enough to be heard in the silence.

"Could you elaborate?" the therapist asked. Jack didn't respond. In his head, he yelled at her to stop asking questions, but on the outside, he sat in silence. After a long moment without a response, the therapist asked a different question.

"Who did you kill?" she asked. Tears burned Jack's eyes as he remembered that fateful, terrifying night. Without hesitation, he answered in a whisper,

"Simon."

"I'm sorry," the therapist apologized, "I didn't hear you."

"I killed my friend!" Jack cried, tears flowing from his eyes. "We didn't mean to! We were scared! It was storming! We didn't know it was him! Oh God, it's all my fault! It's all my fault!"

Jack was sobbing, crazed sobs that echoed around the room. He wiped the tears from his face, and when he glanced at the colors smeared on the bandage wrapped around his wrist, his sobs turned to screams.

"It's still on me!" he screamed, frantically clawing at his face. "Get it off! GET IT OFF! That's not me!!"

As the clawing became more forceful, the therapist rushed to his aid. She grabbed his arms and pulled his hands away from his face. He continued to scream at an imaginary person, telling them to "get it off," and although the therapist was unsure why he was screaming, she knew what he was talking about. She could see the faint colors that covered his face under the dirt.

"If you calm down I'll get it off you, okay?" she yelled. Jack stopped screaming and struggling, falling back on the couch, breathing heavily. The therapist slowly let go of his arms, then slowly stood. She watched him for a while longer, watching the tears fall down his face, before walking away.

Thoughts flooded through Jack's mind. Seeing the paint again, knowing it was still on his face, it made him feel like an entirely different person.

When the therapist returned, Jack noticed that she was holding a damp cloth in her hand.

"Could you sit still for me while I do this?" she asked. Jack nodded. The therapist began to wipe his face with the cloth, wiping off the one thing that prevented him from looking in the mirror. When she had finished, he tried not to look at the cloth, which was now stained with the colors of the paint.

"I think I got most of it off," the therapist said. Jack wanted to express how grateful he was to be rid of the horrors, but all he could muster was,

"Thank you."

The therapist sat down at the other end of the couch. Jack sat up so that it would be easier to see her.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" she asked.

"You mean..." Jack couldn't finish. The therapist nodded.

"Why don't you start from the time you left," she said.

Jack took a deep breath, then he did his best to explain the terrifying events.

...

Two hours later, Jack was scared, tired, and wanted nothing more than to go home.

As he sat in the back seat of the car in silence, his parents made casual conversation. He did not listen to them. He was thinking of too many other things. He thought of the island, of the fears they had, of the things they did.

Simon...

He suddenly realized he was shaking, but didn't attempt to stop it. He smelled the urine before he felt it, but once he was aware of it, it made him uncomfortable. He was unsure why it had happened; he did not recall having to go when they left the therapist's office.

He found that he had "accidents" like this more frequently the last few days, sometimes waking to find that it had happened during the night, when the night terrors begin and the real Beasts appeared. They made him feel like he was six again.

He hated feeling like a child.

When he arrived home, he was instantly lectured by his mother, who obviously did not like when it happened.

"Jack," she sighed, "Don't tell me we're going to go through this again."

"I couldn't help it," Jack whispered. "It was an accident...an accident..."

Tears filled his eyes as he remembered a different, more brutal accident. As he began crying, his father pulled his mother aside. He could hear them talking but couldn't make out what they were saying. When they had finished talking, he heard his father's voice next to him.

"I know you didn't mean to do it," he said. "You're going through some terrifying events right now, and it's okay. Don't listen to your mother. I don't think she understands exactly what you're going through."

He felt his father undo his seat belt and take his hand, guiding him out of the car. Jack allowed his father to help him as he shakily stepped out of the car.

His movements were so shaky that his father had to support him as they made their way to the house.

...

Jack felt the cold water run through his long hair and down his back. He was shivering from the cold, and as his mother poured more water over his head, he asked,

"Why is the water always so cold?"

"I wish I knew the answer to that," his mother replied. She poured more water over his head, and as she ran her hand over his hair, she said, "I'll get you a haircut tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," Jack muttered.

"Would you like to wash from here?" his mother asked. He nodded, and his mother stood up.

"I'm going to leave you alone then, okay?" she said. "But you have to promise me you won't try to hurt yourself again."

He nodded. He had had no intentions of causing himself harm, but he understood his mother's concern. He knew how worried his parents were. He was even worried. He didn't feel like himself anymore after what happened on that island.

He just wanted the memories to go away.

That was the only way he would ever feel better.