I Love You and I'm Sorry

Invisible

Trigger Warning: self-harm, mental illness

For the thousandth time that morning, Amy told herself that today was the day she would find out that all her worries had been for no reason, none at all. Jake was fine, he really was just tired last night. Today, he would be back to normal.

But as Amy watched Charles charge up to Jake, expecting a chuckle, a laugh, even just an eye-roll from her husband, his face remained blank and empty. Charles didn't seem to notice though.

"Jake, Jake. You'll never guess what Nikolaj did!" He was out of breath, panting like a dog. His eyes sparkled, which made Jake's look even sadder.

"Santiago, is something wrong?" Amy turned to see Terry approaching her. 

"It's nothing," she said with hesitation, "but, I don't know. Does Jake seem off to you?"

Terry glanced over at Jake and Charles, who was going on about how Nikolaj had finally tried his cooking. "Now that you mention it, he has been acting a little strange," his brow furrowed, but when he saw the concern on Amy's face intensify, he added, "I'm sure it's nothing too serious, but just in case, I'll keep an eye out for him today." 

A small, forced smile crossed Amy's face, "Thanks, Sarge."

* * *

When Jake saw Amy usher the Sarge away, his first thought was aw shit, she's on to me. He reprimanded himself quickly. First of all, he reminded himself, they're not talking about you because no one cares because you suck. Second, even if she was worried, you're afraid she'll find out something's wrong, not that you hurt her. You hurt her. You hurt her. You hurt her. You idiot, you hurt her. 

One small, rational piece in the back of his brain knew that none of this was true, but it was easily overshadowed by the larger, "you suck" part. He didn't even register the temperate voice telling him that the rest of his brain was full of crap. 

No, all he knew was that he, Jake Peralta, was full of crap. 

Without thinking, he rolled the sleeve of his shirt up and took the freshly sharpened pencil of Amy's that had rolled onto his desk and he scratched his wrist with it. Hard. Then he realized what he'd done. He was so incredibly disappointed in himself. He was supposed to be tough, and strong, and he was supposed to be able to help people, but he couldn't even help himself. No, not help himself, he couldn't even cope with the fact that he was a crappy person and he didn't deserve a single one of the great things that had walked into his life. He was a sad, ungrateful excuse for a person.

So he kept going, and by the time he was done, a few drops of blood collected lazily at the cuts, not even large enough to trickle down his wrist like most bleeding wounds did. Mentally, Jake added that to the list of reasons that he was a failure. He couldn't even hurt himself enough to convince his blood to bleed. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Amy walking back to her desk. As quickly as he could, he shoved the pencil, slightly red on the tip, into a desk drawer and rolled his sleeve back down. Realizing that he had not in the slightest been inconspicuous about it, he let the trapped air out of his chest and casually buttoned the sleeve, making sure it wouldn't slip. 

He was right though, nobody really cared. Amy didn't notice the missing pencil, nor the way that Jake's arm stayed glued to his side for the rest of the day. It was like he was invisible, and as much as that hurt him, he decided it was better that way.