𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗿𝗱 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲'𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗺. 𝗯𝟵𝟵.

ch. 1

sure, he'd been shot before. multiple times, actually.

the first he didn't like to talk about. of course, it hurt physically, but it hurt a hell of a lot more inside. no one knew about it, and he didn't plan on that ever changing. no one needed to know.

~~~~~~~~~~

"jake. what did i tell you last time this happened?"

"that i need to get my grades up..."

"and?"

"and if not, there'll be a punishment"

"right. so tell me why i've seen no fucking improvement?"

he practically spat those last words. jake could feel his father's breath on his cheek as he approached, pinning him against the brick wall with his forearm. he reeked of alcohol and smoke. he had promised to quit when he'd talked with jake's mom, but clearly that was just for brownie points. jake considered pointing this fact out, but decided against it. wisely, because roger was already pissed as is, and standing up to him would only worsen the situation.

"i'm sorry dad. i'll do better, i promise."

jake stuttered and stumbled on his words.

"yeah? cause you promised last time, didn't you. and how did that go? huh?"

jake tried to reply, he did. but his father pressed harder on his chest, and breathing just didn't feel possible anymore, and his mouth got dry worryingly quickly, and-

"not even going to respond. typical."

"you're fucking useless."

"it's a miracle you haven't killed yourself yet, pussy."

jake agreed with that last one. it was a miracle. he should have done it by now.

but he couldn't leave his mom with this piece of shit.

something in him switched, and suddenly he didn't care about the consequences. because maybe if his father killed him, it wouldn't be his fault. his father would be behind bars, his mom would be safe, and jake would be gone. wins all around.

"you know, i can smell the smoke."

okay, yeah. he instantly regret saying it. probably one of his worst ideas yet.

"you piece of shit! you're a fucking mistake. no goddamn respect for anyone!"

he heard the gunshot before he felt it. in fact, the only thing he felt was his body hitting the floor as his father took his arm away from jake's chest and instead grabbed a pistol, leaving his son's body to fall gracelessly onto the concrete of the alleyway.

it took all the strength in jake's body to look up at his father's face, betrayal painted in his eyes. he almost expected roger to hold out his hand, to help him up. as if he didn't just pull the trigger on his own son.

no, instead he just snarled and spat down onto jake before walking out of his life.

it started to rain.

that was a weird comfort for the young boy. yes, he was bleeding out in the middle of a city that didn't give a shit about him, but at least it looked cool. like he was the star of one of his favourite action movies, suffering a tragic death which would be talked about by film fans everywhere for years to come. he tried to imagine it in his head, the way the cameras would pan around from the bustling streets to the strangely peaceful alleyway and his dying body. the dramatic music playing in the background from some obscure nyc buskers performing for a group of tourists, oblivious to the violence that had just occurred around the corner. it was his version of peace.

it was then that the pain started to kick in.

it started as a sharp, stabbing sting in his right ankle, but it quickly evolved into a wildfire, setting his whole body ablaze. he was too hot, then too cold, then somehow a mixture of the two. his leg felt worryingly damp, but at this point, it was hard differentiating between the rain and the blood. he didn't have the strength to look down and assess the damage. instead, he simply prayed to pass out and die quickly.

and that he did.

except, he didn't. he woke up in the hospital, alone, wondering what time it was, and how he got there in the first place. by his side sat an empty chair. no one ever came to occupy it.

he healed strangely quickly, which was a miracle considering his diet consisted mainly of orange soda and potato chips. he managed to lie to his mom, saying he'd just stayed at a friend's house for a couple days, and his classmates didn't even notice he was gone. teachers hardly missed his presence either, and the missing homework wasn't exactly an irregular occurrence. the only person who brought it up was gina, who he convinced that he'd gone to stay with his grandparents for the weekend.

from then on, it was no longer 'roger'. it was 'captain', or 'sir', and he was to be treated with the utmost respect at all times. that meant no talking back, no joking around, no father-son bonding activities.

bleeding out in an alleyway was the last time jake had called him dad.

bleeding out in an alleyway was the last time jake had felt like he had a dad.

~~~~~~~~~~

so that's why he didn't talk about it. sure, some nyc stranger knew that they'd saved him, but they didn't know the full story. jake was alright with that. it was better for everyone if it stayed that way.

the second time was much more of a story. his own wife shot him in the leg, no big deal. seriously, no big deal! they hardly ever talked about it, and when they did it was just a joke. again, jake was alright with that. he was much more comfortable with jokes anyway. they were in his comfort zone, his home territory. plus, if he ever slipped up and mentioned being shot, he could just play it off and mention the more fun time. ignore the bleeding-out-in-an-alleyway time. because maybe, if he ignored it and pretended it never happened, then it would just disappear. he'd never have to remember that night.

however, right now?

right now, he was hyper aware of the first time he was shot. because - unlike the second time - this one didn't seem fun. no, this one felt much more bleeding-out-in-an-alleyway and much less fun-anecdote-to-tell-at-parties. in fact, he didn't think he'd live to tell this story.

maybe he didn't want to.

maybe the third time he got shot would be the last.