Under Pressure - Septiplier

Chapter Fifty Four

Jack adjudicates that he hates weekends. He wipes down the dinner table as he thinks, but he has undoubtedly decided that weekends are isolating and lonely. Two entire days with no ability to see friends if they didn't answer. Two entire days of patience and pain. Two entire days of regret. Even his family has noticed something is wrong with him. His dad had him go to confession, deftly sensing that something was dragging Jack's mind down. His mom gave him the best cut of meat at dinner. Now, they're giving him the most straightforward clean-up job as well. When his parents notice something is up, it means shit hit the fan because Jack is too good at lying for them to catch the usual things that fuck him up.

Saturday was the worst. He had gone into work and been forced to act happy. He had to smile at customers, and smile at Amy, and smile at the cash register, and smile at the fucking drinks. He couldn't stop smiling because if he stopped for a second, Jack knew he would crumble. He knew the mask would fall to the ground and shatter into a million pieces because it was fragile, and it was already just barely hanging on. His cheek muscles hurt after work. Then he had to come home, and he had to keep smiling through dinner and through the evening until his family went to bed. It was only then that Jack had been able to cry. Only with the lights off, and bedroom doors closed, and the fan whirring overhead in the gloom of the tiny living room. He'd curled up on his couch and hugged his pillow close, biting his knuckles and trembling as he forced himself to stay silent. He would not let his family see him cry.

That moment had not gone to plan. The moment Jack had spent weeks, even months, dreaming of had been an utter disaster. Those innocent moments of waiting for whatever Mark was going to say had leaped into elation as those gruff words pushed past Mark's lips. But then Mark had begun panicking. He'd clawed at his own arms. He'd gagged on his own breath. Jack had started to move forward, but then the loud garage door had begun to rumble open, and Mark had bolted away. Jack wanted to follow; he had wanted to help Mark. He should have helped Mark. But Jack had turned and run, tail tucked between legs covered in jeans that were far too tight for the situation. He couldn't present himself to Mark's parents like that. They would know what Jack was immediately. Jack couldn't risk that, so he'd run. He ran home, leaving Mark behind, leaving confrontation behind, leaving that elation behind.

Then, Sunday morning, he'd had to wrap his knuckles. He'd bitten them raw the night before to muffle his crying. So, Jack had to start a fresh load of laundry and wash his sheets with blood and tears sprinkled over them in painful memories of the night before. Then, he'd had to act normal again.

His parents immediately saw through him, giving him a bit more of the breakfast share, letting him take a few more minutes to get ready. They didn't reprimand him for taking a longer shower than he was supposed to. They didn't get onto him for spilling the milk all over the counter. They'd all left for church, walking through the streets in their Sunday best and smiling at the few others out on the beautiful morning. The church was close by, just a few blocks away, so they always walked. They hadn't gotten onto him for lagging behind either. When he didn't sing the hymns, they stayed quiet, and when he closed his eyes and dropped his head back during the priest's sermon, they didn't say a word. Only as the service wrapped up did his father speak up. It'd been quick.

"Go to confession today," in his quiet, firm tone. He'd clapped Sean on the shoulder before walking out with the family to head over to the other building for coffee hour. Jack had waited a few minutes in line before sitting down with the priest. Then, he'd gone on a long-winded story about some test failure and not being able to keep up with that class, and he was always so tired, and he felt so guilty for not studying. It was an utter lie, and he was glad for the barrier between him and the priest. It made lying so much easier.

Jack had gone home and completed his homework. His family had actually left him alone for once for the afternoon, and Jack finished earlier than usual. He spent the extra two hours of time staring up at the ceiling, replaying that moment over and over again. When dinner had rolled around, Jack got the best portions of everything, and then this easy clean-up. Fuck, he hated weekends.

The next morning, Jack wrapped his knuckles again, quietly wincing as he dabbed the torn skin with alcohol before tenderly covering it tightly. He made his way to school and changed into his skinny jeans, and everything felt wrong. He still hadn't seen Mark. That itch to fix things, to check up on Mark was burning. So, Jack went looking for him. He begins to scour the halls, searching for that curling mop of ebony hair and that slump of broad shoulders. But, to no avail. When the bell sounds, Jack hurries off to class, anxiety and desperation ringing in his chest with the last echoes of the bell as he rushes to get to Mark.

Mark isn't there. He isn't in class. He isn't in his seat. He isn't in the back. Jack waits in his chair, eyes glued to the doorway, but the tardy bell rings, and Mark is nowhere to be seen. Jack watches the entire period, glancing up from his work far too often, and he gets nothing done. His mind is on Mark.

Lunch is much the same. Jack sits down in the room with a forlorn gaze to Mark's empty seat. The teenager slumps down and digs out his phone, shooting an email to Mark, asking where he is. He devours his food before sitting in silence. Jack still has fifteen minutes left, and he can't take it. There's no quiet breathing next to him, no shuffling feet. There's just the clacking of the teacher's keyboard, and Jack can't do it. He shoulders his bag, tosses away his trash, and rushes out to wander the halls. The desperation only grows more substantial, a dismal regret in his gaze as he stares down the hallways, wishing for only one thing. He wants to make things right, and that desperation is cutting deep. Jack wishes he could get to Mark, get to his friend so that he can finally take out the painful blade and wrap it in apologies and reassurances. He wishes he could get to Mark and fix the wounds between them.