Break Me {Jax}

* takes one to know one

kid, i think you got it bad - - - - - - - *      

Grogginess clouded Jax's mind, his eyes opening, then closing, then barely cracking open again. He rolled over slowly in bed, groaning quietly as his arm gave a painful pang. He drew himself upright, a confused expression on his face. What the hell? Oh. Right. His arm. He'd forgotten. He'd gone all of two days without being surveyed 24/7 before he relapsed. Now he was back to high-risk, watched all the fucking time. Everywhere. He hated it. It made his skin crawl, the way they were always watching him. "You're a danger to yourself," they told him.

No shit. Like he didn't already fucking know that. Wasn't that the point? His entire left forearm was covered in a white bandage. It looked like someone was trying to mummify him. Well. Except for the lines of red leaking through the bandage. Jax was pretty sure mummies didn't bleed. He ran his fingers over the hidden cuts, thinking. It seemed so far away now. He barely even remembered doing it. Like he'd been in a trance. He sighed. He didn't trust himself. He'd told Silas that a while ago. But he hadn't mentioned it again when they had moved him to less surveillance time. And then he'd fucked it up. Because that was all he was good at.

"Stop that," his warden snapped at him, pulling his hand away from his arm like he was a child. Jax got up like the warden told him to, standing and trudging after the guy to the showers. Showered. Let the guy rewrap his arm. Picked over his breakfast. What had he done that meant he deserved to eat? Nothing. He didn't. The warden finally got frustrated enough that they were behind schedule--Jax always dragged his feet, just to piss the guy off--so he didn't make Jax eat too much. Group therapy was required and they weren't supposed to be late. For once, the warden had muttered, they weren't going to be the assholes holding everyone back.

He all but threw himself down into one of the plastic chairs that was set up in a circle, for once having an option of where he wanted to sit. He sat two chairs away from the therapist, wishing it was Silas instead of whoever this guy was. Silas he could talk to. Maybe...maybe not in front of all these people. But alone. Silas made him feel like people actually listened when he talked.

Jax let his body slide down in the chair, his head tipping forward, hair covering his face. His short-sleeved shirt revealed to all those arriving that he'd fucked up. That he was a fuck up. He hadn't even been gone from the stupid group therapy for a week. They probably didn't even know he hadn't been high-risk for two days.

Waiting. That's all this was. Waiting for people to get there. Waiting for someone to talk. Waiting for someone to respond to whoever talked. Waiting to get on with their days. Jax hated waiting. Finally most everyone was there and the guy started talking. Jax ignored most of it. Inspirational shit that was supposed to make him feel better about himself and all that jazz. None of it really made any difference. Some of it made him feel worse. He was just sitting there, picking at the edge of his bandage, when one last person came in and sat down. Looking up through his bangs, he saw it was a girl he hadn't ever really paid much attention to. Not that he really watched anyone, ever.

She was looking at someone across from her. Glancing to where her eyes were locked, Jax couldn't help but stare, too. He's kind of cute, he thought, then immediately started chastising himself. He wasn't allowed to think people were cute. Being gay was wrong. Disgusting. His mom had said so. She'd beaten him for it. He had deserved it. He was over it.

Forcing his eyes back to the girl, he ran his hand through his hair, unconsciously using the left one. Great. He felt people staring at his arm, his movement having caused them to notice the bandage. Don't ask questions, he silently begged. He didn't want to answer them. Wasn't it bad enough that he constantly felt stupid? Would people have to point it out to him, too?

* takes one to know one

kid, i think you got it bad - - - - - - - *      

Jax had let his head tip downward again, his dark hair falling across his eyelashes and making his eyes itch. He resisted the urge to press his hands into his eyes to stop the feeling; hadn't he already brought enough attention to himself? The therapist was probably going to talk to him anyway. Or at least, try to. He didn't want to talk. He just wanted to sit there and be ignored. But that never happened. Everyone was asked a question in the group therapy sessions, to "get them involved." Jax didn't want to be involved. Why couldn't they just accept that?

He glanced up when the therapist spoke to someone, his shoulders hunching at her harsh tone. They were supposed to speak calmly when they were in group. Not raise their voices or get mad. Or, if they were mad, they weren't supposed to confront someone about it. The therapist seemed shocked by her response. Or maybe it wasn't shock. Jax wasn't sure. He knew he didn't like the way her voice sounded, though. Violent people definitely were not on his "fond of" list. But he could understand why the therapist made her so angry. They made him angry sometimes, too. Not at them. Just at himself. The questions they asked him only made him feel like he was a bigger fuck-up than he thought he was. At least, most of them did. Silas...not so much. It was different talking to Silas. Jax didn't know why. It just was.

As the girl messed with her arm Jax couldn't help but notice the tree she'd drawn. It was good. Like, really good. Jax found himself staring at the intricate lines, transfixed by the way they seemed to move around her arm, curling and hiding behind one another and reappearing somewhere else. Realizing he was being rude, Jax forced himself to put his eyes back on the floor. It wasn't until he'd stared at it for a while that it clicked in his mind that there had been more on the girl's arm than the tree. Had they been scars? He didn't let himself look again. Staring was rude. He could almost feel his mother's stinging hand on his cheek. How many times had she yelled at him not to stare? "Don't stare at me!" "Don't stare at that woman with the dog across the street!" Don't stare at the kids playing outside!" Staring was painful.

He heard the therapist shift in his chair, probably leaning back and crossing his legs. He asked someone else how they were doing, trying to get a discussion started. The person he asked was one of those "please-everyone-so-I-can-get-the-fuck-out-of-here" types. They annoyed Jax. The girl just went on and on about how great of a week she'd had; her therapy was going well and she felt happier and all that shit. Good for her, Jax thought bitterly. When she finished speaking, Jax could almost feel the therapist turn toward him.

"How are you, Jax?"

* takes one to know one

kid, i think you got it bad - - - - - - - *      

Jax didn't turn his head toward the therapist. Maybe the guy would start questioning someone else if he just sat there long enough, pretending he was catatonic. He would sit there for the whole time if he had to. He could make the guy wait for answers or "when he (Jax) felt it was a good time to talk." ("Never" being the answer to that.)

An itch manifested on his left eye, driving him nearly insane. Finally he lifted his hand slowly, rubbing his eye roughly. It hurt, but the pain wasn't unwelcome. It was less painful than thinking about the answers to what's-his-face's questions, anyway. He blinked to clear the blurry tunnel vision he hand managed to give himself, lifting his chin slightly. Just before he lowered his head again, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The girl he'd been watching earlier was scratching at her arms.

Seeing her do that made his skin crawl. Weren't the wardens paying attention? Weren't they going to stop her? Why wasn't anyone doing anything? His mutilated arm itched, making him feel like bugs were covering them instead of a bandage. It was awful. He felt his hands begin to shake, barely able to contain his own urge to claw at his own arm.

"Jax?"

* takes one to know one

kid, i think you got it bad - - - - - - - *      

The silence that fell over the group was almost more than Jax could bear. If he had had a pen, or anything he could make noise with, he would have been doing it. When it was quiet, he started thinking. It was like someone flipped a switch in his brain. A switch that was activated by the absence of sound. Eyes going from the girl to the therapist and back again, Jax waited for one of them to speak. Someone would have to say something right? He couldn't be the only one that hated silence. Other people did, too. Didn't they?

Stupid. Who else would hate silence? Only an idiot like him. There was nothing wrong with it. Just something wrong with...him. His everything. His body, his mind, his outlook on life. Nothing was right.

Finally, just when the silence had gotten almost painful, she spoke. Two words, but it still broke the silence. "I'm fine." It was clear to Jax that she wasn't, and probably to everyone else, too, but she could say whatever she wanted. He didn't really have any room to call her out on it, did he? After all, he'd had much the same response only minutes earlier, and his arm obviously told everyone he wasn't "fine." But he'd let himself believe his own lie, and he'd let the girl believe hers.

Jax flicked his fringe from his face again, slouched down in his chair, and slid his hands into his pockets, ignoring the slight sting that trickled up his arm. He'd felt worse.

After receiving an answer from her, the therapist had turned to another girl in the group. This girl was actually talking with him, giving him feedback about her week and how she thought she might be on the road to recovery. All that. She talked to him like she'd known him for years, like she trusted him with all her secrets. Jax was, in a way, jealous. He didn't trust anyone that much, not even Silas. He was still nervous about talking to Silas, but he did it anyway. Silas hadn't given him a reason not to trust him, but Jax was almost waiting for it to happen. Everyone let him down at some point or another.

He zoned out, ignoring most of the conversation that went on until the therapist said, "Alright, we're almost done for the day."

Finally, Jax thought, sitting up a little straighter. He just wanted to go do something else. He didn't even know what. Just...not this.

"We're going to break into small groups and get to know each other a little better. I'm going to number you off, and you'll be in groups of two. You guys will have ten minutes to chat before we all head off to do other things." He started numbering toward Jax, giving him the number six. He went up to ten and then started with one again, continuing around the circle. He had to repress a sigh of frustration when the girl who had spoken to him earlier was also given a six. This was not going to be fun.

* takes one to know one

kid, i think you got it bad - - - - - - - *      

Jax stared at the doctor. Small groups? No thank you. Nothing was going to be accomplished. Remission wasn't something that could be conquered by a simple meet-'n-greet with a complete stranger. Fuck, even a meeting or two with Silas probably wouldn't fix it. He'd been so close. And he'd fucked it up. There weren't enough curse words in the world to describe his hatred for himself right now.

He stayed rooted to the spot, staring down at the endless white wrapping his arm. This was crap. They couldn't make him talk to anyone he didn't want to talk to. Chairs were shifted around him, people moved away. His warden set a chair across from Jax, and he assumed it was for the girl. Another chair was put next to it, and then his warden sat in a chair next to Jax. So they would all be sitting. At least Jax wouldn't feel like a toddler being watched by his parents. He hated feeling younger, weaker, more insignificant than people. He was supposed to matter as much as everyone else, right? That's what Silas said.

And Jax had thought he believed him. He had tried really, really hard. He had even gotten moved down to Tier 4, even though it had been for about two days. He hadn’t seen Silas since then; how was he going to admit he’d fucked up? Now they weren’t going to trust him again. He’d have to be watched, constantly, like a child. Forever.

Or for what felt like forever. Probably six months, at least. Since he was such a fuck-up. He couldn’t do anything right. He couldn’t even die right.

Shifting in his seat, he sank lightly lower, shoulders hunching in as he knotted his hands together over his lap. His grip was tight, keeping his hands where they were, his knuckles white with effort. He heard the girl sit down and forced himself to lift his chin and look at her. He didn’t know much about her. He’d never paid attention to much of anyone else in group, let alone the girls. They didn’t interest him. The boys didn’t really interest him, either. At least, not the ones in this group. He’d caught glances of boys he found himself thinking were cute, but he didn’t talk to them. He didn’t even know who they were.

She greeted him. He was relieved to see that she [at least appeared] as nervous—or unwilling to cooperate—as he was. He swallowed hard, trying to decide what to say. The silence felt awkward, spreading out between them and laying there. Glancing away, he said, ”Hi.” He felt like he should have said more, should have at least attempted to do what they were supposed to be doing. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t think it would help him any. ”What’s your name?” If she had been paying attention earlier, she knew his. Oh well, did it really matter? Probably not.

* takes one to know one

kid, i think you got it bad - - - - - - - *      

Jax looked down after he asked his question, feigning immense interest in his shoes. There really wasn't anything interesting about them at all; they were just scuffed-up, beaten-up, torn-up Chucks that had, at one point in time, been black, but now resembled more of a dusty dark grey. He didn't want to be here, in this room. All it was doing was reminding him of how much of a fuck-up he was. How he'd never get beyond these stupid walls. Committed to an asylum for the rest of my life, he thought darkly. Why me?

That was a question he asked himself often: Why him? Why did he have to be the one to feel the insatiable urges to carve into his own skin, to want to do that so badly he'd do almost anything to do it? Why did he have to hate his reflection so much he refused to eat, or threw up the little he did eat? Why couldn't he just be normal? Why did he have to hear his mother's voice in his head all the time, telling him he was worthless, that he didn't deserve anything?

The girl's giggle jerked him out of his thoughts as quickly as throwing a bucket of ice water onto a sleeping person wakes them up. His head snapped up more quickly than he had meant it to, surprise lacing every movement. Wasn't she pissed off just a minute ago? At least, she had seemed pissed off. Maybe she had a bipolar disorder or something. This was certainly the place for them.

Somehow, "Natalie" seemed like an odd name for her. It just...didn't fit. "Oh." What else was he supposed to say? "It's nice to meet you"? That hardly seemed appropriate. He pushed himself up in the chair, sitting a little bit straighter but not completely upright. His fingers found their way to the hem of his hoodie, fiddling with it.

"What are we supposed to talk about?" he finally mumbled, eyes staying trained on his hands. Surely they had some motive for doing this, other than, "Hey! You kids! Go talk to a complete stranger about your problems, because that'll fix everything!" If that was the motive, well, they'd be sitting here for a long time.