Chapter Text
Jack seems really tired lately, is he ok?
Great video! But are you doing okay? Idk u seemed like...sad??? I know this is kinda creepy im just wondering
Jeeze, i know he said he has rashes but damn it looks like he's been choked.
"Strangled," Jack corrected monotonously as he scrolled through the comments. Despite telling himself not to be, he was bitter. He was borderline angry. He reached over and took a sip of ginger ale, hoping it'd calm down the flipping of his stomach a little. Signe bought it the other day for him. It didn't help.
First of all, he had been reminded of those several horrible days enough on his own. The red line permanently around his neck never failed to catch Jack's eyes as he looked in the mirror. Jack still hadn't accepted the fact that it'd never go away. It was just a staple of him now. It still burned sometimes.
Second, nightmares plagued his sleep. He couldn't go one night without seeing the entire scene play out in his head all over again. The shop. The woman. The feeling of blood against his hand paired with the grip of the handle held so tight his hand hurt in the morning. It was all still there. He was afraid to close his eyes at night. He wouldn't even think of it voluntarily; it'd just pop in his mind whenever, and he'd totally shut down, no matter what he was doing. And it happened often enough for Signe to notice, which prompted the fake stomach ache excuse, which led to the ginger ale.
One of his only escapes from this was his channel, which he'd poured himself into with a new vigor to distract himself from his own thoughts. He filmed video after video, never stopping to rest, never having to, just to feel normal.
And now, it had bled into the comments. Even his channel wasn't safe from what'd happened.
Jack had noted one comment in particular: Jack, are you ok? You look so pale, we're worried about you dude. Make sure to take care of yourself. We're here for you always! <3
Before he could even tell himself not to, Jack's fingers started flying across the keyboard. His emotions were bubbling over and he was so angry. So angry at this person he didn't even know the name of. So angry at the whole goddamn community. Because they had a chance to be there for him. And they weren't.
Always? Are you sure? Where were you guys when I needed you the most? I was gone for days, and none of you noticed. You all thought that... That thing... That horrible, disgusting thing pretending to be me...was me. None of you noticed, or if you did none of you spoke out. Believe me. I made him check. Fuck man, i love you guys but where WERE you?!?! Yes, I'm pale. I'm sick. I'm going crazy. I'm going crazy! You could've stopped him, but you all just watched. I called for help. Why didn't you ANSWER? Why didnt...you fucking answer...?
Jack sucked in a breath, forcing himself not to cry as he looked at the reply he'd typed out. How he wished he could send it. How he wanted to. He hovered over "reply" for a good few minutes, wondering what kind of backlash he'd receive if he actually sent this. Wondering if anyone would actually see this as a plea, or just part of the act.
"Fuck me." His flashing cursor seemed to mock him as he slammed the backspace and typed a new reply.
Aw, i appreciate the concern. I'm fine though! Haha :)
Ugh.
***
Sleep was the ultimate battle as of late.
Jack never liked to sleep much before, and relished every moment he spent awake, as it gave him more time to work and do all the things he wanted to do. But a nice, long nap at the end of a hard day's work was always a nice touch regardless.
Now though, it became imperative to him to stay awake as long as possible. The thought of sleep scared him to death. To sleep was to let your guard down, and to let your guard down was to let Anti back inside, which he must not let happen. Jack was terrified that the moment he shut his eyes, Anti would come back, and he'd end up hurting someone else, someone much closer to him.
And Jack would probably be less scared if Anti hadn't gone completely silent.
That fact that he'd gone silent should have been reassuring to Jack, but it wasn't. It wasn't a normal silence. It was a chilling silence. A knowing silence. Somewhere in the back of Jack's mind, he had to believe that Anti was still waiting. For what, Jack didn't know. But the thought that he'd somehow gotten out and taken over someone else--someone much, much closer to him--terrified him.
But he'd been quiet, so frustratingly quiet, since that day.
That day, as Jack only referred to it, was the day he killed someone with his own hands. When he simultaneously took back control too late and too early. When he watched her blood trail down and touch the tip of his shoe. When he shoved the bloodstained knife held by bloodstained hands into his hoodie, which was conveniently already the color red.
He could still feel the blood on his hands. In a random flash of memory, Jack recalled reading Macbeth in high school, and he couldn't help but feel eerily like Lady Macbeth: walking around, mumbling to himself to try and reassure his innocence. "What's done is done," he'd said to himself more than once. And often, he found himself at the bathroom sink, scrubbing under his nails and in between his fingers to make sure there wasn't any blood there. He rubbed them until they were red and throbbing, and then he scrubbed more because the redder his hands got, the more blood Jack seemed to perceive. He would wash them until they either bled or Signe interrupted him and made him stop. He knew it was ridiculous and neurotic. His hands were clean. And dry, itchy. Jack scratched them often, which only led to them bleeding once more, which started the loop all over again.
Is that what Lady Macbeth felt like, while Jack loathed opening his text book? So guilty that she saw blood on her hands where there was none? Crying into her pillow and wandering the house when no one was around to listen, unaware of doing it all the while?
Did Jack sleepwalk at night? he wondered, as he started to send some footage over to Robin.
***
The first thing he knew, he was yawning in front of his webcam, jokingly telling the audience how late it was and how sleep was for the weak as he played some game he couldn't remember the name of.
The second thing he knew, he was opening his eyes to a blank room.
The room seemed to stretch on for miles, illuminated by its own bright white walls, and was empty of life. Even the air didn't seem present. Like he was trapped in some kind of vacuum.
"Hello?" Jack called. His voice shook. There was nothing for his voice to echo against, so it just carried on until it was out of earshot. Nothing answered him. He gripped the hem of his shirt, forbidding his hands to shake. He started biting his lip, but he stopped himself. He was not going to panic. He was not going to let himself panic.
"What composure," commented an all too familiar voice. Gritting his teeth, Jack slowly turned around. He knew what he'd see standing there, but he couldn't help the gasp when he saw it. Anti was there, only feet from him. Dark green hair and black shirt and everything Jack had come to loathe about himself during October, because that was the act he'd put on: he'd slide in his gauges, slip on a black shirt, and of course, he had his darker green hair. The disease he created was standing there, corporeal for the first time, mouth tugged halfway up in a smirk. His eyes were black. Full of pride. The fact that he could actually see Anti standing there terrified him more than the silence he'd left in his wake after that day. In his own body, he could go anywhere.
"Long time no see," Anti interrupted Jack's thoughts.
Jack swallowed hard. "You could say that."
"You haven't seen me, but I know you've been thinking of me." Anti took a few steps forward. He playfully put a hand over his heart, as if he were touched. "I'll have to say I'm flattered."
The scar on Jack's neck throbbed. He reached up a hand to touch it without meaning to. "Kind of hard not to think about it."
Anti's eyes flitted down, and he seemed to just notice that the scar was there, as if he wasn't the one who caused it. He smiled, showing razor sharp, perfectly white teeth. It sent a chill down Jack's spine. "I guess so," said Anti. "But you should thank me. Now you have a conversation peice. Something for people to talk about in the comments of your videos." He'd seen.
Jack set his jaw. He ignored the remark, and dared to question Anti against his better judgment. "Where have you been?" he asked, like he'd actually wanted Anti's company. He didn't, of course. He just wanted to know where he was, because as long as he was inside Jack, he couldn't hurt anyone else.
"Been missing me?" Anti chuckled dryly. "Don't worry, I didn't go anywhere. I'm stuck stuck with you." *You're the one who's stuck with me? Or am I stuck with you?* Jack thought incredulously. Though, despite his annoyance, he couldn't help letting out a breath of relief. Anti hadn't gotten to anyone else in his silence. And yet, a fleeting thought that he wished Anti had gotten out passed Jack's mind. All those sleepless nights for nothing. All the days watching Signe, just to make sure her skin didn't start developing a strange rash. She caught him staring every now and then, and then pretended not to. All pointless.
"Oh, your girlfriend," commented Anti. "you should watch out for her."
Jack growled, and his hands curled into fists. "Get OUT of my head!" He pressed his fists against his temples, trying to will Anti away. He closed his eyes, sure that when he opened them, Anti would be gone. He would be in his room, alone.
"Sean," said Anti. Jack opened his eyes. Much to his panic, he was still in this endless room, and Anti was still fucking there. A shiver had rippled down Jack's back. He'd never called Jack 'Sean' before.
"What?" he was compelled to say.
"You want me out of your head?"
Well, wasn't that obvious? Jack nodded.
Suddenly, Anti's lips curled up in a snarl, and he gripped Jack's arm. Sharp claws dug into his skin, and Jack forced back a yelp of pain. Warm droplets of blood fell onto the ground, staining the stark white floor with red. Jack tried to jerk back, but Anti's hold on him was firm. He leaned forward, close to Jack's ear, and he spat out through gritted teeth, "Then you shouldn't have put me there in the first place."
With that, he disappeared. Like smoke, he dissipated into the air, his laugh still echoing against nothing. A passing hiss faded, but stayed just long enough for Jack to hear.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Jack woke up with a start, feeling himself being shaken awake.
"No!" He jerked up and a frantic heartbeat was caught in his throat. His headphones fell lopsided around his neck, and his chair shook beneath him. He realized that he was in his recording seat. Slowly, he recognized Signe through the reflection of his computer screen.
Already feeling the red tint of embarrassment, he turned in his chair, seeing her standing there, a few feet from him. She'd backed away like he was about to attack her. Her eyes were open wide, and her mouth was hanging slightly open, recovering from being startled herself. She certainly didn't expect Jack to wake up as if from a nightmare.
He wanted to tell her that she was in danger. The words Anti had said to Jack banged against his skull. "You should watch out for her." What the hell did that mean?
But all he could say was, "Sorry."
Signe composed herself quickly. With a breath, a smoothing of her shirt, and a quick smile, she was back to normal. "It's okay. I know you must be exhausted. It's probably what's making you so jumpy."
Jack looked down at the floor, and removed his headphones. He placed them on the hook with a chuckle. "Yeah. That's probably it," he said.
Signe leaned down to hug him. Without even meaning to, Jack's eyes fluttered shut as he hugged her back. Her touch seemed to be the only thing that willed away the anxiety, even if for just a second. He wanted to grip the fabric of her cotton sweater in his fists and never let go of her. Here, buried in the scent of fabric softener, he felt safe.
But then he saw her on the ground, blood cooling to rust around her head, and he let her go.
"You want some breakfast?" asked Signe. Jack's brows furrowed together.
"It's nighttime," he said, half sure. He slid out his phone and checked the time, and found that it was seven in the morning. He looked up at Signe once more, feeling even more like a fool, and her clothes seemed to make more sense: a sweater, and jeans, hair pulled into a loose bun. "I uh...I guess I will have some food." Even if the thought of eating him want to vomit.
Signe smiled, relieved. She didn't think he'd agree. "Good. I'll have some eggs on. Come when you're ready." She turned to leave the room, and stopped on her heel. "Also. I'm sure your neck is stiff, so do you want a massage afterwards?"
Jack reached up and absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck. It was indeed very stiff. Had he slept here all night? Despite it, Jack shook his head. "No thanks."
Signe just scoffed. "I'm giving you a massage." She left the room. Jack chuckled to himself.
He stood from his seat, and felt immediately more like a popcorn machine than a human. He ran a hand against his lower back. He had fallen asleep here, hunched over his keyboard. Yikes.
Jack glanced at his camera. The light was still on, blinking red as a warning of a dying battery. The timer told him that he had been recording for seven and a half hours.
***
Jack sat on the edge of his bed, covers piled messily behind him as a sign of a person who'd just woken up and hastily gotten ready. He scowled at the bottle of anxiety medication sitting in his palm.
Despite his many protests, Signe had insisted that he go to a psychiatrist's office. She told him that he was not acting like himself in the slightest: he was paranoid, constantly looking over his shoulder like someone was watching him; flinching at the slightest touch, not sleeping or eating enough; he started getting panic attacks, at night, recording, anywhere he was alone; and that bad habit of washing his hands too. They'd gotten so dry that the very skin started cracking, bleeding of its own accord. Seeing the blood just pushed Jack to want to wash them even more. Which obviously wasn't good.
Jack tried to play it off as a stomach bug, but Signe wasnt stupid.
"There's something going on in your head," she'd said with a soft firmness as she ran her fingers through Jack's hair, "and I want to find out what it is." She kissed his forehead, and then started searching around the internet for a good office to visit.
He wasn't with the doctor for more than forty minutes before she said that Jack had developed some pretty bad anxiety.
"Definitely," said the doctor--a short, arrogant woman--as she scribbled down a prescription for Buspirone. "On my reputation as a psychiatrist."
"It's not anxiety," Jack wanted to say. "It's nothing like you've ever seen."
But he just stayed quiet and watched her write out the prescription.
And here he was, holding this bottle of medicine he didn't want, medicine that only made him zombified and tired, medicine he loathed to take.
"Sean," said Signe. Jack looked up and saw her poking her head through the bedroom door. Her face was made up, as the two were supposed to go out for a nice lunch in about an hour. Jack was excited to go, to get out of the house and have a nice outing with his girlfriend. The prospect was nice, and the thought of perhaps running into a fan on the way made him even more excited. To distract himself from all this and interact with others, it was what he needed.
What he didn't need was this god forsaken medicine. But Signe was watching him now, so he couldn't ditch it. He smiled at her, held the bottle up like he was toasting to a glass of wine, and put a tablet in his mouth. He quickly slipped it between his lip and his gums. He pretended to swallow.
Jack smiled at Signe and lifted his tongue up as extra proof that he'd swallowed it and didn't try to hide it like last time. Last time she'd caught him. Signe smiled back. "Ready when you are," she said.
"Gonna go to the bathroom real quick and then I'll be ready to go."
Signe nodded, adjusted her mustard scarf, and went out, probably to the car.
Jack let his smile fade into a grimace, and he spat the tablet into his hand, where it was only slightly dissolved. He held it in his palm and walked into the bathroom, dropping it into the toilet. He filled a dixie cup with water and tried to get the bitter taste of the pill out of his mouth.
He stared at himself in the mirror, and tried to smooth his hair down, part it the right way, peel the strands off that had stuck to his forehead due to the sweats he woke up with. He ran his fingers through his hair over and over again, and finally sighed, and gave up. It didn't look too bad. It wasn't good, but it wasn't bad. Needed a wash.
Blue eyes, duller than they had been weeks ago, underlined with purple bags, stared at him.
Jack put his palms on either side of the counter. "What are you doing Sean?" he asked himself, as if he had an answer.
There was no answer.
He looked down at his hand: dry, cracked, red. He'd been using prescription lotion, but he wasn't fully healed yet. A few red spots scattered his hand still. He breathed deep.
There's nothing there. There's nothing there.
He stared at his hand, that he knew was clean, until his vision tunneled. Suddenly, he saw it. As real and warm as it had been on that day, blood sprouted and coated his hand from his fingertips to his wrists. Jack sucked in a breath, and touched it with his other hand. His fingertip came back bloody. He blinked, and he was in his computer chair, excitedly clapping just before he felt his neck start to itch. No. No no no.
Before he knew it, Signe was pulling his hands away from the sink in the gentlest way possible, all the while whispering that it was okay, there's nothing there, stop yelling.
Was he yelling? His hearing was faded, but he could faintly hear himself if he focused.
"There's blood. She's dead. I need to tell someone, I need to tell..."
He shut his mouth, and allowed himself to be pulled from the sink, allowed Signe to turn off the water, allowed her to notice that he hadn't flushed the pill down the toilet, and he allowed her to go get another one for him to take it. He allowed her to coax it down with ginger ale, and he allowed her to sit there hugging him as he sat against the bathroom wall, crying against her scarf.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered into her shirt.
"The only thing you're allowed to be sorry for is getting snot on me," replied Signe jokingly. She pulled away, and held Jack's face in her hands. "Nothing else."
Despite himself, he smiled. He reached up and held her wrists loosely. They were a mangle of arms and legs at this point, but he leaned forward and kissed her anyway. "I love you."
"I love you too." Signe paused, and slowly detached herself from Jack. She stood, dusting herself off. Her voice was quiet, a suggestion, "Do you still want to go to lunch?"
Jack sighed, more relaxed than he had been minutes ago. The medicine was starting to kick in. That was fast. Or was that placebo? He nodded.
"Absolutely."