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it’s so much louder than jj thought it would be. he’s heard it before but it wasn’t this loud.
the teddy bear had exploded with cotton, buttons, and thread. jj loathed that teddy bear. it was from a very long time ago, so long ago he could still remember how the bible felt in his hands. it was so long ago that he could remember daddy carrying jj to the christmas tree (it was barely taller than him and it was falling apart but it was theirs) and mama was waiting there with the teddy bear. mama smiled at him, her eyes crinkled and disappeared, and then three years later all of her disappeared.
jj hated that teddy bear so fucking much.
cotton, buttons, and thread was underwhelming. it rose in the air and it fell without consequence. the teddy bear died and jj was still there. of course it wasn’t the same. the blood, guts, and the seams that were holding it together- it leapt outward and clung to everything it could reach. the walls are no longer just peeled, damaged, dented in the shape of jj’s head- it is all consuming. it is far from underwhelming.
jj can taste it.
it?
that’s not fair. it is not simply it.
it is his father.
jj can taste his father.
his ears are still ringing. he should have put earplugs in first. it’s not like daddy was gonna wake up for hours. he had plenty of time to go out onto the porch and grab them. jj never thought things through much anyway. everyone knows that. everyone knows where he comes from.
jj can still feel his father.
and, for the first time, it is not in the form of fists in his hair or against his body, and it is not fingers gripped around his throat and squeezing so tight jj thought it was time to pray for forgiveness. it’s also not like the times that daddy takes too many pills and he thinks that jj is pretty like mama was and, oh, just as stubborn. jj drives daddy crazy just like mama did.
jj can still taste his father.
it tastes nothing like it did when daddy knocked a tooth loose, or when his nose bled so profusely it ruined his favorite shirt, or when daddy said have a beer, sit with me, you’re just like your mama, you know. you mess with my head, you know. it doesn’t feel anything like when jj insisted he instead be cuffed and shoved into the back of a cop car because how could a loving god let that happen to pope? pope does not deserve that. it doesn’t feel like it did when he sat in that cold, unforgiving jail and he knew he had done something good because pope does not deserve anything less than good. pope deserves to feel the sun on his face, to see all the greatest artists, to listen to all the records. pope deserves to love and be loved.
the gun is hot in his hand. he will remember this for the rest of his life, more than he will remember church pews and rosaries and his mother’s voice.
it was so loud and then it was so silent.
birds did not dare sing nor did the wind dance. everything remained exactly as it was a moment ago. nothing changed. except, now, jj has done a terrible thing.
they don’t look at him the same again. they see a boy capable of violence worse than his own father inflicted. they see daddy on jj’s skin, splattered over fresh bruises, and they too are forever altered.
it was so, so quiet.
they bring him a washcloth and they sit with him.
jj did not think such a silence could have existed.
they tell him that someone will understand, someone will get why, someone will make sure he isn’t strapped down and fried. they do not speak of the fact jj is utterly, wholly doomed.
jj did not think he was really going to pull the trigger.
they don't touch him. they are already tainted, already marked, and they know it. they know they are with a boy who makes the world bleed.
jj never did think things through, did he?