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Jerome sat down in his garden, watching his mother’s flowers sway softly in the breeze, and thought about all that had happened that day.
Jerome had... Had discovered the truth about his father, for one, and he supposed he should’ve seen it. When they had meetings, Jerome’s dad sent shifty glances towards his purple rug when he thought Jerome wasn’t looking, and would sometimes take his phone out to check something at dinnertime, and occasionally came home smelling like bleach or petrol. It was weird.
Jerome tried to convince himself that he couldn’t have known about his dad’s... Experiments, but it made him wonder, even so. If things had gone on the way they were, would Jerome have ended up like his dad? What would’ve happened to Billy? Would his dad have ever even told him about the illegal stuff he was doing under the school?
Jerome knew that something weird was going on– of course he did, how could he not?!– just from the new ‘slop', the pills his dad started handing out to kids he deemed suspicious, the new statue with gleaming red eyes, the devices that exploded whenever Billy’s name was mentioned...
But this was Jerome’s dad he was talking about, and Jerome didn’t exactly want to believe that his dad was some psychopath principal who made drugs and kidnapped kids. The evidence, though, stared him right in the face, and it was too much to simply ignore.
He remembered coming across his father’s... Parts. They’d been scattered around the lab, rusty brown splats all over the place, everything but the head visible. He’d seen two broken-open tubes and a third one filled with what looked like blood, and he noticed his father’s gun on the ground and his shoe and what looked like a finger.
Jerome had thrown up, then, right next to a pile of what looked exactly like the school's slop. Jerome’s eyes had widened and he’d promptly vomited again.
Then, the grief had hit. Jerome had sobbed for hours, because that was his dad, strewn across the floor, and Jerome was kneeling in his father’s blood, and it was so gross and messed-up, and, and, and...
He remembered what Lily had said at show and tell.
He hadn’t been paying that much attention at the time, not listening to Lily or bothering to find out how her brother had miraculously returned from the dead, because nobody survived if the last person they saw was the janitor– except maybe Monty, now, he supposed. But the girl’s words had come clearly into his mind as he cried his eyes out, and Jerome’s expression darkened.
“Ummm... The principal kinda... Exploded.”
How could she have known that if she hadn’t been the one to explode him?!
“Look! We found Billy!”
How coincidental that his father had died just as Billy had been found. Lily always had been obsessed with his dad, and Jerome was getting more convinced by the minute that Lily had been the one to kill him. She'd gone the whole hog, too, judging by the... The parts.
Jerome remembered how bitter and grief-ridden he'd been the evening before, swearing to get revenge on Lily for having killed his dad. Looking back on it now, Jerome wondered why he hadn't questioned the reason his dad and Billy were in a lab under the school, or why there were test tubes in said lab, or why he'd immediately guessed that Lily had killed his dad and not Billy or the slop or something. Then again, he supposed that his mind had been so thoroughly bombarded with trauma that day that it had gotten an idea and clung to it, even if that meant he was furious and vengeful.
Jerome regretted it, now, jumping to conclusions, but a dark part of him still wanted to blame Lily, if only so that he could stop being bombarded with reminders from his own mind that he should've noticed and helped his dad on a path of redemption. He didn't usually focus on the what-ifs, but here in his mother's garden, he had all the time in the world to do as he wanted.
His mom didn't exactly... Worry that much about him, having immediately said that she'd had no idea what her husband had been doing, demanding that Jerome just build a bridge and get over his dad's death, constantly denying any involvement with the experiments, which in itself Jerome found suspicious.
Jerome wasn't dumb; quite the contrary! There was a reason he was in the Smart Class, after all: he noticed things, understood situations, and could read people like open books. Cool people could be smart too! Only... Jerome had kinda lost hope on being seen as a cool kid by his new classmates once his eyes started watering as he approached the gates. Judgemental or scared faces (people were scared of and angry at him like they were at his dad, Jerome was sure of it) greeted him, all glares and harsh whispers. He didn't want to get sent to the principal's office for pulling some sort of stunt to be cooler either, not when the last one was where... Where the...
He spotted Monty at one point. His familiar face was like a beacon of light to Jerome who so desperately wanted comfort, and it was so hard resisting the huge temptation to go over to his best friend, cry in his shoulder and at least have some form of communication with someone that wasn't pitying words, snapping shouts or the terrible things he whispered to himself at night.
Jerome had started to have... Problems with sleeping after seeing the incident. Days, weeks, months passed, and still the nightmares remained. He tried to get used to them– really, really tried– but there was a difference between expecting something and getting used to it. And Jerome didn't think he'd ever be able to get used to the sight of his dad like... That.
Rusty blood and dismembered parts haunted his mind at night, constant reminders of what he'd lost, and random things (not random, related, because they all had something to do with That Monday) served to plunge him into horrific re-plays of his discovery.
It happened for years, all the way up until the KinderSquad (Cindy thought of the name and Jerome didn't join willingly) were 13, way after Jerome finished his self-reflection in the garden.
Then one of his attacks happened in class.
But more on that later.
Jerome considered Monty his best friend (wasn't like he had anyone else to turn to...), but called him a ‘mate’ to his classmates, and Monty referred to him as a ‘business associate’. Jerome should have been fine with Monty keeping his distance (you don't deserve him, or anyone, you could've stopped it, he's right to be mad at you, all your fault–) but he wasn't. He always felt a sudden, painful twang on the left side of his chest whenever he saw Monty with other people, or when Jerome was all alone and could just see his probably-one-sided-best-friend a little way away. Sometimes, which Jerome thought was weird and annoying, he would get all flustered around his cr- best friend, which shouldn't happen (Bad Jerome, you shouldn't feel like that, you weirdo, he would never like you, it's just a dumb crush, jeez, get over it loser, you're nearly fourteen), so he berated himself whenever it happened. It had been years after all, and now they barely spoke.
He stayed cool around Monty, though maybe he was a little too cool and reached the point of at least cold, because Monty seemed almost hurt when Jerome brushed him off (he doesn't like you, stop making things up and get that into your thick skull). The boy remembered the times before That Monday, where Monty would steal his stuff and tease Jerome with it until he had to buy it back, then deliberately left it in his easy-to-access cubby and distracted Applegate in morning time. Jerome nearly smiled at the memory.
It had been a regular day, one in the time After, when he'd had an... Uh... Episode.
He and Monty had been in the same class when it happened, along with a few other familiar faces (Billy, Carla, and Felix, to name a few). Everything had been going fine, only for the teacher to pull up a slide of a video, the thumbnail of which made Jerome freeze. The teacher had said something like ‘if anyone finds a bit of gore disturbing, feel free to go to the library and access the remote learning version’, but the voice sounded like it was underwater. Jerome’s ears were ringing, bile rising in his throat as he found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the image of a mutilated body, parts strewn across the floor (No no no no no not now not him it's not him see no no no it's not it can't be nO). His vision started to blur and everything went silent, Jerome’s panic intensifying as his vision briefly turned black.
Jerome felt like he was going to be sick, his heart in his mouth and his breaths short and erratic, and he couldn't look away from the screen. He wasn't in control, he never had been, he was going to die like his dad, he was gonna be sick, he felt freezing...
He needed to find safety.
He couldn't see well, everything a haze as he stumbled out of his seat, desperate to just get away.
His dad was in front of him, and he was dead and lifeless and something had killed him and was coming for Jerome next.
Someone grabbed his arm and Jerome screamed, a horrible thing that ripped itself from his throat and he recoiled as if burned.
He distantly realised that he had fallen over, his chest hurting and his brain a wild mess of alarm. He sobbed into his knees, mumbling incoherent apologies.
His dad was there. Dead.
Dead.
His dad was dead.
Jerome was gonna die.
Jerome deserved to die.
Jerome had killed his dad.
His dad was deaddeaddeadhedeaddidn’tdeadmeandeadtodeadohnohjeezdadwasdead–
“Breathe with me,” a soothing voice broke through the panic, and Jerome raised wide, unseeing, teary eyes to the speaker. He reognised them. This... this wasn't his dad. Was it?
“D-dad?” he whispered hoarsely, brokenly, more tears pooling in his eyes. “Daddy?”
He could hear himself call out down a dark, dark tunnel (why had there been a trapdoor under his dad's rug?): ‘dad?!’.
“Oh, Jerome...” The voice sounded upset, but Jerome didn't know why, but he was pretty sure by then that he had died, so began crying harder.
The image of the scarlet-stained shoe flashed before him, and Jerome’s breath hitched.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I-I should've...” Jerome stuttered breathlessly.
“No, no, it's okay...”
Wait... Monty?!
Someone moved and Jerome flinched, every muscle taut and tense and frozen because he wasn't in control.
He heard the nice voice– was it Monty? Please, please let it be Monty – yell and flinched again, burying his head further and trying to sort out his breathing, failing miserably. The movements he'd seen stopped, and the voice was gentle again, helping Jerome even out his inhales and alleviating the pain in his chest. After a while of soft guidance, Jerome found himself slumped pathetically against a wall, his face feeling like it was coated in tears because it was soaked, the knees of his jeans soggy, and Monty’s concerned face before him.
Jerome winced as he realised what just have happened, deciding to apologise.
“S-sorry,” his voice was cracked and quiet, and Jerome wondered exactly how long he'd been having one of his ‘episodes’ for.
“Wh-what?!” Monty spluttered. “No, Jerome, it's not–”
“Not okay, I know,” Jerome barked a dry, bitter chuckle, the wave of embarrassment hitting him as he felt the other 27 pairs eyes of his classmates blazing into him. “I'm such a freak...”
“You're not a freak, Jerome,” another equally soft voice assured him– Billy’s voice, sounding strangely like he had come to a sudden realisation about something. “And it's fine. Science sometimes... Sometimes sets me off too.”
“Stupid labs,” Jerome said humorouslessly, and Billy nodded shortly in agreement.
“You, uh, said some scary stuff, during it, Jer,” Monty informed him quietly, his eyes briefly flickering with something implacable. “But... You also said some not-so-bad stuff.”
“Basically, he knows you have, like, the biggest crush of the century on him,” Carla stated bluntly, grinning. “About time!”
Jerome’s face felt like it was on fire as the whole class kept staring – would they just look away for a second please?!– and mumbled, “oh. Sorry. I know you're straight.”
Everyone looked at him like he was mad.
“Dude, what the heck makes you think that?!” Carla asked incredulously.
“He... He has a crush on Carla!” Jerome exclaimed to everyone, very confused and doing strange arm gestures.
Both Carla and Monty burst out laughing, only serving to further Jerome’s bewilderment.
“That was years ago!” Monty told him through chortles. His laugh was cute– (nope, not right now, get a hold of yourself!).
“He realised I was too good for him and stopped flirting when we were, what, ten?” Carla teased.
Monty raised an eyebrow in challenge, turning his wheelchair to face her better. “You're also really gay, Carla.”
“Meh,” the girl replied nonchalantly, though a smile danced on her lips. “Can't argue with that.”
“Besides,” Billy piped up again. “Monty literally has a Bi pin on his jacket.”
“O-oh,” Jerome became even more flustered, frustrated with himself for not having picked up on that (thought you were supposed to be good at noticing things, this doesn't mean he likes you–)
“Yeah,” was it Jerome’s imagination, or were Monty’s cheeks dusted in pink as the redhead spoke? “I'm bisexual.”
Billy shut up after that, taking a few steps back in the biggest ‘oops’ moment ever, realising he'd just outed Monty to Jerome.
“Well, do you wanna, uh, get coffee later?” Monty suggested abashedly.
“Yeah, that- that sounds good,” Jerome agreed.
“Science first, boys!” The teacher, who'd just been watching with a kind of fond interest as their worry subsided (it seemed that they'd had no clue what to do when Jerome was having his attack), said. “The lessons nearly over. I'm sure you can wait another fifteen minutes, unless you want to go to the nurse's office, Jerome?”
“No thanks,” Jerome declined, his eyes still on Monty. “I can wait.”
Later that day, Jerome found out what PTSD was, had his favourite date ever, and got a new boyfriend.
The voices in his head toned down a bit after that, and Jerome had never been happier.