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He’s been staying with Connie’s family since the trial.
When the hospital released him into Mr. Hall’s custody, Jazz thought it would only last the next few weeks before he turned eighteen. Then, the courts made living under his roof a condition of his parole. Jazz still doesn’t think that's something they really can do, but he’s not going to argue with the DA who let him off with zero jail time.
Being parented for the first time in his life, court-mandated therapy, court-mandated group therapy for juvenile offenders—he could take that. He could deal.
It’s been weird, though. Living with his girlfriend’s parents and her little brother. Mrs. Hall took Wiz on a two week trip to his grandparents when Jazz first arrived. To give him time to settle in. He thought it was obnoxious and unnecessary until that first night, when he woke up shouting and threw up in his own lap.
He could feel his pulse in his temples and the vague thought that he was breathing too loud, or maybe not enough, pestered him. Phantom hands slid up and down his thighs and his rib cage and… other places that made him throw up again.
He needed to get up but he couldn’t move, like every productive thought in his head had drained out the back, he didn’t feel like himself. He couldn’t shake it off, move on. Like all his life he’d been standing on a conveyor belt, shuttling him from place to place, and now it’s stopped. And left him someplace he doesn’t recognize.
He began to pant, open-mouthed, trying to avoid breathing in the overwhelming scent of sick and a secondary, sweaty one that tied knots in the pit of his stomach. Jasper…Jasper…Jasper…
A soft voice whispered, the sound coming from nowhere and all around him. His hands, which had a white-knuckled grip on his blanket, began to also feel the ghosting sensation of smooth flesh running underneath them, of fine scars, of a knife too big for his knubby hands, of, of, of—Jazz cried out, and tears began to run down his face. He was shaking.
Suddenly, the door was open. And another voice, his dad? No. A voice that pulled him away from the memories and the dream.
“Jazz, Jazz, are you with me? Can you take a breath for me?” It was Mr. Hall.
“I can bre-breathe,” Jazz panted. “I’m breathing.”
“I really don’t think you are, kid.” Jazz felt hands pulling at the edge of the vomit-filled blanket gripped in his hands and flinched violently. “Shhhh, you’re alright, you’re ok, it’s just me, Mr. Hall.”
Jazz caught Connie’s dad’s eyes with his own and let out a distressed whine.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, ok?”
“Y-yess.” Jazz slurred his words and his mouth felt numb. He blinked as Mr. Hall managed to pry his hands off the blanket.
Shuffling sounded from the bedroom door and Jazz grabbed fistfulls of his guardian's shirt, gripping so hard and so quick Mr. Hall began to jump backwards, before catching himself.
Jazz’s chest heaved, harsh inhales and exhales pounding his ribs—who was coming in? His Dad? Had Billy found them? Or—Jazz gagged—his mom? Oh his mom had tracked him down she was going to—to—oh god—
*
The door opened.
It was Conscience.
“Jazz? Dad? What’s going on?”
“Go on back to bed, Conscience.” Mr. Hall spoke sternly to his daughter, hoping to distract her from the very… unwell Jazz gripping him.
“What? No, no what’s wrong with Jazz?” Conscience rolled forward in her wheelchair, broken leg sticking out before her in its blue cast. She reached to grab her boyfriend’s arm and Jazz flinched again, hiding his face in Mr. Hall’s chest.
“What…Dad, what’s going on ?” Tears began to fill Connie’s eyes as she watched her boyfriend shake against her dad's chest, as she finally began to take in the whole scene. Jazz’s fists clenched in her father’s shirt. Slick vomit splattered along the sheets. The horribly young sounding cries emanating from Jazz with every breath.
Mr. Hall looked down at his daughter, bewilderment showing even on his own face as he held his arms awkwardly in the air around Jazz. He cleared his throat, “Jazz just had a bit of a nightmare. I don’t think he’s quite awake yet.”
Connie covered her mouth with a fluttering hand. “Oh, oh Jazz .”
*
When Jazz came back to himself, he was standing in the hospital-bright bathroom attached to his room at the Hall’s.
It was…raining? No, a shower. The shower was on. He felt stray droplets hit his face from where he stood next to the tub.
There were hands on him. Hands. On him. He began to struggle away instinctually.
“Hey, hey, calm down, breath. It’s Mr. Hall.”
Jazz looked up to see Connie’s dad standing in front of him, and suddenly everything came flooding back—the dream, the vomiting, hiding in Mr. Hall’s chest, oh god, Connie saw him like that, oh—
“Fuck,” Jazz said into his arms as he crossed them over his face. “Fucking shit.”
“It’s—”
“It’s not okay, Mr. Hall” Jazz dropped his arms as he sat on the ledge of the tub. He drove his fist into his thigh once, twice—
Mr. Hall caught his hand and held it between his. He gave Jazz a look so solemn and…caring that he turned his head away. Away from this man who barely knew him, who had hated him for so many years, who still managed to care for him better than either of his parents.
“What happened to you is not okay, Jasper,” he spoke seriously, in that deep, level tone. “But there is nothing wrong with feeling it.”