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Quackerjack had a lot of good days. Times when he didn't have a care in the world, and he couldn't really imagine what he would ever panic about. Days where he looked at his wackiness with an easy smile, because that was what made life fun. On his good days, he was able to convince himself that any time he hadn't been doing so good, he had just been tired and overly dramatic for no reason.
And then he had his bad days. Bad weeks. Times when he felt so disconnected from reality that he wondered if this was all a really bad dream. He had two different types of bad days. He had days where everything seemed wrong, and scary. Times where he felt like the shadows were watching him. Those days, he usually stayed curled up in his room, because he couldn't shake the feeling that his friends didn't actually care about him. That they only kept him around because they thought he was too dangerous to set loose on the world.
Those days felt the worst in the moment, but he knew that his other worst days were the truly dangerous ones. The days where he felt fine, and he would go on with his amazing ideas, and it was only after the fact that he realized how dangerous so many of his games were. How he could so easily hurt not just himself, but someone else. And the worst part was that in the moment, he didn't even realize what he had done. He was too caught up in having fun that he didn't even notice that somebody was bleeding.
Quackerjack hadn't even known about that second kind of bad day, because Drake had done a really good job at keeping him safe from them. The man always seemed to know when Quackerjack was starting to get out of control, and he would pull him in before he had the chance to take things too far. Drake would come up with any reason he could give to convince Quackerjack to stay home. He would play games with him that he normally didn't like. He would encourage Quackerjack to brainstorm fun toy designs, though he also distracted him from actually inventing any of those toys until he was in a more reasonable mindset.
Things had been so fine that Quackerjack hadn't even noticed that there was a problem, but then he moved in with Megavolt, and Drake wasn't always right there to pull him back and keep him from seriously hurting somebody. And that was where things went so wrong.
Quackerjack tried realy hard to not think about what had happened, but when he laid in bed, with the overwhelming silence surrounding him, he couldn't help but remember what he'd done.
Quackerjack giggled to himself. He slammed a hand over his mouth to keep quiet. He knew there was nothing funny right now, but he couldn't stop himself. If the nurses or doctors heard him, he'd be brought in for more treatment, and he really didn't feel like that right now. Not when he was supposed to finally go home in the morning.
What if the doctors took one look at him and decided that he wasn't ready to return to society? Sure, it was something he wondered about himself, but that was just his head being dumb. If it was the doctor's decision, then that just meant that he was broken.
Broken. What a funny word. Quackerjack felt like it was perfect for him, but these past several weeks he had been scolded for using that word to describe himself. He'd been given alternatives, but at that moment he couldn't remember any of them. All he could think was that he was broken.
Quackerjack grabbed at his head feathers and gave them a sharp pull, yanking them in front of his face. By the light of the color changing nightlight in the room, he could see the vibrant purple and red tints to his feathers. He stared at the colors, focusing on them. After a long moment he released his head feathers, rubbing his scalp.
He wasn't supposed to pull his feathers, but he needed to tug at something. He could feel the itching feeling under his skin, demanding that he grab something and pull it tight. He grabbed at the long sleeves of his loose shirt instead and pulled at them. It didn't ease the itch as much, but it didn't pull feathers out either, so ultimately it was better.
He was still giggling slightly, and he knew the loud laughter would be back with a vengeance eventually. It always was. If he didn't want to get caught by the doctors, he needed to not be in his room when they came by for night checks. If he was found out of his room, he could just say he had been sleep walking, or he needed a breath of fresh air. He'd be scolded, and the lock would probably be put back on his door for the rest of the night, but they wouldn't take him in for questions and tests, and that was all he needed.
Quackerjack jumped off his bed, grabbing Mr. Banana Brain on his way out. He snuck out of his room and walked down the dimly lit halls, easily avoiding the nurses on patrol. Without really thinking of a destination in mind, Quackerjack found himself up on the roof. The door to access the roof was supposed to be locked, but that had never stopped him before.
Locks could keep him in, but they couldn't keep him out. As long as he had the lock on his side of the door, he could get through. He picked the lock with ease and skipped out onto the roof. He smiled and giggled to himself as he looked out over the wide, noisy, bright, dirty city. It was so different from the intimate, quiet, far too clean hospital.
He wanted to be out there on the streets having fun, but he'd learned a lot of things while at this place, and one of them was that his idea of fun might not actually be fun. It could actually be very harmful, even if he didn't think it hurt at all.
He had a few strategies to deal with his not so good thoughts. Like his colored hair and long sleeves or scarves to keep him from pulling at his feathers. Or writing out or drawing his dangerous ideas and curiosities, instead of trying them out for real. Those were his own ideas. Something that the doctors suggested was that when he didn't know if he was having a good day or a really bad day, or if he was hit with one of his laughing fits, he should talk to somebody else and get a second opinion.
They wanted him to talk to them, and sometimes he did, but when he was really stuck in his head, he didn't need a doctor telling him how he was supposed to be feeling. He needed a friend.
Of course, it was helpful that he knew somebody who wasn't quite either but was a little bit of both.
Quackerjack pulled his phone out of his pocket, appreciating the fact that he was so used to having it on him that he wouldn't have to go back to his room to get it. He dialed a familiar number and paced the roof as it rang.
It was the middle of the night. She was probably asleep, but she had told him multiple times that he shouldn't hesitate to call her, no matter when or why. He smiled to himself when the phone was answered.
"Hello?"
"Clairey!" Quackerjack bounced on the balls of his feet.
"Jackie." He could hear the smile in Claire's voice. "Not that I'm not happy to hear from you, but do you know how late it is?"
"No." Quackerjack chuckled to himself. He didn't know why he found this to be funny, but he did.
"...Jackie, are you okay?" Claire sounded concerned, and Quackerjack somehow found that even funnier. His chuckle turned into a full chortle. He slammed a hand over his mouth. He didn't want to worry Claire more than he already was.
"I-I don't know." Quackerjack said. "I can't stop laughing."
Claire hummed quietly to herself. "Where are you?"
"The roof." Quckerjack said.
"Okay." Claire didn't sound any more or less concerned than before. She just tackled this very matter-of-factly. "I need you to do something for me. Face the center of the roof, and take ten steps towards it.
Quackerjack didn't really understand why, but Claire was so smart. She was just a volunteer at this place, but Quackerjack thought that she was smarter than all the doctors here combined. She had been the one to figure out what had happened the night of the incident that had ended up sending Quackerjack here in the first place.
Quackerjack hadn't meant for anybody to get hurt. He'd never wanted that. He had just tagged along on Megavolt's and Gosalyn's little foster kid rescue. He had thought that he would be able to cheer up the kids, but he'd offered one of the kids a doll he'd made, just to comfort her, and somehow it had burned her pretty badly.
That wasn't what was supposed to happen. Quackerjack had manipulated and tweaked his little doll, making it so much more fun and cozy. Holding it made warmth build up in his hands and chest. It was a nice warmth. It wasn't supposed to have burnt.
But it had hurt enough that not only had the little girl needed to go to the hospital, but Quackerjack had needed to get treated as well. His hands didn't feel burnt, but everybody around him told him they were, and he didn't know how that worked.
Claire had been the one to figure it out, and when she explained it, it was all very simple. According to her, he had a high level of pain tolerance. It didn't mean he didn't get hurt, he just didn't feel pain the same way that a lot of other people did. She said this might be why he kept on pulling at his feathers, and hitting his head, because while he felt something, his brain didn't tell him it was painful, so he didn't see the harm he was doing.
She hadn't fixed his tolerance for pain, she just helped him to be aware that it was a thing, and she helped him recognize that something that he saw as barely being a five on his pain scale would feel like a seven to most people.
"When you're away from the edge, I want you to sit." Claire said.
"But my legs are feeling the jitters." Quackerjack whined.
"So walk in small circles." Claire said. "And if you get so close to the edge of the roof that you can see the ground, face the middle again and take ten steps to the middle."
Quackerjack laughed. It sounded like a weird game. He loved weird games, and Claire was pretty good at coming up with them.
"How do you feel?" Claire asked.
"Do you mean feelings or pain?" Quackerjack asked, because Claire frequently asked him about both.
"Start with the pain." Claire said.
"Um." Quackerjack paced in a circle as he really thought it through. He hadn't thought he was in pain, but sometimes that was just because he didn't stop to think about it. His head hurt a little bit, not because he'd been pulling at his feathers, but because he'd been laughing so much and was a little breathless. His whole body felt a little stiff and sore, but it was completely manageable.
"I think a three." Quackerjack said. "Which means it's actually a five." He knew this was just a generalization, but Claire's system made it a lot easier to tell when he needed help. She said if he got to a four for him, he should take it easy, just in case so he didn't hurt himself, and if he started getting to a five or higher than he needed to talk to someone else, and trust their judgement on what was best for him.
Quackerjack only remembered this system because she'd made it into a game, and he could never say no to a game, even if it was just another reminder of how broken he was.
That reminded Quackerjack of another rule of hers. "My stupid brain is telling me I'm broken again."
"Oh, is it?" Claire's voice was stern, but still had a level of playfulness in it. "Well, I have a few things to say to you, Jackie's stupid brain."
Quackerjack laughed, and this time it was out of pure amusement. Not just because he felt like he had no choice. He knew Claire didn't actually think his brain was stupid. She was talking to it like it was a completely different person. She said that kind of thing about her fingers when they didn't move the way she wanted them to. It was her way of addressing things that she felt were out of control.
"So, Jackie's brain, let me make this clear to you. Jackie is not broken. He's unique, and creative, and very strong. And even if he was broken, which he's not, well, even broken things can still work wonderfully. They just need a little more patience." Her voice softened. "Do you think you can be patient with him, Jackie's brain?"
Quackerjack giggled, and sniffled at the same time. His eyes were itching, but he didn't feel sad. Why should he be crying? "Yeah, I think so." He was quiet for a bit. "Do I have to tell the doctors I had a bad day?"
"I'll tell you what," Claire said. "If you still feel bad in the morning, talk to the doctors, just in case. But if you feel better, you don't have to if you don't want to."
"Okay." Quackerjack sat on the ground and rocked back and forth. "What are you doing? Did I wake you up?"
"I was still up." Claire said. "I've been playing Whiffle Boy."
Quackerjack felt a weird rage in him. It was a familiar feeling, but he didn't understand it. Drake had told him that his hate for video games was one of those lingering things from his past. It was still him, but a part of him that was so distant that he might as well be a complete stranger. Quackerjack wasn't that man anymore, and he couldn't remember any of that, so he pushed that rage down.
"And you're sure it's not hurting you?" Quackerjack asked. "You don't have a headache, and you're not straining your eyes? And you're taking breaks?"
"Yes, Jackie, I'm taking care of myself." Claire said patiently. Even if Quackerjack didn't understand why he hated video games with a passion, at least part of that hatred really did come from him. Screens, and especially video games, made his head hurt. For the longest time he thought it was a normal thing, and that it was just the feeling of video games melting brains, just like the news said they would.
Claire assured him that how he felt when he played video games wasn't how it was for everybody. That for many people, it didn't cause even a little discomfort unless they did it for far, far too long. He still didn't really get it, but it made a little sense. After all, he already knew that he felt pain differently than other people. Mostly, that pain was lower. He was just more sensitive to video games, so that pain was higher.
He still didn't like them, but Claire was so nice to him, and she was right about everything else. She seemed to know how his head worked better than he did. It just made sense to trust her.
Quackerjack looked at his sleeves. He hated this. He had felt somewhat fine before, even if he was having a bad day. Now he felt like he was in the middle of his two kinds of bad days. "I don't know what's wrong with me." He said quietly. A part of him hoped that Claire wouldn't even hear him, but he was desperate for a response. "I felt fine earlier today. It was a really good day, and then it was night, and I was alone, and then I couldn't stop laughing, and now I just feel like I'm right back where I started."
He wrapped his arms around his legs. "What if I'm not ready to go home?"
"...I know you have a hard time seeing your progress, Jack, but trust me when I say you've come a long way." Claire said. "I told you that this place wasn't going to fix or cure you, because there's nothing to fix. You just need a little help."
"I need a lot of it." Quackerjack mumbled. He couldn't even identify how he was feeling without somebody else telling him.
"And that's okay." Claire said. "The hardest part is recognizing you need help. The second hardest is asking for it, and I know you can handle it. You called me today, and I know you talk to Drake. We're all here for you."
"Not everybody." Quackerjack felt a pang in his chest. He hadn't heard a word from Megavolt since he'd gotten here. Logically, he knew his best friend didn't hate him, but it was really hard to listen to his logical side on his bad days. "I just want to go home."
"You will." Claire said. "You're checking out tomorrow. I'll be right there to see you off. And you said all of your friends will be there to get you."
Quackerjack smiled. "Oh, yeah." The last time he had met up with Bushroot, his friend had told him that he and Liquidator were even planning on coming to get him. They would use that stuff that Bushroot had whipped up to unmutate them for a few hours. Just for him.
And Drake had promised that Megavolt would be there too. Gosalyn had even said that if Megavolt didn't show up, she would go to his apartment and drag him out by the tail if she had to.
He really did have great friends. He still didn't know if he was ready to leave, but he couldn't wait to go home. It would be nice for things to finally get back to normal.
"I'm kinda sleepy." Quackerjack said. "I should probably go to bed, huh?"
"I'm sure your bed will be much more comfortable than the roof." Claire said. Quackerjack nodded and stood up.
"Will you stay on the phone with me?'' Quackerjack asked. "Just until I fall asleep?"
"Of course." Claire agreed without a moment's hesitation. Quackerjack smiled softly to himself and made his way back inside. He quietly traversed the dark and quiet halls and returned to the room that felt so personal, and yet so distant. Hopefully, this would be his last night here.
Though he would have to remember the color-changing night light. It was a great trick to keep him from falling into his childhood paranoia that the lights in his room had been changed. The colors changed themselves. That was how they were supposed to be, and it was hard to get anxious about something so fun.
Quackerjack crawled under the covers and snuggled against Mr. Banana Brain. He set his phone next to him and dozed off to the white noise of Claire talking about Whiffle Boy.
