Chapter Text
Jabber has never really been good with time. He doesn’t know whether the constant poisons in his blood are to blame, or if he’s just more than fucked up all on his own. But Some days it soars. He’ll glance up at the sky after what feels like only seconds and find it already darkened, the moon hanging bright and wrong where the sun should still be burning. Other days collapse inward. He will run the bath, sit in the water and then realize hours have passed by the time his fingers wrinkle and the water turn cold around him. Awake while asleep at the same time.
Most people would blame it on the highs, it would be easier to blame the drugs.
But even before the chemicals, even before the needles and tinctures and smoke curling in his lungs, Jabber thinks time has always slipped away from him. Like it never wanted to stay put. Like it never belonged to him in the first place. Maybe his ma had been on to something by introducing him to Alice and wonderland.
So he lives for experiences instead. The first of things. The first time his bare foot met broken glass and the shock shot straight up his leg. The first time he tasted food that did not belong to his block, his city, his life. Those memories stay sharp. They cut clean through the fog and leave nothing but clarity behind. Nothing blurs. Time does not rush ahead of him or drag him under. It holds still, just long enough.
In those moments, he feels real. Present. Anchored inside his own body in a way that a high can only dream of making him feel.
Maybe that is why he keeps chasing them. Why he keeps pushing for firsts even when there are no safe ones left. Pain, pleasure, fear, heat, impact. Anything that forces the world to stop spinning long enough for him to exist inside it.
Anything to make time sit still.
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The first time Jabber got high, he could not have been much older than seven. His wicks had not even dropped past his shoulders yet, hanging loose around his forehead, frizzy from his complete lack of interest in sitting still long enough for a retwist. He had been on a rebellious streak, and honestly, he could not really blame himself.
His scalp still itched faintly from old gel, dried tight at the roots, pulling when he moved his head too fast.
His ma had gone on a tangent a week before about not taking shit from anyone, after some local kid whose name Jabber could not even be bothered to remember tried to shove him into the lake for stealing one of his marbles. He had taken it, sure, but that did not mean he deserved to drown for it. So his young mind decided the rule applied everywhere. Even to her.
The memory of the lake was cold and bright, sunlight flashing off the water so hard it hurt his eyes.
The apartment smelled like chemicals and burnt sugar, sharp and sweet at the same time. A smell so familiar that even now, years later, it still felt like home. Like childhood. Product books were stacked everywhere, their glossy pages sticking to his fingers when he touched them. Bottles clinked when he moved. The few toys he owned were scattered across the living space, tangled up with clothes that smelled like sweat, smoke, and something medicinal he did not have a word for yet.
The floor was gritty under his bare feet, crumbs and dried residue sticking to his soles when he shifted his weight.
“Naw.”
His voice sounded small in the room, swallowed by the walls.
“Come on, Jay.”
“I don’t want to, ma. I ain’t doing it.”
His throat felt tight when he said it, like the words scraped on the way out.
His man ran a pedicured hand through her long coily hair. Jabber watched her eyebrow twitch against her dark mahogany skin, a tiny movement that made his stomach knot. The air felt tight, like it was pressing in on his ears. She was getting irritated. He could tell by the way her nose twitched. Maybe he should back down. Maybe this was far enough.
The room felt louder suddenly, every clink and breath stretched too thin.
“Jesus fuckin’, Jay. Please pick up your shit. I got a client coming over.”
And maybe he was feeling too bold, because he crossed his arms over his small chest, the same way he had seen her do a hundred times. He stared up at her pink eyes and said it anyway.
His heart beat fast enough that he could feel it in his throat.
“No.”
He still remembered how silent the room went. How his elbows dug into his ribs. Something about it snapped in her. Her hands flew upward, sharp and sudden, and her face went flat and hard, like glass. Fear rushed through him all at once. He had pushed too far. Maybe standing up to her had been a mistake. Maybe he was about to get his ass beat.
His ears rang, a thin high sound like pressure before a storm.
“Fine then. Go to your room. And don’t you come out either, Jabber.”
The name hit harder than anything else. Jabber. He felt it sink straight into his chest as he turned toward the curtain that made his room. His ma only called him that when she was angry. Or when he was really, really rowdy. Her Jabberwocky.
The word felt heavy, like it had weight to it.
From the book about the girl who drank a poison and shrunk.
Maybe his ma was the girl. Eyesha felt close to Alice if he thought about it hard enough.
The picture of the book flickered in his mind, colors too bright, faces warped.
And he had thought about it.
Maybe his ma hates him now, the same way she hates her clients when they complain about the hair products or the pills not working fast enough.
His chest felt hollow at the thought, like something scooped him out.
His room was barely wider than his outstretched arms. But it was still his.. The curtain sagged where it was hooked into the wall, breathing every time someone moved outside it so He pressed his back into the corner and dug his nails into his palm until the skin stung, until half moons bloomed red and wet. He needed to apolize, he had too. .
The fabric brushed his shoulder, dusty and warm from the rest of the apartment.
His ma was mean when she was angry…
Mean in a way that made his stomach twist before his brain could catch up.
He’d been startled from his thoughts by the rough sound of pounding on the front door, and snapped from his train of thoughts and every bone in his body stills. He was never allowed to see the clients . He isn’t allowed to see the clients. Never. His ma had made sure he’d known that early.
The knock vibrated through the wall, into his teeth.
So He tucks his knees to his chest and presses his face into his knee. . When he was first learning to count, his ma taught him a trick.
His breath fogged the fabric of his pants, damp and hot.
Count to sixty, twenty-five times and when your done, they’ll be gone and i’ll be back.
She never boke that promise before. had So he does. The numbers wobble in his head, slipping around, but counting makes his heart slow. His breathing evens out. His eyes burn, then don’t. By the time the door shuts, his throat feels thick and dry but he ran out anyway. He had to let his ma know he didnt mean to upset her , he’d just wanted not to pick up his toys.
His legs felt shaky when he stood, pins and needles racing up his calves.
He runs out anyway, being the stupid and naive kid he was.
“I’m sorry, ma. I’ll pick ’em up now, I swear.”
The words tumbled out too fast, tripping over each other.
He doesn’t know why he’s apologizing. Why he’s crying kids never really had great regulated emotions, His mouth just does it.
His nose burned and his vision blurred.
“Jay, it’s fine.” she huffs out
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fucking fine, Jabber. It’s okay. Ma’s not mad. Jesus.”
Relief crashes into him, warm and dizzy. He rushes over to hug her. presses his face into her shirt. It smells like perfume and chemicals and sweat. Her body feels solid, real. He’ll be sure to be less suborn for now on.
Her heartbeat thumped slow under his cheek.
“Jabber, you got so much energy,” she spits out and it’s not at all kind “And look, it’s almost bedtime.”
“I don’t want to go to sleep.” he barked out, to childish for his own good. maybe if he'd just gone to sleep things would be different but even, he can't convince himself of it.
“You have to.”
“But I don’t want to.”
She rubs her face, hard enough that it leaves a red spot on her forehead. “I can’t do this right now. Why are you crying?”
“I don’t know, ma.” His face feels wet and hot and warm.
The tears slid into his mouth, salty and thick.
“It’s okay,” she says. “You’re sick. Ma’s gonna give you a shot. It’ll calm you down help you sleep.”
He’d seen him mother takes shots to sleep, more times then he can count, he knows she makes different kinds for her clients. That's why he isn't supposed to see them. But he doesn't want to be cranky or wake up to sleepy to eat breakfast or lunch.
The idea of sleep felt heavy, like sinking underwater. "Come on jabber”. His mother gestures for his hand, and he’d held it tight to his chest.
“Is it gonna hurt?”
“Only a little. It’s good pain. Means you’re getting better.”
She grabs the needle. Metal flashes under the light. He watches her heat something up, the smell sharp and bitter, making his nose sting. She draws the liquid slow—less than a third, then more, halfway. The needle was bound to be sharp he knew this, it had to go in his skin after all
The light above buzzed faintly, too bright to look at for long.
“Give me your arm.”
He hesitates. His arm feels heavy, like it’s already falling asleep and panic soars through his stomach.
His fingers tingled, numb and too aware all at once.
“You trust your ma, don’t you?” he ask and her voice is nice again. Soft and low and he cant possibly rell her no, even if his is throat felt tight, even through the pounding in his chest.
“yea”
She takes his arm. The needle pinches, burns, then spreads cold and hot at the same time. His skin buzzes. His ears ring too loudly and the room seems to grow.
The floor felt far away, like he was standing on it through glass.
Then everything feels slow.
The walls start to melt, colors dripping and pooling at the corners. The floor ripples under his feet. His thoughts come apart, floaty and soft. He’s scared, his heart thuds loud and wrong, but his ma is scratching his scalp again, slow and careful, and that makes it better. Her voice sounds far away and right next to him at the same time. Looking back on it he’s lucky the dose was lower, lucky his ma was a chemist who could make her own. Not many kids survived a heroin trip.
His ma pats his back slowly and he feels his eyes grow heavy.
“Ma-?” words don't work. His mouth fills full of cotton and his chest hurts but he feels like he’s a firecracker on fire but not burning. Like every nerve in his body was active, but not in pain, His tongue felt too big for his mouth.
“Quite, “ she’d slurred out rubbing a hand down his back to calm him, and the pressure is nice, grounds him in a way that makes him feel safe. His ma never really liked to hug him anymore. Not like now. He closed his eyes and tried to watch the colors that filled the room.
The world hummed, low and constant. It’s nice to fall asleep in a hug.
So he smiles and tries to breathe through the colors.
Shush, it’s ok jay,” she murmurs. “My Jabberwocky.” she hums a song he isn't quite familiar with but it makes him tired, The word curls warm in his chest. He doesn’t know what it means. He thinks it’s good. It settles there, heavy and glowing and before long he falls asleep while awake. Jabber is seven halfway to eight when he learns what if feels like when time stops.
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and 10 when it begins again.
It becomes a frequent ritual after that, when Jabber gets too rowdy or loud or talkative, or if his ma just really needs a way to keep him quiet long enough through her own highs. It works. He stops being afraid of needles, and a horrible itch settles under his skin when he’s without, deep and crawling, like it lives in his bones. When he starts being loud and talkative, arguing just to get her to dose him again. He’s smart enough to know something is wrong, that the need is bad, but his ma keeps giving him just enough that he can breathe, just enough that the room stays still. And when it stops working, time stops with it.
He’s 10 by the time he’s gained a slight tolerance of 56mg of it, and it no longer helps. Nothing helps.
Jabber’s hands won’t stop shaking. He tries to suck in a breath but every part of his body hurts, his chest tight and sore, like he’s been kicked there. He feels clammy and cold but hot at the same time, sweat sticking his shirt to his back. But at least he wasn’t crying anymore. He almost feels bad for being so angry with his ma when he was younger for not having the energy to cook. Fuck, he didn’t even have the energy to move from his room to the bathroom, his legs buzzing and weak under him. He’s been on the “medicine” long enough to know what withdrawal feels like, but it doesn’t make sense because he’d shot up the dose earlier that his ma had given him. It doesn’t make sense why he feels so sick. Like there’s an itch under his skin that he doesn’t think even a cat’s claws would be sharp enough to scratch. He needs more.
But the thought of reaching in his ma’s dresser and taking it sends a wave of guilt through him, heavy and sour in his stomach. She’d be mad if she found out. But she’d be angrier if he took some from her selling pile or if he wasted money to buy from someone else. He knows this, and the last thing he needs is her yelling at him while he’s like this, her voice sharp and echoing in his skull. But god, he doesn’t think he would have made it without that extra dose. He needs more. He doesn’t know how long he’s been in his room, the days spinning by again, light and dark blurring together.
He would have to do it, have to steal just enough so that he could breathe, just enough where his ma wouldn’t notice.
He forces his body up, ignoring the wave of pain and nausea it sends through his stomach, bile burning the back of his throat. And forces himself to walk through the house. She’s still in the bathroom doing her beauty routine. Jabber doesn’t understand her need to spend money on so many product ingredients, for the face masks and the nails and the shampoos and creams that line the sink.
But it makes her happy. So he keeps his mouth shut.
He can hear her humming softly from behind the closed door, low and off-key, and creeps past, glad for the concrete that acts as their floorboards, cold under his bare feet. He knows which drawer she keeps it in, has been told to get up and grab their medicine more than once. It’s right there, so close that he can already imagine the itch gone, the trembles at bay, his jaw unclenched, him normal again.
He reaches into the drawer, pulls out one of her small bags, and begins to shut it when he hears footsteps.
fuck
“Jay, what’s wrong?” Her voice is soft, and when he glances at the doorway her black coils are halfway in two-strand twists that cascade down her back.
“Nothing, ma. I’m about to head out,” he lies easily, because he’s rarely home anymore unless they’re getting high together.
“What are you doing in my room?” Her eyes flit across his face, then over to the dresser drawer that hadn’t been closed all the way, and his blood chills. He was fucked, so fucked.
“You messing with my shit?”
“I— I just needed a bit more to stop the shakes.”
“And you couldn’t ask me?”
“Sorry, thought you was busy.”
“Naw, you had to be so grown, come in here taking my shit like you pay bills in this house. Give it back.”
“Please, ma.”
“Naw. And since you call yourself stealing, you want some you can get up and learn how to make it, or find the money to buy it, cause you ain’t getting shit more from me.”
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
“That’s your problem, Jabber, you don’t think,” she bites out, and Jabber should have been used to her mood swings, but the more childish part of his brain is angry. He has to have it now. She’d made it that way. She’d fucked him over and was now getting mad at the consequences of it.
“Why’d you give it to me in the first place?”
His voice comes out small, pathetic in a way he doesn’t doubt sounds too soft, but he’s dizzy and sweating and feels so sick his teeth chatter.
“The fuck you mean, Jabber?” There’s concern in her eyes now, and her purple eyes soften, but she doesn’t move to help him. Doesn’t move to fix this.
And that just makes him angrier.
“WHY YOU FUCKING DOSE ME,” he yells, regretting the words as soon as they leave his mouth. The hand catches him off guard, but the sting in his cheek doesn’t. The slap knocks the breath from his lungs, ears ringing, vision flashing white, and all concern is gone from his mother’s eyes.
“Who the fuck you think you talking to?”
“All this,” and he doesn’t know if he means the trembles or the sickness or the way his face burns where she hit him, “it’s your fucking fault.” Tears gather in his eyes, hot and Shameful, but he refuses to let them fall. His ma had always hated his tears the most. Said they made him weak, said they were ugly, said boys didn’t cry unless they wanted something. He can deal with the anger. The punches and words are better than the silence, better than the way she goes hollow and looks past him like he’s already gone.
“Go to your room,” she says, sharp and final. Not yelling now. That’s how he knows she’s serious. Her voice is flat, tired, and dangerous. “I’m done, Jabber. Since I’m such a bad parent, I won’t give you shit else. Not a fucking drop.”
His chest caves in on itself. The sob slips out before he can stop it, loud and broken, ugly like she hates. He clamps a hand over his mouth but it’s too late. His body betrays him, shaking hard enough his teeth click. “Ma, please,” he says, and it comes out wrong, comes out small.
“now Get out my room"
He knows that tone, knows there is no arguing it. No bargaining. No more pretending. And he feels his heart sink in his chest. God he fucked up. So he drags himself away, feet heavy. Legs feeling like there pumped full of lead where every step sends sparks of pain up his spine. The closet at the end of the hall is his room, if you can call it that. Just enough space to curl into, just enough air to breathe if he’s careful. He pulls the door shut behind him and the dark swallows him whole.
The shaking gets worse once he’s alone. His muscles pull tight, then loose, then tight again, like they can’t remember how they’re supposed to work. All jabber had been able to think about was how bad everything hurts. His skin is sticky with sweat, cold and clammy, soaking into his shirt. His stomach twists until he thinks he might throw up, but there’s nothing left in him. He curls into a ball, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight, nails digging into his thighs. He loses time there. Minutes stretch into hours, or maybe seconds. It’s all the same. All he can think about is falling, tumbling down a dark, deep rabbit hole, walls slick and endless. All alone. No voice calling after him. No potion to make him big enough to handle all this. Just the drop, and waiting for the bottom.
Jabber’s first real withdrawal is burned into his memory, sharp and permanent. Like a brand. Like the thin white scars on his body. He remembers clawing at his own knees, fingers digging in so hard he thought he’d split skin, thought he’d tear himself open just to feel something else. He still has the scars, little half-moons pressed into his flesh, proof that it really happened, that he didn’t imagine it.
He’d rocks back and forth for what seemed like forever, breathing shallow, counting each breath like it matters. His head pounds. His bones ache. There’s a sound in his ears like rushing water, like he’s underwater and sinking fast. He hates her. He needs her. Both thoughts exist at the same time and make him feel sick.
But he knows how this ends. He always does.
She’ll cave eventually. She always does. She’ll come back, sigh heavily, say she didn’t mean it like that she had just been angry, but he’s gotta be disciplined, that she’s mean out of love. She’ll give him just enough to stop the shaking, just enough to make him forgive her. They’ll both pretend it never happened, that this isn’t their life, that he isn’t ten years old curled up in a closet waiting for his fix.
Until he does something wrong again.