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From time to time, Jack reminded himself he'd never be better than anyone he knows.
Ever since he was a child, he knew this. He tried his best at school, he really did. But it wasn't enough, all he got was a ‘congratulations’, pitiful. Sometimes even ‘it's your obligation’ when things were bad
That shaped him in a way he couldn't describe. He tried to love his parents, he really did. But he couldn't forget what they had done to him, or to his sister. How they yelled at them, refusing to acknowledge them when mad, telling them go fuck themselves, even when they were hungry.
It made him mad how he could do nothing about it.
It made him furious, even. It made him furious how he couldn't do nothing, and how even what he could do, it'd be taken as a joke.
He's grown a particular hatred towards them, not only his father, his mother too. Even his sister sometimes. He used to fantasize about running away, to never be found. Or dying.
He'd rather die, but if he failed, he didn't want to make them waste money on a lost cause like him. He considered himself a failure, ever since young.
And when his thoughts spiraled, and the anger seemed to flood his body, he could only think of something: alcohol. He didn't know why, he's never been much of a rebellious kid, not up until now.
His family has always pushed him towards alcohol, smoking, stuff like that. He denied it most of the time. But now?
He didn't really care what they thought. What were they going to do? Yell at him? He's gotten used to it. Used to being called sensitive, insulted. Most of the time by his father, his mother rarely ever said stuff like that to him, she was a completely different story with his sister… But that's not the point.
The point is, he is tired, and pissed off, and irritated, and his parents are out, his sister is sleeping, and he can't kill himself because he just can't.
So, he sneaked down the stairs, thank God this house is mostly made out of concrete, whatever it is, he's grateful that the stairs don't squeak with every step. Jack made his way to the kitchen, lights were turned off, but he's familiar with the layout, he's been living here his whole life. As he stepped past the doorframe, since there wasn't any door, it broke and they never bothered fixing it.
He rummaged through the cabinets, his parents did have a somewhat big collection of bottles. Of course they did. They bought and bought but never bothered to actually drink them, or finish them.
He was looking for something strong, if possible. And he found it after not so long, a half-empty vodka bottle. Or is it half-full? Whatever. He hoped this would bring him the warmth he was craving.
He unscrewed the cap from the bottle, leaning against the counter, thinking. Was he really doing this?
Since he is known to act on impulse, he did. He really is doing this. Getting drunk because he's a fucking lonely loser wiith no real friends.
Jack took a swig, the warm, yet unpleasant feeling immediately hitting his throat. His head throbbed, his heart pulsed faster than usual, not out of nervousness. Out of fear. What if he got caught? What is he gonna do with an empty bottle, even so, a vodka bottle? He knows this thing is pretty strong. He knows he shouldn't be doing this.
Matter of fact, he's feeling sick.
He drank the entire bottle and he didn't even realize! Now his head was throbbing, he hissed in pain as he tried to stand straight. He didn't know if it was the alcohol or the tears that blurred his vision anymore. When did he even start crying? Did it even make the pain go away, like he thought it would? The answer is no, the pain didn't go away. It's stronger, deeper. He can't bring himself to be angry anymore, just incredibly frustrated. Frustrated, but in a sad way, where you just break down. Loud, uncontrollable sobs that won't stop, even when you're running out of breath.
He's never been as strong as he'd like to say he is, the only thing that has changed is that he's learned how to hide it. He hides his feelings, what he really likes to do. All this, to the point he doesn't know himself. But at least, people don't look at him weird, at least not every single second of his life. He wonders what would happen if he never existed in the first place.
He thinks his sister would be happier.
He thinks his family wouldn't fight as much.
He thinks he wouldn't be doing this, obviously.
Sometimes he wishes he was never born, or that he was someone else. He was envious of his classmates, seeing them laugh, smile. Have fun. While he rots inside of himself every single day, and while the only warmth he can ever feel is artificial, the burn of the alcohol down his throat.
He doesn't really care about anyone, he doesn't know why. Ever since he lost them both he's been like this, numb, or, an asshole. Like he's normally described by everyone.
People say he looks like a nice person, but he can't believe it. He knows he's not a good person, and definitely isn't changing anytime soon if he keeps getting drunk and passing out on his bed after literally crawling up the stairs. Was it really that much? Probably was. He doesn't know, either way. And why would he care, what's done is done, way too late to regret it now.
Robyn is here. He's sleeping, he looks so peaceful. Jack wishes life was so easy for him too. He wishes he didn't have to be like this. And he wishes making a change was easier too, he became so comfortable with being miserable, he really can't bring himself to change.
And he thinks of Connor, or Katanas, his online name. He misses him, they've never met in real life, but he wishes they did. Soon. He wants to hug him, just be with him and sit in silence. He wants to feel his hair through his fingers, probably soft, wavy black hair. That'd feel nice.
He feels weirdly warm whenever he thinks of him like that, so he just shakes the thought off. That's stupid. Does he even like physical contact? What if Connor thinks he's ugly when they meet??? What. What? Why is he thinking about that?
Nevermind, then.
He fell onto the old mattress with a thud, the bed sinking with his weight. He somehow managed to cover himself up with a blanket (yes, even that he struggled with), and passed out after two minutes. His mind drifted off from any thoughts. He's never had many dreams, anyway, both ways. He really doesn't know what to do with his life after he hits 18.
But for now, his day ends, even if it's with a throbbing headache, smelling like alcohol, eyes red from crying, and a sore throat from sobbing.
Morning is gonna be hell on earth tomorrow, great.