Chapter Text
—
He blinks his eyes open; greeted with the vast expanse of space that goes on for miles, never-ending in its tempting dance with darkness. Gloom pools at his feet. An empty void stares back. It's pitch black, terrifying; inviting. Where the edges of whatever unbearably colourful reality once was to him before begin to blur into emptiness; light's absence remains constant, and time passes yet somehow doesn't.
In here, it's quiet. Deafeningly. The silence stretches on, but the tension within this atmosphere of somewhere thickens, as if near the edge of breaking into pieces.
The dark red lighting cuts through the shadows like a cruel judgement forced upon him; this lone, dimly-lit streetlamp amidst a void of nothing. He doesn't say anything, doesn't mutter a single word, doesn't even let his thoughts be ever so much of a whisper louder.
All Jax can do is stand underneath it, silently searching for a comfort the light won't ever bring.
—
Jax remembers the slam of the bedroom door as he trudged through the silence, each ragged breath that left his panicked lungs in whatever futile attempt to gather air he didn't need. He remembers the knot carefully tied at the ends of his stomach and this deep pit of guilt that gnaws at him painfully.
He gasps, clawing at the ends of his overalls, terrified at the gravity of it all. He'll never get to go home. He'll never get to know if she survived. Breathe in, Jax desperately thinks to himself for the sake of false reassurance—pushing aside all the things that clutter his desk because he's on the brink of falling, and he knows that if he does, he'll never get up again—
And then, suddenly, his fingers reach for the top drawer and pull it open. It's as if a part of him is trying to cling onto a lifeline in open waters that he knows is already torn.
He feels the single item kept inside, that was hidden away for years without acknowledgement, and now—Now, it's in the grasp of his hand, and he can see it.
It's a hidden memory he once buried that never truly died. It's an old friend. It's a hand that takes a hold of his wrist, whose face will always warp a little at the edges as if a puzzle piece he can't search for the courage of putting back together.
Her pink bowtie.
Breathe out.
He breathes. He breathes. Jax spares himself a glance at the framed photos that hang up on his wall, looks at the only one actually facing him. Their past expressions are kept frozen together by the pitying hands of time, a moment worth holding on to yet as fleetingly inevitable as everything else.
Their smiles are shadowed by the fate they fell victim to—of colourful eyes and a black pit that erased any identity they once carried. There's no evidence of their existence in this world except these photos; alongside the memory of one who refuses to remember.
He clutches the bowtie to his chest. His breathing steadies, however with a slight tremble at its edge.
Despite the minutes that pass by, that make Jax think of his state otherwise, his eyes still feel heavy. His gaze averts back to the mirror.
A hand reaches for his face.
There are tears.
No. No, no. Jax remembers abrupt screams from both sides of a torn room; cracked hearts thrown at unanswered doors and a distinct laugh heard in the middle. He panicks. No no no no no no no. He can't be, he shouldn't be, he—
You're really crying, mutliple familiar voices say altogether in synchronisation, cutting through the silence. It's both recognisable yet not at all. It's not a question either; just recognition. It makes dread settle into him, causes his heart to sink. It's calloused. Bitter. The faint, lingering touch of a hand ghosts against his shoulder, and he pulls away like it's molten iron.
But you did this to yourself, remember? she, they laugh the question out, and Jax wants to desperately shut everything out, needs to before he does something he ends up regretting.
You did it to them, the voices say, continuing their onslaught even further,
Jax grabs at his curled ears. His breathing quickens. The world blurs at the edges, seems to close in around him.
You did it to me—
He hears the voices mix and collide, their laughter scattered and jagged in places he can't decipher where.
"Shut up," he hisses through a gasp; tries to hold back the tears but to no avail. The presence sounds only more amused, more deprecating, more cruel.
And you'll end up doing it again to her—
Jax sees Ribbit behind him in the mirror, face entirely empty aside for that smile he can't find himself recognizing anymore. Without instinct, in the nature of fear and hatred, he punches the glass. Again, and again, and again.
To everyone else—
Jax slams his knuckles against it so hard the mirror shatters. The glass breaks, tears at reality like everything is a fabrication of nothing at all. His reflection is cracked, and only his real self can stare back.
Isn't that right,
Before he can even control it, the corners of his vision burst into colourful fireworks. Each tiny fragment of that mirror catches the sudden prismatic hues that melt into his skin. Some shards reveal their faces, expressions veiled with sharp judgement. He chokes out a weak sob.
The pigments only grow painfully brighter. It's as if he's peering through the lenses of a kaleidoscope and whatever vibrant world awaits Jax is dragging him in, without hesitation nor any chance of escape.
Le—
The last thing Jax sees through the clash of bright colours and blurry tears before hitting the ground is Ribbit's pink bowtie, left out of his reach and as it always had been—too far for him to grasp onto.
His eyes snap shut.
—
It's quiet here.
A disarray of thoughts cloud over his mind. Through it all, there's this empty space left completely blank, like an absence of somehow he shouldn't be forgetting.
That hand draws itself into a fist; yet whatever anger he tries to wring out of himself pulls away. A heart, empty and dim, like endless static from a glowing television that he never risked turning back on.
It's so quiet. He doesn't know what this place might be or what will happen now. He just doesn't move, like something else in this world will crumble and it will all be his fault again. But it has. It already has.
Look at yourself, a thought as sharp as a knife whispers, each word carefully said as it dares him to look at the reflection that stares back. He does. Jax can't bear the sight of who he sees—where a face lies bare for all to judge. But there's no one here anymore. They're gone.
It's better that way, Jax thinks lowly, knuckles burning a pale periwinkle. His gaze casts its attention down to the black water that surrounds him. The tufts of his pink overalls are worn, roughly textured fabric too real for a place that never was.
He left them the way he wanted to leave—silently, quietly, his final moments left for no one to see but the shadows; as if a stain had finally been wiped clean and nobody said a single word. Closed windows, locked doors, and the one key that he was sure to keep to his grave.
They won't have to worry anymore, he considers. They don't have to be burdened with that dead weight. They would've gotten hurt more. They would've hated him for who he really was.
As Jax glances above the light that casts its scarlet glow down upon him, he knows that they'll think of him as nobody but the role he chose to play. The one whose words cut as sharp as glass, always pushing and testing another's patience until something cracks.
And knowing that is all he's ever wanted.
And then, just as he's about to give into the darkness, before he can drop this final key down the bottomless drain where no hand can be able to reach and succeed in a last-ditch endeavor to face an end that his starring role deserves—
Click
The door opens, instead.
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