Bones
Twenty Eight
“Jamie, we need to talk,” Nick says as he leans against the kitchen counter.
Nick got home from work 20 minutes ago and, quite honestly, it had been a long day. No other way about it. It had just been one of those days. The kind where everyone’s about to bite each other’s heads off, and punches may or may not have been thrown. It didn’t start off that way, but really, they never do. The supervisor had thrown a drink in a drunk customer’s face, been sent home, and then everything after that had been a clusterfuck. Tension was high, with the boss calling a team meeting about someone stealing supplies at the start of the shift, two trainees walking out, the drama causing new girl trying to get at least two different people fired, including the aforementioned manager, $358 in tab walk-outs for the entire staff, and Nick himself being a clumsy and forgetful fucker with everything else on his mind. Jamie lost time Jamie lost time JamielosttimeJamielosttimeJamielost time oh god.
Jamie’s curled up on the couch, the TV on and Nilla in his lap. His head tilts back in acknowledgement, and after he sees the look on Nick’s face and reads his body language, the look of almost happiness slowly drips off Jamie’s own face. He sits up, moving Nilla as little as possible, but the portly cat barely notices anyways.
“What’s wrong?”
Nick doesn’t even know where to start. So he says so.
“Jamie… I.. I don’t even know where to start,” Nick says, exasperation clear in his voice as he runs a tired hand over his face. Jamie clears a spot beside him so Nick can sit down, and Nick gladly accepts the offer.
“You.. uhm, the other day. You lost time. You were gone for over an hour.”
Nick can see the shiver that runs through Jamie’s body, how he visibly recoils and draws himself as far away from Nick as possible. He bows his head, and he won’t look Nick in the eye.
“You haven’t done that for a long time, and when you did do it was when..” Nick trails off, because they both already know what he’s talking about. “I though you were getting better. You seemed like you were doing so well. Jesus. How didn’t I notice.” The last part Nick directs at himself, but Jamie takes it as a personal attack.
“I’m sorry, Nick.”
“Let me see you arms.”
Jamie’s breath catches in his throat, and he chokes on the word trying to force its way out, “What?”
“Let me see your arms, Jamie. Now. I’m not playing.”
Jamie shakes his head, biting his lip, and drawing his arms across his chest.
“Jamie. I swear to God, do not make me.”
“No, Nicky,” Jamie shakes his head, pulling his arms tighter against his chest, his voice barely above a whisper.
Nick doesn’t lose his temper very often, but he’s about to.
“Jamie,” Nick says in the most authoritative voice he can muster with the war raging in his head and heart. Jamie simply shakes his head meekly, and Nick thinks his brother looks like he’s about to cry. And that’s it. That’s the only answer he really needs. Temper gone.
Nick lunges forward, grabbing Jamie’s arms from his chest. And Jamie, he fights Nick the entire time. Nick doesn’t know when Jamie starts crying or when he starts yelling, but the adrenaline in his body takes over and there is only white noise and flailing limbs until they’re in a jumble on the floor with Nick straddling Jamie, pinning him in place, fingers wrapped around thin wrists.
Nick’s breath hitches in his throat when he manages to finally pull up Jamie’s sleeves. And he starts to cry.
“Oh, Jamie,” he chokes, “why didn’t you tell me it was this bad again.”
On Jamie’s arms are groups of cuts. Tally marks. Purple and red, old and new. Groups of binges, purges, days without eating. A collection of failures and successes, because really, in Jamie’s Sad, Sad Life, there is no difference.
“Jamie, why didn’t you tell me. I could have helped you. I could have—”
“Could have done what Nick?” Jamie snatches his arms away, and Nick can only fathom what’s hiding underneath the rest of Jamie’s clothes.
Nick looks down, and his heart stutters at the realization of what he’s just done. Jamie’s underneath him, more rumpled and disheveled than usual. His face is red and stained with tears, and Jamie can’t breathe to the point that he’s close to hyperventilating. He clutches his arms to himself like Nick’s touch had actually burned him.
“Could have done WHAT Nick? Really?” Jamie shoves Nick off of himself, and while Nick falls back on his ass Jamie clumsily and shakily pulls himself to his feet. “I’m fucking crazy Nick. I’m always going to be crazy. This is never going to get better. I’m never going to get better, and you can’t help me or change that. Do you think I really want to be like this? Do you think I don’t know how fucked up this is? Because I fucking do! I’m sorry mom shoved me off on you because I was about to ruin her marriage. I’m sorry I ruined your life. I’m sorry I ruined theirs. I’m sorry I destroy everything I fucking touch! But what none of you seem to fucking realize is that I’m NOT going to get better. No matter how many doctors you send me to, no matter how many times you shove me in the hospital, this will not go away.” Jamie’s on his feet now, pacing around the room, and Nick can only watch the train wreck that’s happening before him. Jamie finds his way to one of the cabinets, grabs a picture, and flings it across the room.
Nick recoils at the sound of shattering glass, and Nilla runs through the crack of Jamie’s bedroom door. Picture after picture after picture and then on to vases and anything else Jamie can get his hands on. He’s sobbing now, screaming and shaking as his frustration leaks out. After what feels like forever, Jamie’s legs give out and he falls into a pile on the floor, slumped over and leaning his forehead on his arm. As he lay there sobbing, Nick counts the ribs that appear and disappear through the thin shirt as Jamie’s lungs contract and fight.
“I want to die, Nick,” Jamie states.
Nick feels his heart break, and Jamie can hear it from across the room. “No, Jamie, baby, no—”
“Yes, Nick, I do. I’m so tired of this. I’m so fucking tired,” Jamie sits up, wipes his face, and begins trying to catch his breath. He looks Nick straight in the eye, “I’m tired of being tired. I’m tired of fighting. This is going to kill me, one way or another, and I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I’m such a fuck up. I’m sorry you have to watch this. I’m sorry I can’t get better. I’m sorry I’m me, and I’m sorry that I exist. I wish I didn’t.”
There’s a moment of silence in which both Jamie and Nick let the confession sink in. Nick’s crying, and he’s never felt this must pain in his entire life. He’s never felt this useless and he’s never felt such a lack of control.
And then it hits him, that this, this right here is what Jamie must feel like everyday.
“I just don’t want to hurt anymore, Nicky.”
Jamie and Nick sit there, and neither can bring themselves to look the other in the eye. Jamie is silent for several moments as he finishes wiping away the tears and fixing his clothes.
“I want you to go, Nick,” Jamie says and Nick instantly protests. Jamie cuts him off by saying, “Just for a little bit. I need to be alone, just for a little bit. We both need to cool off.” And looking at Jamie right now, more vulnerable than Nick has ever seen him, he can’t say no. So, he nods, knowing that he shouldn’t but agreeing anyways.
Nick gathers his things, and as he’s about to leave he hugs Jamie. “I’m sorry, Jamie. I truly am. I’m sorry I can’t help you. I’m sorry I can’t fix you. Just please, please, always remember that I love you.”
“I know, Nicky. I love you too. We can talk more later, but—”
“I know, I’m going.” Nick kisses Jamie softly before he lets him go, and he can feel himself start to cry again before he walks out the door.
Before the door is even shut, Jamie is sobbing, clutching his chest and sliding down the door. He clutches at the frame, fingernails tearing at the wood and his clothes, trying to find something to ground himself. He sobs and sobs and sobs, and as a fluffy calico paw assures him that it will be okay, he knows that this is it. This is how it ends.
Laura laughs manically from the corner of the room.
One pill, two pill, three pill.
(One rib, two rib, three rib.)
One pill, two pill more.
(One hip bone, two hip bone.)
Jamie eats them up till they’re all gone.
Because one plus one plus one isn’t death, but it’s as close as he’s felt to it in a long time and, alternatively, it’s an excuse. (He hasn’t eaten for days, 167 hours to be exact, so this really shouldn’t take too long.)
Either way, Jamie failed. He understands what Laura did now; she lost the game, and this is what happens when you lose.
Jamie knows – hell, he’s known for years – that this is how he’s going to die; curled up naked on the bathroom floor, breath engulfed in the scent of vomit. Tears and scratches, bloody both inside and out. He doesn’t know exactly how it’s going to happen – whether it’ll be from heart failure, by his own hands, maybe even choking on his own vomit, or simply from starvation itself – but this is how Jamie dies.
Blood and thick saliva under his fingernails, acid stinging his throat, empty and alone.
Ain’t life grand?
Nick got home from work 20 minutes ago and, quite honestly, it had been a long day. No other way about it. It had just been one of those days. The kind where everyone’s about to bite each other’s heads off, and punches may or may not have been thrown. It didn’t start off that way, but really, they never do. The supervisor had thrown a drink in a drunk customer’s face, been sent home, and then everything after that had been a clusterfuck. Tension was high, with the boss calling a team meeting about someone stealing supplies at the start of the shift, two trainees walking out, the drama causing new girl trying to get at least two different people fired, including the aforementioned manager, $358 in tab walk-outs for the entire staff, and Nick himself being a clumsy and forgetful fucker with everything else on his mind. Jamie lost time Jamie lost time JamielosttimeJamielosttimeJamielost time oh god.
Jamie’s curled up on the couch, the TV on and Nilla in his lap. His head tilts back in acknowledgement, and after he sees the look on Nick’s face and reads his body language, the look of almost happiness slowly drips off Jamie’s own face. He sits up, moving Nilla as little as possible, but the portly cat barely notices anyways.
“What’s wrong?”
Nick doesn’t even know where to start. So he says so.
“Jamie… I.. I don’t even know where to start,” Nick says, exasperation clear in his voice as he runs a tired hand over his face. Jamie clears a spot beside him so Nick can sit down, and Nick gladly accepts the offer.
“You.. uhm, the other day. You lost time. You were gone for over an hour.”
Nick can see the shiver that runs through Jamie’s body, how he visibly recoils and draws himself as far away from Nick as possible. He bows his head, and he won’t look Nick in the eye.
“You haven’t done that for a long time, and when you did do it was when..” Nick trails off, because they both already know what he’s talking about. “I though you were getting better. You seemed like you were doing so well. Jesus. How didn’t I notice.” The last part Nick directs at himself, but Jamie takes it as a personal attack.
“I’m sorry, Nick.”
“Let me see you arms.”
Jamie’s breath catches in his throat, and he chokes on the word trying to force its way out, “What?”
“Let me see your arms, Jamie. Now. I’m not playing.”
Jamie shakes his head, biting his lip, and drawing his arms across his chest.
“Jamie. I swear to God, do not make me.”
“No, Nicky,” Jamie shakes his head, pulling his arms tighter against his chest, his voice barely above a whisper.
Nick doesn’t lose his temper very often, but he’s about to.
“Jamie,” Nick says in the most authoritative voice he can muster with the war raging in his head and heart. Jamie simply shakes his head meekly, and Nick thinks his brother looks like he’s about to cry. And that’s it. That’s the only answer he really needs. Temper gone.
Nick lunges forward, grabbing Jamie’s arms from his chest. And Jamie, he fights Nick the entire time. Nick doesn’t know when Jamie starts crying or when he starts yelling, but the adrenaline in his body takes over and there is only white noise and flailing limbs until they’re in a jumble on the floor with Nick straddling Jamie, pinning him in place, fingers wrapped around thin wrists.
Nick’s breath hitches in his throat when he manages to finally pull up Jamie’s sleeves. And he starts to cry.
“Oh, Jamie,” he chokes, “why didn’t you tell me it was this bad again.”
On Jamie’s arms are groups of cuts. Tally marks. Purple and red, old and new. Groups of binges, purges, days without eating. A collection of failures and successes, because really, in Jamie’s Sad, Sad Life, there is no difference.
“Jamie, why didn’t you tell me. I could have helped you. I could have—”
“Could have done what Nick?” Jamie snatches his arms away, and Nick can only fathom what’s hiding underneath the rest of Jamie’s clothes.
Nick looks down, and his heart stutters at the realization of what he’s just done. Jamie’s underneath him, more rumpled and disheveled than usual. His face is red and stained with tears, and Jamie can’t breathe to the point that he’s close to hyperventilating. He clutches his arms to himself like Nick’s touch had actually burned him.
“Could have done WHAT Nick? Really?” Jamie shoves Nick off of himself, and while Nick falls back on his ass Jamie clumsily and shakily pulls himself to his feet. “I’m fucking crazy Nick. I’m always going to be crazy. This is never going to get better. I’m never going to get better, and you can’t help me or change that. Do you think I really want to be like this? Do you think I don’t know how fucked up this is? Because I fucking do! I’m sorry mom shoved me off on you because I was about to ruin her marriage. I’m sorry I ruined your life. I’m sorry I ruined theirs. I’m sorry I destroy everything I fucking touch! But what none of you seem to fucking realize is that I’m NOT going to get better. No matter how many doctors you send me to, no matter how many times you shove me in the hospital, this will not go away.” Jamie’s on his feet now, pacing around the room, and Nick can only watch the train wreck that’s happening before him. Jamie finds his way to one of the cabinets, grabs a picture, and flings it across the room.
Nick recoils at the sound of shattering glass, and Nilla runs through the crack of Jamie’s bedroom door. Picture after picture after picture and then on to vases and anything else Jamie can get his hands on. He’s sobbing now, screaming and shaking as his frustration leaks out. After what feels like forever, Jamie’s legs give out and he falls into a pile on the floor, slumped over and leaning his forehead on his arm. As he lay there sobbing, Nick counts the ribs that appear and disappear through the thin shirt as Jamie’s lungs contract and fight.
“I want to die, Nick,” Jamie states.
Nick feels his heart break, and Jamie can hear it from across the room. “No, Jamie, baby, no—”
“Yes, Nick, I do. I’m so tired of this. I’m so fucking tired,” Jamie sits up, wipes his face, and begins trying to catch his breath. He looks Nick straight in the eye, “I’m tired of being tired. I’m tired of fighting. This is going to kill me, one way or another, and I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I’m such a fuck up. I’m sorry you have to watch this. I’m sorry I can’t get better. I’m sorry I’m me, and I’m sorry that I exist. I wish I didn’t.”
There’s a moment of silence in which both Jamie and Nick let the confession sink in. Nick’s crying, and he’s never felt this must pain in his entire life. He’s never felt this useless and he’s never felt such a lack of control.
And then it hits him, that this, this right here is what Jamie must feel like everyday.
“I just don’t want to hurt anymore, Nicky.”
Jamie and Nick sit there, and neither can bring themselves to look the other in the eye. Jamie is silent for several moments as he finishes wiping away the tears and fixing his clothes.
“I want you to go, Nick,” Jamie says and Nick instantly protests. Jamie cuts him off by saying, “Just for a little bit. I need to be alone, just for a little bit. We both need to cool off.” And looking at Jamie right now, more vulnerable than Nick has ever seen him, he can’t say no. So, he nods, knowing that he shouldn’t but agreeing anyways.
Nick gathers his things, and as he’s about to leave he hugs Jamie. “I’m sorry, Jamie. I truly am. I’m sorry I can’t help you. I’m sorry I can’t fix you. Just please, please, always remember that I love you.”
“I know, Nicky. I love you too. We can talk more later, but—”
“I know, I’m going.” Nick kisses Jamie softly before he lets him go, and he can feel himself start to cry again before he walks out the door.
Before the door is even shut, Jamie is sobbing, clutching his chest and sliding down the door. He clutches at the frame, fingernails tearing at the wood and his clothes, trying to find something to ground himself. He sobs and sobs and sobs, and as a fluffy calico paw assures him that it will be okay, he knows that this is it. This is how it ends.
Laura laughs manically from the corner of the room.
-
One pill, two pill, three pill.
(One rib, two rib, three rib.)
One pill, two pill more.
(One hip bone, two hip bone.)
Jamie eats them up till they’re all gone.
Because one plus one plus one isn’t death, but it’s as close as he’s felt to it in a long time and, alternatively, it’s an excuse. (He hasn’t eaten for days, 167 hours to be exact, so this really shouldn’t take too long.)
Either way, Jamie failed. He understands what Laura did now; she lost the game, and this is what happens when you lose.
Jamie knows – hell, he’s known for years – that this is how he’s going to die; curled up naked on the bathroom floor, breath engulfed in the scent of vomit. Tears and scratches, bloody both inside and out. He doesn’t know exactly how it’s going to happen – whether it’ll be from heart failure, by his own hands, maybe even choking on his own vomit, or simply from starvation itself – but this is how Jamie dies.
Blood and thick saliva under his fingernails, acid stinging his throat, empty and alone.
Ain’t life grand?