Smoke

Jack and Alex used to have the perfect relationship. They'd always been the cute couple that every other couple wished they could be, but what people didn't realize was what had gone on behind closed doors for the past two years of their relationship.

"Bitch."
"Whore."
"Slut."

These were insults commonly thrown at Jack by his boyfriend. God, he wished Alex would stop, but you try saying that to someone that's beating the shit out of you.

The worst part wasn't even the beating, though; oh, no, the worst part was going out and seeing his friends completely oblivious to the toxicity of their relationship. It was the nights when Jack came home to an empty bed because Alex was mad at him for some reason or another. It was that, no matter how many times Alex hit or raped or degraded Jack, Jack still loved Alex. You could love someone that you were terribly afraid of, right?

It was pathetic, really. Even though it was dangerous, there were still times when Jack would beg Alex to please, just come cuddle him. He knew Alex would hit him for being so whiny and attached, but he would do anything to just feel Alex's affection like he had for the first four years of their relationship. That was before things went bad, though.

Alex knew it was wrong. Goddamn, his mom would kill him if she found out how he treated Jack. Cass, Rian, and Zack would no doubt help. But he knew how they'd feel. He knew because, for some reason, he felt that same murderous rage toward Jack every time he even slightly fucked up.

It wasn't Jack's fault, though. Alex fucking loved Jack, but he got so damn carried away; so caught up in the feeling of anger that fueled him day by day.

"Jack, you fucking cunt!" Alex yelled, the door downstairs slamming. "Get your ass down here."

Jack cowered away from Alex's voice for a second before he obeyed. It would be much worse for him if he didn't.

"H-hello, S-s-s-sir," Jack whimpered, absolutely, 100% terrified of the man in front of him.

"Jacky," Alex said, sickly sweet, as he stepped toward Jack. Jack felt Alex's hot breath on his cheek as Alex leaned in close to his ear, and it took everything in him not to step back. "What the fuck did I tell you about stuttering?"

"I-I sound l-l-like a path-pathetic whore," Jack said, repeating Alex's own words before feeling the aforementioned boy's fist connect with his jaw.

He didn't even flinch.

Alex had noticed Jack getting thinner. Everyone had, but Alex was the only one who knew the reason. The offhand comment he'd made about Jack's belly weeks before had gotten to the younger boy. Alex heard him throwing up after any small amount of food consumed

Of course, Alex also noticed the cuts. At first he was confused, because, yeah, those cuts on Jack's thighs weren't made by Alex. There were hundreds of them. Then, he was sad. He loved Jack. It was his fault that the love of his life was hurting himself as if it weren't enough for Alex to hurt him. After that, though, he got a sadistic sort of pleasure from it. He got off on looking at those cuts while he forcibly fucked Jack senseless.

And, yeah, Alex sure as hell noticed the drugs. He noticed that Jack would reek of weed when Alex came home from work. That was all it was at first, and Alex would always beat him because he hated the smell and it was Jack's own damn fault. It was just a little pot to take his mind off of his shitty life.

But after that, it got worse. By it, I mean everything. Alex beat Jack to a fucking pulp every night to the point that he could barely breathe, much less move. The eating disorder got worse. Jack never ate anymore, and he was constantly dry-heaving, trying to puke out all the food that wasn't there. He was skin and bones, and every beating hurt him more because of it.

The self-harm got worse, too. Jack was covered head to toe in deep cuts anywhere that wasn't covered in bruises. And, of course, the drugs got worse. It wasn't just a few bong bowls anymore, it was fucking cocaine and heroine and, fucking hell, meth.

Alex noticed all of this, but what he didn't notice was that his and Jack's friends noticed as well. He hadn't been careful lately, caution thrown to the wind as the boy's sole focus became keeping Jack in his place.

"We're worried about Jack, man," Zack said.

"Alex," Cass began coldly. "We know what you're doing to Jack."

"What I'm doing to Jack?!" Alex protested. "You think it's my fault that he's anorexic? Or cutting? Or, Jesus Christ, a fucking tweaker? I've noticed just as much as everyone else, and I'm fucking worried as shit."

He put up a convincing act, because his friends finally shooed him off to "care" for Jack. As if.

"Fucking worthless bitch!" Alex called into the house. He knew Jack would respond to that, even if he was completely fucked up. "Get out here or I'll fucking kill you!"

Jack was down the stairs in a matter of seconds.

"You can't kill me, baby, I'm so much stronger than you."

Oh yes, Jack was tweaking. He never felt this powerful or called Alex baby when he wasn't on meth. Alex felt like shit for a split second; this could kill Jack and it was all his fucking fault. But then he was just really fucking pissed.

"Do you wanna fucking try me, cunt?"

Alex grabbed at the collar of Jack's shirt and punched him right in the nose. For the first time ever, Jack punched back.

Alex was holding the flame of his lighter in the fire pit to light the logs. Jack was sober, and Alex had let him go outside for the first time in months.

"Let's play a game with the smoke, Jacky," Alex said, sadistic smile ever-present.

"W-what is it, Sir?" Jack asked, voice shaking.

Alex grabbed Jack by the hair and stuck his hear over the newly lit fire, forcing Jack to inhale the smoke until it became too much and he passed out. Alex stripped them both and fucked Jack's comatose body senseless before snuffing the fire, taking Jack's clothes, and leaving Jack himself to freeze (if Alex was lucky.)

Alex's hopes weren't realized, as Jack returned home the next morning, a shaking, blubbering mess. He ran past Alex with his head down and curled into their bed under the covers for the next three hours, sobbing and trying to nurse his freezing body back to health.

As was to be expected, Jack got a cold the next day. The boy was sober again, Alex had beaten him twice by noon, and he was in the bathtub under water that had gone cold long ago slicing up every spare inch of his skin. And he was crying. God, he was sobbing like a child, and the annoying sound gave Alex reason enough to give Jack a third beating for the day.

A week later, Jack still wasn't better. His physical state caused a weak immune system, and he was now ninety percent sure he has pneumonia, ninety-five percent sure he was going to die, and a hundred percent sure that he didn't really care. Anything was better than drug withdrawals and several harsh daily beatings from the one boy he loved most.

RIP
Jack Bassam Barakat
Beloved Friend and Lover
1988-2015

That was what Jack's headstone said, but Alex knew like hell that he deserved nothing less than being called Jack's lover. He treated Jack like less than a worst enemy.

No, Jack hadn't died of pneumonia. He'd gotten better after a month, but he was broken beyond repair. Alex broke him more and more each day. Jack had finally ended it. Alex had found him in his kitchen, an empty bottle of Ambien and another empty bottle of vodka on the floor near him.

He had been shattered. It was all his fucking fault. He loved Jack, but he'd hurt him so much. His friends couldn't look him in the eye; for Christ's sake, he could barely stand his own fucking reflection. He hated himself for hurting Jack. He should be dead, not the wonderful boy that everyone loved—the boy that he loved.

With that in mind, Alex let himself fall forward and drop off of the bridge. He'd thought for three months that maybe Jack was better off dead than with him, and he found comfort knowing that he wasn't going to the same place as Jack.

As he hit the shallow water, Alex's last thought was that now he would go to hell, where he belonged, and maybe Jack could finally rest in peace knowing that Alex was really, truly gone.