Soundtrack: ''Flood' - Jars of Clay

*Lovelies, we're at the bottom with Jon White. Trigger warnings: references to drug use and self-harm. Read somewhere safe, cozy with a blanket and know we're hauling Jon out of this hole one page at a time...*

{Jon}

He didn't know what time of day it was. Dizzy, he could barely hold a thought in his head. He pinched the tips of his fingers, over and over, feeling how thick and numb they had become. He felt like the seasick passenger in a life raft, adrift on a vast ocean, huge swells rising and falling under him. He couldn't even have said what his life had been like before the wreck.

He pictured the steps to his dealer's house, up the sidewalk to the side entrance, and what he would say to get another pill. He could barely make it to the bathroom without falling over.

From the toilet, he heard the sound of his family having supper, his sisters' chatter and his father's deep voice answering theirs. Hanging onto the sink, he washed his hands, first one, then the other, then pushed himself up to open the medicine cabinet. Surely there would be something that could take the edge off how shitty he was feeling right now—wasn't that what medicine was for?

The narrow metal shelves were empty except for a crumpled package of Q-tips. Jon tried to make his eyes focus to be sure. There had been Tylenol and cough syrup and all kinds of things in this cupboard before, right?

He swayed back to his room and collapsed on his bed with a groan.

"Pretty stupid, Jon White."

He lifted his head, peering blearily at the person standing in the middle of his floor and looking around his room. The boy's lip curled. "Look at the mess you made."

Jon's face burned, recognizing his own collared shirt and creased khaki pants. He looked so clean and put together.

"You don't know what it's been like," he rasped, rubbing his knuckles into the wasted muscles on his chest. "This fucking hurt."

The boy lifted his eyebrows coldly. "When did you start talking like that? Swearing is for people who aren't smart enough to think of a better word."

Jon squeezed the tips of his numb fingers. "Fuck you, too," he muttered. He couldn't look at him. The room moved softly like they were underwater. Only the boy was solid, bright and cold.

"No wonder you don't have any friends. Look at you. It's so embarrassing to think what our old friends would say if they could see you now. Thank god our brother is dead and never had to see you like this."

Judah. Jon put his hands to his head, squeezing tightly, like he could press the pain away. "Shut up."

The boy paced around the room, picking stuff up and dropping it with little disgusted noises. "I would hate to be in your shoes right now. You earned this and we both know it. Too bad you're dragging your parents down with you. They never did anything to deserve a son like you, did they?" He paused, as if listening. "What do you think our father will do when he finds out?" His head slowly swivelled to Jon, his face a blank oval in the swaying dark.

Jon clenched his teeth, swallowing the urge to throw up again. It felt like he'd been telling lies forever, the strain of hiding from his family stretching him so thin that he was worn to shreds underneath his smile. And this boy knew it all. "He'll hate me. For fucking up his perfect job. His perfect family."

The boy laughed shortly. "I think you're right for once. You can cross "White" off your birth certificate. Too bad for Pete. Two daughters—no sons. Unless he counts Cary."

"Shut up," Jon whispered.

"What's this?" the boy asked. He nudged something out from under the bed with his foot—Cary's folded knife. Jon bent slowly, feeling as if the room tipped with him, and took it in his hand. Its cold weight seemed to anchor him, slowing the spin.

The boy swung his desk chair around to sit, leaning back and crossing his ankles like he was getting ready for a long chat. "Do you think you were ever clean?" he mused. "I think you always knew, deep down—that there was something wrong with you. You tried hard, I'll give you that. And then... temptation is so seductive. The flesh is weak." He sighed.

Jon hung his head, his face burning dully. "What's it take to shut you up?"

"Guess it doesn't matter," the boy said as if Jon hadn't spoken. "Pretty sure there's no going back from this. You made this mess. Now you're going to live with it."

Jon needed both hands to pry the knife open. His breath started to come fast and short. He needed out of this foggy hell of a dream or whatever it was. He steadied his arm on his drawn-up knees, just with it enough to think about where he could make the cuts and hide them later.

The first cut lifted the hair on his head, clearing his thoughts with its bright, clean pain. He took a shaky breath and did another, just lightly. Cary kept his knife razor-sharp—it took no pressure at all to part his skin into a small, red mouth, breathing his blood into the air like a haze.

And the voice—shut up.

Jon let his arms fall limp on the covers and dropped his face to his knees, rocking with the sway of the room. He felt better, finally. He tipped onto his side and shoved the knife under his pillow, falling asleep with it in his hand.

{Cary}

Cary was sleeping deeply when a bodily thump jolted him awake and he was on his feet, heart pounding, straining to see and hear in the dark. There were voices in the hall—someone was babbling, high and terrified. Cary eased his door open to see light spilling out of Jon's room, and he realized he was hearing Jon's voice. His stomach squeezed. Bugs were on him again. Cary crossed the hall to his friend's room and nudged open the door.

He froze. Pete was there already, arms wrapped around his wild-eyed son, having caught him from the back and clasped Jon's arms tightly against his body. "Put the knife down, Jon," he was saying in Jon's ear, low and steady.

"Get 'em off—get 'em off!" Jon was fighting him with all the feverish energy he had in his small frame. His arms were covered in ribbons of blood, and he had the knife open in his fist. It was all Pete could do to hold him; the tension showed in the tendons of his arms and his white-knuckled hands on Jon's blood-slick forearms.

Pete locked eyes with Cary. "Help me."

That snapped Cary into action. He stepped across the floor, covered Jon's fist with his hand and pried his fingers open. The knife dropped to the floor with a heavy thunk and Cary kicked it into the hall.

Jon sagged and started to cry, shivering violently in Pete's arms.

"We're going to the hospital," Pete said.

His son sucked in his breath and his eyes opened wide in his white face. "No—no hospital. I'm fine. I'm fine—get off me, Dad." He shrugged off Pete's arms, and Pete let him go. Jon staggered away from him, hunched like the ceiling might come down. "Need to use the bathroom. Just a bad dream, okay?" He rubbed his hands over his arms and seemed to see the cuts for the first time, swaying back. "What the hell." His voice was strained and he crossed his arms tightly against himself. His bleary gaze focused on Cary and sharpened. "What the hell, Cary—get the fuck outta my room!"

Cary got out as fast as he could, scooping the knife off the floor in the dimly lit hallway. When he bent, his stomach flipped to touch the back of his throat, and he had to swallow it back into place. He snapped the knife closed. Someone was going to be in so much shit before this night was done. He dug his cigarettes out from under his mattress and crept out the back door.

The cool night air numbed his skin, and he breathed deeply on his smoke to numb his inside as well. He was on his second cigarette when the back door creaked behind him, and he shrank into himself.

Pete padded across the deck and stepped onto the grass beside him. "He fell back asleep." His voice was tight. "The cuts are shallow. If his fever hasn't broken by morning, we'll go to the hospital." He breathed out, rolling his right shoulder like he was checking if he'd strained it.

"I don't blame you, Cary," Pete said. "For the knife."

Cary pinched the glowing cherry of the cigarette to put it out, the bright bubble of pain on the ball of his thumb clearing his head. This was going to end with a hard backhand and the taste of blood in his throat, but he had to keep his word to Pete. "Jon's not sick. He's coming off opes," Cary said, flat.

Pete sucked in his breath. "Opes?"

Cary tried to make some spit in his dry mouth, rolling the blister forming on his thumb. "Opioids. What was in the painkillers for his ribs."

His neck prickled with the heat of Pete looking down at him, and he drew his knee up to his chest, clasping it like a shield.

"His doctor prescribed those for him," Pete said slowly. "Are you saying—he got addicted to opioids from those pills? How is that—how is that possible?"

Cary lifted his shoulders. "He got more. He took more. I don't know how much or for how long."

Pete dropped into a crouch so they were face to face. His mouth was set inside his beard. "Where did he get more?"

Cary caught his breath, turning his face aside and blinking against the sudden stinging in his eyes. "He used my stuff. Sold it to get more. From someone at school. I didn't know until it was too late. I swear to God, Mr. White. All I could do was make him try and quit." He brought his arms up to cover his head, gripping the back of his neck with his cold hands. "I'm so fucking sorry. I'm so sorry."

It was quiet for too long, and the drum of his heart pounded in his ears.

"What do we—" Pete was struggling with words like he'd taken a punch to the stomach and was trying to get his breath back. "What do we do? Does he need treatment? Does he need to go to the hospital?"

Cary curled, frozen on the step—a wordless jumble of panic and guilt ringing in his head. Pete's hands rubbed the cold skin of his arms, as if to wake him up. "Cary, if you know anything...I need you to not shut down right now." Pete let out a shaky breath, and his arm went around Cary's shoulders, making a warm circle. "Please talk to me." He rested his forehead against the wall of Cary's arms. "I'm not angry." His voice was soft and broke a little. "I'm afraid."

Cary could feel the puff of that whisper against the skin of his arms, and it raised the hairs all over his body. He shivered once, hard, and breathed in the clean laundry smell of Pete and the cool green odours of night. He drew back and Pete let him go. He opened his eyes and touched the star-pricked sky and the sharp lines of the rooftops and then brought his eyes down to touch Pete's face before sliding them a little lower to rest on Pete's left shoulder. He cleared his throat.

"I don't know if there's much we can do." HIs voice came out thin and tight, but words were there for him. "Except keep him drinking and eating a little. And away from using any more. I know opes mess with your brain. An' when you quit—your body wants them so bad, and you want them so bad you think you're gonna die. But you won't. He just has to...get through. In a couple days, he'll be up again, I think?"

In the corner of his eye he saw Pete's face relax in relief and he ducked his head, pressing his lips closed.

"A couple of days and he's better?"

Cary held still, fighting with himself. Pete wanted to believe that. Keeping silent and letting him have his lie was what Cary was programmed to do. This time the price wouldn't be on his skin, though, but on Jon and Pete and Mel. He opened his mouth to tell the whole truth. "He won't be better. He won't be throwing up—his guts won't be in knots. But he's still gonna want go back on opes like he'll never be happy another way. And—the bugs." His skin shivered and he shut up, breathing in slow. "He's gonna be different—for a while. That shit changed his brain and he might—not be the same. Again."

Pete groaned like Cary had just pulled his heart out of his chest, and Cary's shoulders found his ears. If he could have melted into a puddle and sunk into the grass, he would have done it so Pete didn't have a witness of this happening to him.

Pete sagged onto the step beside Cary, running his hands over his face and through his hair. "Lord have mercy," he said. "How did this happen?"

Cary was silent, looking at the grass poking up between his bare feet. He wanted to check on his knife now—he thought he'd hid it under his mattress, and he wanted to be sure. The feelings connected to the memory of Jon twisting and crying out in his dad's grip, covered in blood, were catching up with him, pressing him hard. "Someone needs to watch him," he said. "I could. Miss school. It's just the first week."

Beside him, Pete was still, his head down like he was far away in thought. Slowly he roused himself and shook his head. "He needs more help than we can give him. You need to finish high school. There must be treatment centres...something for kids with—addictions." The word seemed to stick a little in his throat.

Cary turned his head to look at him. He didn't know. He'd been too young to go to one of those, and his parents hadn't wanted him talking to strangers anyway. They handled it on their own, in secret, like they did everything else. The silence was long, and he found himself speaking when he meant to stay out of it. "I don't think you should send him away."

There was a weight in Pete's look as he held his eyes. "No?" Pete asked. "Why not?"

Cary dropped his eyes and crossed his arms against his chest. His ears burned, and his voice shook a little. "You're the best person to look after him, sir. My mom took me to a hotel and fed me juice and stayed with me 'til it was over. If she had left me with strangers...to do it by myself, I couldn't have."

Pete made a sharp noise. "That's a hell of an indictment—if I can't do as much as your parents did for you."

Cary curled smaller and stayed still. He didn't know what that word meant, except that Pete was angry and he'd made him angry by comparing him to his mom.

"It could be worth my job—to do what you ask," Pete said.

Cary added those words a couple of different ways, trying to figure the sum of them. "You'll lose your job, sir?"

Pete looked out at the yard, the hard line of his mouth making deep, shadowy furrows in his beard. "Probably."

"Can't you take some...vacation time, sir?"

"Probably not," Pete said shortly. He got up and Cary's eyes followed him up. "I needed you to tell me that, and I take your opinion seriously, Cary. I'll weigh it out tonight. Whatever decision we make...we'll just have to trust God to sort it all out."

"Yes, sir," Cary said softly.

Pete turned on him, where he'd been trailing behind his shoulder. "Please—stop calling me that." His hand came up and clasped Cary's shoulder, and his face looked crumpled now. "I'm not...like your father, am I? Did I—do this? Hurt Jon in some way that made this happen?"

Cary set his hand against Pete's chest to hold him off, then felt how Jon's dad was shaking. He shook his head, mute.

"Cary, he says he hates being my son and he would rather—have died. Is this his way of—trying?"

"That's the opes talking, Mr. White," Cary growled. "Not Jon. Okay? You and Mel done the best you could by your kids. You done damn good." He pressed his hand against Pete's chest like he could shove the words inside, his throat aching. Jon's dad wasn't perfect, but he was the best they had, and they needed him to be strong and take care of them all. "You're going to get the real Jon back." He hoped to God he was telling the truth.