Soundtrack: 'Mess of me' - Switchfoot

{Jon}

Jon found his body was too tense and restless to get under his covers and lie down. He picked through the objects on his desk, opening drawers and checking the closet like the room belonged to a stranger. In a way, it did—he wasn't going back to being the old Jon. He didn't have to go back to church, ever. It was slowly sinking in.

He removed the posters of Christian bands and sticky notes of verses from youth group lessons papering his walls, balling them up and stuffing them in his trash bin. His headache throbbed quietly at the base of his neck, but he felt like he could breathe more easily with the walls open and bare.

He pulled out his drawers one by one and dumped their contents onto the floor into a cluttered mountain of battered notebooks, mismatched socks, guitar picks, and clothes that no longer fit him. Laboriously, he began to sort through the pile, collecting on his desk the very few things he wanted to keep from his old life and take to their new house, wherever that was.

His father knocked on the door and then opened it and looked inside. Jon sat back on his heels, meeting his dad's searching glance with his own weary expression. He didn't get to keep his door closed anymore: he got it.

"Do you want me to pray for you before you head to bed, son?" Pete asked hesitantly.

Jon dropped his eyes. "No, thank you."

Pete was silent for a long moment. "Jon, I—put the knives and scissors away." He cleared his throat softly. "I know you might—have a sharp on you and I...just want to say please don't. Hurt yourself tonight."

Jon folded his arms over his stomach. He didn't have a sharp on him—he'd left it on Cary's bed while Cary and Pete had been fighting. He touched his dad's look just for a second and nodded.

"Also," Pete said hesitantly, "we want you to have your phone back. To keep in touch with friends you trust. With Cary."

He turned, wide-eyed, in time to see Pete lay the phone on Jon's desk. His father met his eyes, his face lined with worry and much of the same exhaustion Jon felt. "I took it to the phone place to wipe it and change the number, as a precaution. In case your...dealer...reaches out again."

Jon's eyes dropped to the phone. He'd had a lock on his phone screen—probably his parents hadn't checked his messages before they'd wiped it. And once his dad left, he could access those messages and all his old contacts with a couple keystrokes.

Which was something, under their new agreement, his dad needed to know. Jon exhaled. "I can still reach my dealer. I backed my stuff up on an app I can just log into. And get it all back." He met his dad's eyes, feeling heavy. "But I don't want to—contact him. I don't want to have to go through quitting again. It wasn't worth it." The skin on his arms crawled at the thought, and he was sweating a little now. "I can just block him, but—maybe you shouldn't trust me with that."

Pete put his hand over the phone, frowning as he searched Jon's face. "I'm willing to trust you with this," he said slowly. He slid the phone toward Jon. "But I don't trust anyone involved in the drug world. They're going to want you back." He sighed heavily. "If you were me—what would you do with this phone?"

Jon held still, looking at the device, black and blank and a little battered. He knew what the right thing was to say but he wanted to read those notes from Kurtis again; he wanted to hear Cary's voice on the other line. He hated to have to be the one answering this question. "I don't need it," he said in a low voice. "I can do shit on there and hide it from you. I think you should confiscate it."

"Seems pretty hard on you to just be cut off—from people who care about you right now."

Jon met his dad's eyes. He had expected Pete to be hard on him now that he was back under his roof. Instead, Pete's look was concerned and open—he was genuinely ready to give him this, to trust him again even with Jon standing in the middle of this mess he'd made, trying to come clean. Jon ducked his head, blinking rapidly. "I could block him. You could tell me to delete my social media accounts so he can't use those to reach me. If I don't contact him, he won't have the new number."

"That sounds like a good compromise," Pete said. "Would you do that?"

"Yes," Jon said. He still didn't move to take the phone. "You should check it. You should take it back at the end of the day. There shouldn't be a lock or—anything you don't know about on there."

"I can do that," Pete said quietly, like these were restrictions put on him and not the other way around. "But I'm not going to read your messages unless you tell me there's something I need to see."

They locked eyes over the piles of Jon's previous life. "You're almost sixteen," Pete said. "You don't need my approval for everything you do. You can—have a life of your own, Jon. If you're not hurting yourself or anyone else—I don't need to know more than you want to share with me." His smile made tight lines of sadness around his eyes.

Jon barely knew what to say in response. The acidic little voice in his head noted that Pete probably just didn't give a shit anymore about a son who'd fucked up like he had. He wasn't releasing Jon to grow up—just distancing himself from the child he didn't want anymore. Jon's hand pressed on his stomach, the cuts aching under his fingers. He couldn't tell anymore if that was Jesus' voice or the voice of his own self-loathing. "Thanks, Dad," he said thinly.

"Love you, son," Pete said.

"Night," Jon said. He listened to his father retreat up the hall and close the door to his own bedroom. He left Jon's door open.

He plugged the phone into the wall in the hallway without turning it on, too exhausted to deal with it any further. As the hours wore down to midnight, he methodically folded one pair of faded jeans after another and set them aside, too short for him now. Since he was being honest with himself, he could feel the hole of Cary's absence from the room across the hall. There was no one for him here—the role he had in his family was to be there for everyone else. As the pile around his garbage can grew, Jon felt the weight of that burden. The next months were going to be one disappointment after another when he failed to act like the Jon he had been before: helpful, compliant, positive. He was dry as a bone; all he could offer his family was either his silence or his ugly, honest truth, and he wasn't sure they wanted either.

He felt the presence of the clean Jon he had been before, watching him. His disapproving voice whispered in the silence: Pull it together, Jon White. Like your feelings matter so much. Get over yourself and die already. You know the right thing to do—just do it, same as you did before. Unless you want to be homeless?

He stiffly levered himself from the floor onto the edge of the bed, holding a stuffed beagle that he had treasured as a child. He fingered the dog's worn black ears as he remembered his dad saying, "You're part of our family no matter what." How far could he stretch Pete's promise before it broke? There was still shit his dad didn't know.

He clenched the dog against his stomach, closing his eyes. "Get out of my head."

The voice sharpened. How do you expect to get better if you won't listen to what's wrong with you? I'm just trying to help you, Jon.

"You're not. Helping," Jon said roughly. God, to think he used to pray every day. The acid of this voice would eat his life if he let it. "I'm never going back to being you. You can't make me feel bad about that anymore."

But it wasn't true and they both knew it. Who are you then? The voice sneered. Is this you now: addict, fuck-up Jon White? Anything else you want to add to that list for your pastor dad?

Jon felt like he'd been shoved in a locker again, his arms too small and thin to protect his body from hard, jabbing hands. He bowed, gasping for breath. The voice punched him again.

Who's going to want you like that?

The stuffed dog's glass eyes pressed against Jon's forehead as he squeezed it. He didn't have an answer, except he'd promised Cary to be here when he got back. "Shut up already," he managed tightly. "Jesus. Get the hell out of my head."

It was abruptly silent, and he dragged in one breath after another, like he'd run a mile. Aching, he straightened and chucked the dog into the pile to keep, then sagged back onto his pillow. He felt the hooks of that voice buried in his brain like it wasn't really gone—just waiting for another opening. A broken noise came out of him, and he covered his face with his cut-up arms. God, he missed having someone to pray to that didn't want him to burn and die. It was such a short fucking list anymore of people who wanted the real Jon White.

///

Sheer exhaustion finally buried him in sleep. When he startled awake in the grey light of pre-dawn, it took a full minute to remember where he was. He kicked free from his covers and got to his feet, stumbling around the piles of clothing on the floor. For the first time in days, his brain rapidly rehearsed the movements he had used before to make these feelings go away: unzipping his pencil case, the smooth shape of the pills on his tongue, the happy numbness unfurling up his spine and over his head. He sagged against his doorframe with a groan. He knew withdrawal was hell—but he was shaking with how bad he wanted those pills right now anyway.

Sweating, he crouched in the hallway in front of the phone, pressing the power button to turn it on. It felt like it took forever to load and he tensed, expecting a series of notifications of calls and texts he'd missed. Instead he found himself staring at the non-threatening, generic face of a new-to-him phone. When he opened his contacts, there were exactly three entries glowing up at him in the dim hallway: Cary Douglas, Your Parents and The Kids Help Phone suicide hotline. He made a dry sound. Nice one, Dad. He pulled the phone off the charging cord and crept through the sleeping house to the basement, where no one could overhear.

On the main floor, it wasn't obvious they were moving to a new house, but down here the move was well underway: there were stacks of boxes, books and empty shelves with lines of dust where the books used to stand. Jon cleared a corner of the couch next to his dad's dress shoes and a suit jacket, now a little crumpled, that Pete used to keep at the office. He pulled the jacket over his shivering body and thumbed in a text with unsteady fingers.

<hey>

<you up>

<its jon this is my new number>

He closed his eyes, his heart beating in his throat. He didn't want to sound too desperate, but the truth was he needed a human right now or he was pulling on his jacket and walking to his dealer's house, 6 a.m. or no. He thumbed the call button.

"'Lo?" Cary's voice was growly and muffled.

Jon drew a breath. "Hey. It's me." He tried to sound casual. "Thanks for picking up. They wiped my phone and changed my number."

"It's not even fucking daylight yet," Cary grumbled.

He clenched his arm over his stomach, huddled around the sound of his friend's voice. "It is—just barely."

The words Jon didn't know how to say tightened his throat. I'm not okay—I'm not okay—I'm not okay. He said, "How'd you sleep?"

"I got the bed," Cary said, and Jon laughed drily.

"You? Good to be home?" Cary asked.

His eyes stung and for a moment, he couldn't think of what to say. It was not good to be home, to be carrying his shit alone again and treading so carefully around his parents. His chest abruptly cracked open, and a shuddery sob tore out of him. He clapped his hand over his mouth and pulled the phone away from his face. Shit. He swallowed those tears back, hard, taking deep breaths that sounded like he was dying here in the basement of his parents' house.

"Jon?" Cary's voice said faintly.

He put the phone back to his ear. His voice was watery. "It's fine."

"Jon fucking White." Cary growled. "Don't make me come down there."

His eyes were hot and wet against the palm of his hand. "Sorry." He hadn't meant to lie, but it was so much easier than picking apart the shitty tangle he was feeling right now. "Old habits—hard to break." His breath caught again in his chest, and he pressed it back out through his teeth. Speaking of old habits. "Cravings are back. I don't want to..." His voice was strangled. "But I do. So bad. So I called you."

"Oh," Cary said quietly. "Being home triggered them."

"So fucking much." Jon pinched the button on his dad's jacket, turning and tugging on it to see if he could pull it off. "I had nightmares again, but...I had them before without wanting to erase my head the next morning." A button popped off, trailing broken threads, and he shut his teeth, feeling like he might break into tears again.

Cary's voice came out of the phone, slow and rough. "You're just... back in the old place, and it's like your brain slides in that old rut. You gotta dig a new track out of the rut, even just a little one. So you feel that shit and you go eat a snack, or you have a bath, or you count your breaths until it passes. That's how you break an old habit—with new ones. How many days has it been?"

Jon pressed the button in his palm until it left a grooved circle behind. "Nine."

"So you're clear—no opes in your body anymore. A craving is just feeling the scar they left behind. Your brain heals better than skin—those scars are gonna fade." It was quiet a moment, and he heard Cary take a breath. "You still there?"

Jon held the button in his fist, staring at the wall. "I got scars on my brain?"

Cary made a dry noise. "Yeah, asshole. You do. But they're gonna heal."

He rubbed his knuckles against his forehead. "Guess that explains the headaches," he muttered.

"Fucking—hydrate," Cary said. "And it wouldn't hurt you to pray even if you feel like you're just talking to yourself."

"Okay, Dad." Jon rolled his eyes. A smile pulled on one side of his mouth.

"Tell me your plan right now." Cary's voice was muffled again.

"Getting a snack."

"'Kay, good. I'm going back to sleep." Cary's voice sharpened into clarity. "You call me. Okay? Anytime. I want to hear you're eating and breathing every day."

"Got it," Jon whispered. The line blinked, dead, and he sat for a moment, looking at the phone in his lap.

The feeling of need was quieter after hearing Cary's voice—quiet enough for him to notice the other itch to get his contacts back and check his messages from Kurt. Jon snapped his finger against the cuts on his stomach, counting his breaths. Was this a scar on his brain too? Would it fade? After five, he felt his cuts break, and he pressed his hand flat against his stomach, tasting bile in the back of his throat. The voice wormed through his thoughts: Disgusting waste of skin. Give up already.

He hadn't meant to make himself bleed. Probably that wasn't the kind of new habit Cary meant. "Sorry," he said softly to himself. He slumped, laying his face against his knees, feeling the fold and pinch of the cuts on his stomach and the stiff fabric of his dad's jacket scratching his face.

Breathe. Eat. Just do today. He'd made a promise. He hauled himself off the couch.

Upstairs, he rummaged as quietly as he could in the kitchen pantry, filling his arms with crackers, pickles and peanut butter. He used the crackers as scoops for the peanut butter, alternating with crunchy bites of pickle until the salty fullness in his stomach made the hole in his head feel less like it was going to swallow him completely. He put everything away and washed peanut butter off his hands.

The sky was softly yellow and green above their garage. Day nine of no drugs. Day...shit, day zero of no cutting. Jon turned off the taps and put his dripping fingers against his stinging eyes, repeating Cary's words to himself. It's gonna heal. God, he wanted to believe that.

"Good morning, Jon," Pete said quietly.

He jumped and whirled, and his dad's smile touched him briefly. "You're up early. How did you sleep?"

Jon's heart rate galloped along as he watched Pete take out the coffee filters. "Not great." His voice was thick with tiredness—and peanut butter. "It'll be good to be out of this house. This neighborhood."

Pete's glance was concerned. "Are you still experiencing cravings?"

It sounded like a question from a pamphlet on recovery from Hope House. Jon shrugged his shoulders up to his ears—at least his dad was trying. "Yes," he said. "I called Cary." He turned aside and touched his fingers to the front of his shirt, hoping the blood hadn't seeped through the fabric. It was just a few drops. "Is there something—you want me to do today?"

Pete was quiet a moment, and the back of Jon's neck prickled, feeling his dad looking at him. "Your mom could use a hand—if you're up for it." Pete's voice was even. "She's sorting through things for the move."

Jon nodded and left to change his shirt.