WAKE (Wattpad edition)

56. What had to die.

Soundtrack: 'The war inside' - Switchfoot

{Jon}

His dad's voice was muffled, the words incomprehensible. The door shut again. Jon's cuts prickled and ached under the padded bandage, and his stomach touched the back of his throat like he might throw up.

Did you see your dad's face when he saw those? The voice whispered.

Jon clenched the pillow tighter over his eyes. Of course he had. Pete hadn't been able to hide the horror he'd felt while looking at him. His dad's bearded face had flinched every time his fingers brushed Jon's skin. Because Jon was disgusting. Everyone agreed.

Jon couldn't have said anymore why he was fighting to live like this. Why he shouldn't just accept that the best thing for everyone was for Jon White to burn into a pile of ash? He turned to face the person he'd never really been able to convince himself didn't exist.

Leaning against Jon's desk, his arms and ankles crossed, immaculate from the shine of his shoes to the perfectly arranged hairs on his head, was the source of the voice Jon had been trying to ignore. The man smiled thinly. "Are you finally ready to listen?"

Jon hugged his arms around his stomach, shivering. "You said you wanted me to die," he whispered.

The man clicked his tongue. "Isn't it obvious? You haven't exactly turned out the way I had in mind."

Jon's eyes were hot, and his heart felt like it would hammer through his chest. "I thought you loved me."

"You?" The man shook his head regretfully.

The hammering filled his head and rattled the walls of the room. "My whole life, my parents said you loved me. God loved me."

The man sighed. "Well they don't know what I know, do they? Do you really believe God has no standards?"

The door to his room was shaking and Jon got up, confused, to answer it, wondering why Pete was up so late. He pulled the door open, and someone filled the frame, muscles bunching in his shoulders as if he might tear the door right out of the wall. This man lifted his face to Jon, the corner of his scarred mouth tucking into his beard.

"That's not me," he said plainly.

Jon looked from this man's mane of dark hair, his worn clothes and bare brown feet, to the gleaming person leaning against his desk. Side by side, it was obvious who the real Jesus was, and the clean man looked nothing like him.

"Who are you?" Jon asked the figure by his desk.

It seemed to stretch, eyes flashing green. "A little of you, a little of something else."

"Your name." Jesus spoke from the door.

The figure's lips drew back from its teeth. "Self-hatred. Self-harm. And Death. He invited us in," it snarled, pointing an accusing finger at Jon. "We're allowed to be here. He's one of ours—look, we marked him."

The words thudded into Jon's body and he hunched, wrapping his cut-up arms around himself.

"Ha," Jesus said softly. "He's mine first. I always get dibs." Jon felt the heat of his gaze on his bent head. "Do you want them to stay?"

Jon lifted his eyes to the figure, and under his gaze, the edges of its face softened. It was his brother—a version of what his brother might have been. Judah lifted his eyebrows, smiling cockily. "How are you going to get better, little brother, if you won't listen to what's wrong with you? You need my help."

Jon closed his fists at his sides, facing down the thing. "You're not Judah. My brother is dead."

The figure shrugged, and it was like Judah had never been there. It was Jon's own face now, with his clean clothes and clear skin from before. In a way, seeing this boy hurt more than seeing his brother's face. Jon wanted to zip that unmarked skin back on so badly—to be innocent and free of shame again. He looked away and found Jesus' eyes on him, his expression open and compassionate, his arms still spread in the doorway.