WAKE (Wattpad edition)

16. The real Jon White.

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."