Just Jack

Part One: Chapter One: Just A Figment (Kindle Version)

      “I'm trying here, Jack. I really am. I know these last few weeks haven't been easy on you with Chris' death and everything, but they haven't been easy for me too you know,” Karen says. Looking at her, one would not think that she had been having any sort of un-easy ordeals, at least none that would hamper her beauty in any way. I don't know if it is because I'm just used to seeing her everyday but she looks just as fresh-faced and pretty as she did when I was little. Her yet-to-go-grey blonde hair is presented in a fierce bun and her face has only the beginnings of wrinkles around her eyes. She does not wear make-up of any kind, except for a touch of lipstick.

      I find myself rolling my eyes, maybe a little too dramatically. She notices. Somehow, almost daily, she finds subtle ways of accusing me of her unhappiness. She will never say it directly of course. It is just always in little hints. Today it's the good 'oul reminding me that I'm not the only one with grief related pain. Which, in turn, also reminds me of why she is in said pain, and ultimately whose fault that is.

“Your father's five year anniversary is coming up, you know that right?” Whoa, she actually brought him up, and not even five minutes into the conversation.

      I don't even know why it still hurts me when she mentions him but I'm human and it does. My father died five years ago in a car accident. An accident that, unfortunately, I had been the cause of, and alas my mother has managed to stir fresh guilt within me. Guilt combined with grief can be a terrible thing. Does she not know that the sound of screeching brakes haunts my dreams, that the taste of blood has stained my buds and that his screams of pain, of death, have plagued my reality?

“How could I possibly forget, but thank you Karen? It has been duly noted; please do remind me to mark my calendar.” She shakes her head at my sarcasm.

      A few moments, filled with awkward silence, later mom pulls up in front of my school. I never noticed how large it is and how many people actually go there. Hundreds of teens, each from their own path of high-school society, walk towards the front doors as the monotonous bell rings. So many of them – like ants. My heart starts beating, chest tightens. I haven't felt so nervous in so long. I haven't felt in so long. A yellow school bus parks in front of us and a herd of students flood out from its doors. I can't seem to follow their lead. I continue to sit in silence.

Karen taps her fingers annoyingly on the steering wheel and swallows a lump.

“Good luck today,” she says to me, yet to the window, breaking the silence. If ever I have need reassurance or just comfort it is now but my own mother can barely look at me and I just can't quite understand why. On some level she does have some right to hate me for what I have done to not only her, but to the family, yet I'm still her son. I deserve observance.

“Look at me,” I speak, an angry whisper barely registrable. She does not turn, instead bites her bottom lip. “Look at me, mom!” My voice rises to a worried shout. I want her attention.

“I can't!” She exclaims. “I can't look at you!” She bangs her clenched fists onto the horn which erupts in a loud beep, thus causing a few panicked students to look our way. A single tear glides down her cheek and lands on her skirt. It reminds me of Chris' mother at his funeral for it's the same kind of grief-contained tear.

      I slide out of the car and slam the door shut purposely harder than I should have. She sits there for a few moments, wiping her face and fixing herself in the mirror. Before I turn to the school, I peek my head back through the window of the passenger’s seat.

“He's not dead by the way. Chris, I mean. You said Chris' death has been hard on me. His disappearance has been hard on me, mom. There's a difference.”