robby who's been sitting in a shitty motel room for hours, legs bouncing and stilling, bouncing and stilling, sitting on the edge of the queen bed with an ugly comforter. robby who's been fidgeting with a bottle of pills for the past hour, knowing it's enough, it would be enough. the air conditioner hums, white noise in the otherwise silent room.
robby who knows no one is coming to save him. no one is coming to take the pills from his hands or coddle him or kiss it better, and it's been decades since he's deserved anything like that. robby who knows he's alone, and feels it in every inch of his body, in his marrow, rotting his bones from the inside out. robby who doesn't want to die. he just wants his mom.
rotating the bottle in his hands, over and over, toying with it, with his life. willing his phone to ring, but it never does. jack texts him, sometimes, dennis, even rarer. call me if it gets dark. puts all the pressure on him, huh? to reach out? to lift his phone that feels heavier than it should, limbs frail, hands shaking? to find the contact and press call, knowing that in the seconds it'll take him to do so, he'll succumb to cowardice and not call at all?
it's the closest he's come to resenting jack, truly, wholly resenting him. because fuck him for that, fuck him for not calling. fuck him for offering instead of forcing. fuck him for letting him leave that goddamn hospital. fuck him for ever wrapping robby in a hug if he was just going to let go.
robby crumples in on himself, and he wants his mom, and he always wants his mom, because fuck his dad. he doesn't care if his dad wants him or not. he wants his mom to want him, to want him again. the fuzzy edges of her wanted him, once. she used to pet the back of his head after he had a nightmare, slow and steady, soothing him. his own hand raises to mirror it now, petting the back of his head, sniffling something wet and embarrasing, whimpering like a wounded animal. he wants his mom.
and it's a humiliation ritual, to struggle this hard, to be fucking bad at killing himself. it makes sense, really. he's failed at so many things, so many times, it's in his nature. his legs bounce again, his free hand clutching the bottle of pills, willing himself to just fucking do it.
robby doesn't want to die. call me if it gets dark.
and he fucking hates him for it, hates him for it, and he's dropping the pills and rummaging for his phone, breathing shaky with tears burning in his eyes as he stabs the contact, stabs the call. jack doesn't get a word out.
please just tell me not to do it. tell me you don't want me to do it. tell me you couldn't handle it if I did it. tell me you can't fucking live without me, jack. tell me you couldn't survive a goddamn day without me here. even if you're fucking lying. even if you're lying to me. please. jack, please. tell me not to do it.
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