Chapter Text
There's a shortcut to the highway out of town
Why don't you take it?
Don't let that speed limit slow you down, g o on and break it.
Baby run, cut a path across the blue skies
Straight in a straight line, y ou can't get here fast enough.
Find a truck and fire it up, l ean on the gas and off the clutch
Leave Dallas in the dust
I need you in a rush
So baby run
-Run, George Strait
The sun was mocking him, again. The morning dawned terrifyingly bright, contrasting what he knew the world to be like, now. The sun taunted him. It made a bleak world bright. He wanted to scream at it, blot it out, make it stop. He could barely breathe, barely blink. The bale in his hands was warm, even through his gloves. It burned his icy skin. The sun was his enemy. It rose without thought to anything Jake might want, or anything he might need. It rose, proving that he had made it through another night. He prayed the sun wouldn't rise. And yet, it did, without fail. It couldn't even be modest about it. There wasn't a single cloud, by way of apology, in the sky.
Jake just wanted to be alone. It didn't feel right to be around people. He needed to be alone. People always wanted to talk about it, pretend they understood, pretend they knew what it was like to be in his shoes. Those people attempted to pat his shoulder, and nodded, like they got it. They acted like they wanted to understand more, when really, all they wanted were details, to exploit his misery for their own benefit, so they could feel involved in something they knew nothing about. They knew nothing.
Worse yet were the people who were so cheerful that he wanted to punch them, so as to force them to feel a fraction of what he felt and ask them how they could smile, then. Would they be man enough, then, when he couldn't be? Those people made him angry, whereas the nosey idiots made him sick. They threw around words like silver linings, and optimistic, and time healing all wounds, and finally, he'd stormed out of the room after one time too many. He felt like the one person who could possibly understand, had shut him out.
What was he to say?
He simply repeated, "Leave me alone." over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer, hoping that the emotions swirling inside him would heed his words. Other people heard him, but he wasn't just talking to them.
His father had just nodded and left him to moving bales. There were more important things to do, but mindless work had its advantages. A thought came to him as the old radio began to play a song after a commercial break. The song began as he was moving the bales of hay, and he realized as he was lifting one bale that he had had enough. He paused, dropping the bale with a heavy thump as the twine slipped from his gloves, as he realized another two things.
His gaze flew to his faithful blue Scout, and his hand flew to his pocket, feeling his wallet with his driver's lisece tucked inside.
His gaze flew to the ten acre, and then to the radio that was playing into the yard.
He felt like he was spinning.
In a moment of breathless certainty, Jake knew what he had to do. George Strait was right, even as the song made him want to shut off the radio and scream. Each note hit him like a punch. It made his throat feel raw, and the heart that hurt so badly beat in double time. Sam loved George Strait, blasting his music all their lives, during dinners he now couldn't eat, whispering lyrics during timeless moments on the porch swing that Jake couldn't even look at, let alone touch.
The song brought back so memories. He could hear her screaming, "Come back, Jake! Don't run away!" She had called after him so often, with laughing eyes and bouncing braids unavailing, and he had run from her as often as he had allowed her to catch up. The ghosts ran around him, and he swore he heard her voice float by him.
The ghosts from his childhood swirled, bringing back moments that he remembered with every bit of his soul, making him feel light headed as years of memories faded, only to leave him cold, cold in the bright sun of summer in Nevada.
With that chill came new memories, one that haunted him, no matter how fast he tried to fend it off. He could hear Sam screaming again, screaming in pain, screaming his name, as though he could help her, save her. It chilled his blood, turned his heart inside out, as he stood, frozen. Jake would have given anything, anything, to do that, and he couldn't. No, his mind corrected viciously, he hadn't.
He still wondered, what if he had done things differently? Would she be here? Would his world be normal? He had no real way of knowing if she was truly safe, truly happy. He had failed the one person God had given him. He had failed her, and in failing her, he had failed everything that mattered.
He had no way of truly knowing how much she felt, or what was going through her mind about it, if anything. Jake was so tired of this limbo, this unknown, that caused him to hate everyone and everything half of the time, and withdraw into his soul the other half. Tears he tried to hide sprang to his eyes.
He was so tired of crying. People expected him to not cry. He knew they could see the redness of his eyes, see the cracked skin of his lips, but...he tried so hard to hide it. He had no right to cry. Sometimes, he just wanted to crawl inside himself, and never come out, never. Witch was the only person who seemed to understand his sadness, and sometimes, he talked to her, but mostly, when he could come up with something to express, it was a simple prayer, as if by calling on God, he would understand.
God, he prayed, God. God. No. No. Not again.His mind was no longer his own. There was blood. So much blood. It was on his hands, on his arms. He heard a chopper on the breeze. Jake tried to breathe. He barely stopped himself from screaming as he inhaled. He could not live this again, in the daylight, as he lived it again, night after night.
Rhe moments he hid in the dark of night, when he sobbed, reaching out to touch her only to wake and find her gone, were his punishment. The screaming echoed again in his mind, hers that led to his. He knew that his whole family knew, but every time someone had come to shake him away, or tried to hug him, he'd reacted poorly. Finally, after seeing the fatigue in Quinn's eyes at one in the morning, and the concern on his parents faces, he'd grabbed his pillow and roamed three doors down the hall, to the guest room that had somehow become Sam's over the years. Some of her myriad of 4-H ribbons were above the dresser, a horse poster was pasted above the bed, and the sheets also had horses on them.
When he climbed into her bed, he could smell the faint traces of Mane n' Tail underneath the mint conditioner she used. He sobbed himself to sleep, that night, again, after he'd begged God for some sign, some help, something, anything, as he tortured himself with her fading sent. That scent soon became the only thing that kept him going.
One day, though, it was gone, completely. He had prayed for death that night, begged God that if he'd had any Mercy, He would get Jake out of the hell his life had become. He prayed for his own death. The next morning, he had stood in the barn, and fleetingly thought about an option he'd never really considered. Then, he'd seen the look on his mother's face. He knew that she knew exactly what he had been thinking as he'd stared at the gun safe, and he swallowed. He'd knew that he would not have the strength to do it. So he prayed for a sign that would give him strength.
The song, he realized, was his sign. He'd prayed for one, something to get him through, some way of making the world seem less like the living hell it had become. The song had provided it.Jake's stomach rolled. A bird called, shrilly, and forced his mind back to the present. He blew out a breath, looked down at the bale, looked at his shaking hands, looked at his truck, and back again.
He'd made up his mind. With that, he walked inside, ignoring the bale, uncaring that his father would get him for it, escaping the desert heat to speak to his mother.
"Mom," he began softly, his voice rusty from disuse, mind elsewhere, "You heard from Sam today?"
His mother looked up from the lesson plans she was making and blinked knowingly, "No, but..." she continued, "it's only ten here. Sleep is good medicine, honey." He tensed. Why was she telling him things he knew, better than she did? Why did that happen so much, now? She added, "She needs sleep, and so do you."
Jake knew this, even as he couldn't look at his mother, who was sitting in Sam's chair. He'd pulled that into the kitchen, barely resisting the urge to throw it off the porch and watch the wood splinter into shards, being that he couldn't eat, not if her chair was there, empty, mocking the hollow spot in his life. And yet, his mother continued to try and act like she knew best, like nothing had happened, like it was okay to sit in Sam's chair. Mom knew that was her chair, that it had been for years, since Sam had put stickers all over the spokes, and Mom had handed them a can of goo-b-gone, and told them to have at it. The residue had never quite faded completely. What if Sam came home, only to find her chair was being sat in? He heaved a breath at the thought, know it was impossible, and shifted slightly, anger at the woman who had given him life spinning in his chest, peppering his taste buds.
It wasn't as if his mother had nightmares that kept her awake, or night terrors that left him to wake in abject horror, reaching out, never quite making contact with the woman his dream. The dreams started out so peacefully, like a Norman Rockwell print. Sam would be there, and then, they're be peace, only for fleeting moments, when suddenly, the color would fade, and his dreams would turn black as night. He was so tired of waking up, screaming her name, tasting salt from tears and blood from where he'd bitten his lip. Since Wyatt had sent Sam to San Fransisco to recover after her accident not two months ago, Jake had slept very little, and spoken even less, except when he spoke to Sam.
He didn't give a flying fuck about anything anyone had to say. Darrell came around, but after a few hours of sitting in silence, he'd left, too. His attempts at humor had fallen flat, and Jake had tried, but ended up staring at the wall. Jen had been around, too, sometimes, though their company was stilted because Sam wasn't there. She left, too, murmuring something softly as he'd flinched away from her touch. So he didn't talk to them, if he could help it. He had nothing to say, to anyone.
But Sam needed him to talk, needed to hear him. So he would talk to her, trying to hide the strain in his voice that he couldn't tramp away, when he heard the pain in her voice, the weakness that dulled the steel in her tones. Mostly, when he called her at the rehab center, he'd read to her, the literature crossing the miles. They were in no position to discuss anything, but his high school diploma proved he could read, and so he did. He read all the novels they'd ever talked about, ignoring the anger that speared through him when he read about the happiness of fake people, when real ones were suffering like Sam was, and the crushing sorrow that ripped through him at the slightest turn of phrase.
If you've watched as the heart of a child breaks in two,
Then you've seen a picture of me without you.
Me Without You, George Jones
Max looked at her son, a pale shadow of the man he'd been becoming. Her heart was breaking for each of them. When he went back to college in the fall for his second year, she knew that people would wonder if he'd taken up drinking or drugs. In fact, the opposite was true. Every high had gone out of his life, every bright spot, and Max felt sorrow. She'd not realized how much, to what degree, Sam and Jake were enmeshed, and she felt a loss, because she knew, somehow, that Sam was the most important person in her son's life. Maybe, she always had been. Who knew, thinking back, that she'd only had three years to be the center of her son's world? But such thoughts were silly, she knew, because Sam was the daughter she'd never had. Sam filled a part of Max's heart that none of her sons had ever touched, and she bled inside for her little girl. Max knew Sam and Jake were giving off misery like the radio was playing music. It came off them in waves, pulses like light and radio waves, and there was nothing anyone could do.
Jake didn't know his mother was thinking any of this. He figured, in his own mind, that he was hiding his pain well. "Mom, uh." He glanced at the door, clearing his throat, trying to talk around was huge frog that had moved in weeks ago, "I'm going out. Don't worry if you don't hear from me for a bit." Jake was determined.
"Sure!" Max toned it down though she was jumping up down inside at some semblance of normalcy returning to her son's life, "Oh, of course. Have fun. Going to see Darrell?" If there was one thing Max liked Darrell for, it was his ability to make her son laugh. He needed to laugh. Jake needed to cry, too, but he hadn't done that since the night Luke had been forced to tell him that Sam wasn't coming home. After a moment of absolute stillness, Max still remembered the look that had crossed Jake's expressive eyes, and in that second, she realized that the light had gone out of them. It went out suddenly, like a candle behind them had been blown out. After a moment, he'd inhaled, like it physically hurt him to do so, and tried to speak, but fell silent, unable to find the words. After another second, his face had crumpled.
Then, and it hurt Max to think of these moments, Jake had cried, violent sobs wracking his frame, and smashed a hole in a wall, bloodying his fist in the process. Quinn had been the one to wrap his arms around his younger brother as he'd cried, the unbreakable bonds of brotherhood coming to the fore, promising his brother it would be okay, as though Jake was upset about something Quin could fix. Quinn had hugged him, letting blood and snot dry on his clothes, half hugging Jake, half holding him down as he cried himself hoarse, begging his brother to be let up, let go.
No one had said anything about the damage, knowing his reaction could have been worse. In fact, Luke had expected worse, to be honest, and had taken Jake's keys, both to the car and to the gunsafe. He had refused to take Jake's saddle, though Max had pushed for it. It was pointless. Jake didn't need one to ride, though its absence from the rack would have made Max feel better. Luke hesitated, saying there was a fine line between protecting their son, who was a grown man, and destroying his trust in them. Max had thrown her hands in the air, screaming that his trust made no difference at this point.
Couldn't Luke see, she'd begged at the time, that their son, their baby, was literally fading away in front of them? A puff of wind would blow him over, she'd asserted, thinking of his rapidly diminishing strength. She'd asked if they should get him help, but even she knew that he was grieving a loss so profound, she would never be able to understand it. Luke had swallowed, hard, but stood firm, even as she sobbed in his arms. In the end, it made no difference, and for that, Max was glad. No one was sure what he'd do, if he'd go after the horse, drive off, or do something much worse. When Max had gone to check on him in the morning, the wall had been patched, and Jake refused to talk about it.
From then on Jake thrown himself with listless abandon into work at Three Ponies. He'd refused to go to River Bend, and no one had the heart to force it. He spoke occasionally to Jen, but did even less socialization than before the accident. Jake was closing in on himself, his soul huddling around its torment, as though it would make his world normal again.
Max's train of thought ended, and she began to reply to Jake, but he had already gone up the stairs. Max was just glad to see that he was finally moving around. She knew he missed Sam, but Wyatt could not be swayed. Things were as they had to be, and the two friends whose lives were so melded, were kept apart, though Luke had paid the increasing phone bills with only a smile that held too much pain.
Searchin' for shelter again and again
Against the wind
A little something against the wind
I found myself seeking shelter against the wind
Against the Wind, Bob Seger
In his room, Jake tried to be decisive. He moved to his closet, and pulled down his duffel bag from the shelf, shoving aside some records and a picture frame of a photo he couldn't bear to look at. The photo tumbled to the floor of his closet, and he bent to pick it up, sighing, fighting the thrum of nausea that rolled through him when he saw its contents. He opened the duffel bag after a second of standing in silence, and dumped his track stuff on the bed, hating that he could run. He moved to his dresser and grabbed some clean laundry. In the bag, he he threw several shirts and jeans, as if by some imaginary force. He moved quickly to his bathroom, the one he no longer had to share with three of his brothers, and took his toothbrush, and whatever he might need from the vanity, even though why he was doing this wasn't even clear. His heart was pounding, but he was calm as five books made their way into his bag. He spun around in his room, with one last look and snatched up his pillow and a book, and jammed them into the top of the bag, pulling the zipper with a air of finality. His mind was made up. He picked up his cell phone, slipped it into his pocket along with his wallet, and left the house through the front door, avoiding his mother in the kitchen.
Out in his Scout, Jake turned on the radio, found some Bob Seger, and pointed his truck West.
Thinking back, he recalled the day Wyatt had informed his parents that Sam would be staying in San Fransisco. The task of passing this information to Jake had fallen to them. At the time, Jake had not slept in days. He woke up crying more times than he could count. He hated being around people, hated the sympathy, the pity. He hated the judgement, the assumptions about the situation. He hated that people would ask him for details, while others pretended nothing had happened. He saw the looks, knew what people must think, but he didn't care. All he knew was that he could barely eck through a day, let alone a night.
A few weeks ago, maybe two, maybe three, he couldn't recall, the days were endless and meaningless anymore, he'd come home after a long day of feeling Sam's empty spots in their world, their life together. His food had remained untouched at breakfast and lunch, and so he'd come to the house to eat something, mostly so Mom would stop bugging him about it, and because he'd started seeing spots in front of his eyes as he rode Witch. He couldn't go to River Bend anymore, no matter how many times Wyatt called and asked. After a time, he stopped calling, and Jake felt a perverse sense of satisfaction at that. Just riding in the direction of River Bend made him angry, because he kept expecting to see Sam somewhere along the way. He heard her voice everywhere, but he stopped short as he came inside that day. His father had been inside, a rare occurence. His stomach had dropped instantly. This scene, or one like it, had played out in his nightmares for weeks. He knew what was coming, even as he spoke.
"Dad?" He was scared. Something had happened. He could feel it building inside of him, the fear, the utter helplessness. His mind thought the worst, as it did every second of every day. She had died, something had gone wrong with her heart, or her lungs, and she...She had died. Died. And there was nothing to do, nothing to stop it.
"Jake. Let's go for a ride." Luke offered.
"If...there's something wrong, just tell me." Jake dropped into a seat, bonelessly, with a thud that reverberated in his memory. "What happened?"
"Wyatt stopped by." Luke directed a look of compassion at his son, as he spoke softly, "Sammy is going to be staying in San Fransisco, with Susan."
His thoughts could go no further into that awful day or in the days that followed, because his mind revolted and a semi was trying to pass his faithful Scout. Jake had broken out into a sweat while lost in his mind, so he rolled down the window, hoping the wind would stop the flutter of his stomach. Jake then turned the radio station, settling on The Dixie Chicks, not his usual fare at all, and continued to drive. Natalie Maines' singing blended into other songs, some he loved, some he hated because she loved them, and one in particular that made him spin the dial with fervor, settling on Jim Morrison rather than Axl Rose's breakout hit, which made his heart beat quickly, and he was glad to listen to The Doors. The Doors didn't make him miss her. Bruce Springsteen did, though, because she loved The Boss, loved to listen him as they sped over the curves of the desert roads in the dark of the night, talking about everything and nothing, watching the wild horses, and knowing that in their souls, together, they were as free as the horses.
His mind fell into the monotony of driving out I-80, trying to avoid thinking about what he was preparing to do. The landscape passed him by, and he stopped for gas, knowing that he was hitting the final part of driving all those miles down the state. Getting back on the interstate, his heart raced as he saw signs. Each one pushed him closer and closer to his destination.
Someday girl I don't know when
We're gonna get to that place
Where we really wanna go
And we'll walk in the sun
But till then tramps like us
Baby, we were born to run
Oh Honey, tramps like us,
Baby we were born to Run
Born to Run, Bruce Springsteen