Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They’re tiny.

White.

Dusty.

he picks them out of the packet one by one, each making an odd crinkling sound he doesn’t want anyone to hear. 

Jake can think of a lot of words for the pills that were on his bed, now on his hand.

The pills make a pile that only cover his palm. 

not enough. never enough. 

it’s funny, thinking about death. 

Paracetamol. Not destined to kill. 

it’s sad. 

jake feels like dying.

who would care if he did?

he was alone anyway.

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It’s terrifying.

he’s just taken 18 pieces and there’s 14 left and he realises that he doesn’t want…

not like this, never like this, and the blood is rushing to his head and tears are pouring down his face as he’s just realised what he’s done. 

he’s scrolling through google, frantically searching for anything, anything but it all comes up with the same result: you won’t die immediately, but you’ll get liver damage. 

jake doesn’t know what to do, what to do at all. He’s taken the tablets, he can’t GO to a hospital, he’s stuck at home and he knows he may die in days, weeks, but not today and that stirs something terrifying within his chest.

he told drew he wouldn’t do it.

his best friend. 

he said he was okay.

but he’s not. 

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Jake puts his head to his wall and hears his mother’s steady breathing in the next room. He knows Milo is asleep too.

he tries to let himself breathe. 

jake sits down on the floor and puts his head into his hands, feeling his hair, the dryness of each strand. He licks his parched lips and feels the bitter aftertaste of the paracetamol, wishing, wishing he hadn’t done it.

but he’s overdosed. He could die. It’s been ten minutes but for Jake it feels like two, time is passes by so quickly and Jake realises there isn’t enough time for him to do anything. It’s nearly midnight.

and the hospital bills…

what the hell is he supposed to do?

he looks at the phone on his floor and picks it up again. 

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He’s not picking it up to call someone.

he can’t let his friends know that he did this. 

drew, hailey, Daisy…

he’s not friends with anyone anyway.

not after the audio leaked. 

not after his fight with drew.

why would anyone care?

but now he’s realises that people do care and he has to get to a hospital within 48 hours so he doesn’t die but he’s scared, so scared and he’s messed up monumentally and there isn’t enough time anymore. 

its 30 minutes since he’s overdosed and the clock is ticking.

he can’t be bothered to get water. 

looks like it’s sleep for him tonight.

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He can’t sleep. 

he keeps tossing and turning but he can’t sleep and he knows that he is going to die. He WILL die. 

soon. 

he doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t want to die and he’s scared, he’s broken and he needs help but he managed to mess up again and the scars and fractures illustrating his body make a mockery of him as he spies at his reflection in the darkness at the bedroom mirror and he doesn’t look like someone who just tried to kill himself. 

his face is poofed up, sure, but he looks like a normal teenager, tears dried up and gone but he’s scared and he’s terrified and it’s all coming back to him and he can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe, his chest is constricting, feeling like an iron fist grabbing at his chest and pushing twisting and Jake feels so scared so scared, because as he starts to cry he realises he can’t breathe. He tries his best to breathe in and out but he’s being to loud and the world is spinning. Is this what it’s like to die? The overwhelming feeling of breathlessness, the inability to breathe through your nose because of all the snot—

Jake falls back down onto his bed and buries underneath his duvet covers and wishes for the things that he never had.

Chapter Text

He reaches for underneath his pillow covers and draws out a piece from a sharpener. 

it’s slim, tiny, incapable of damage and it’s true that Jake thinks he should move away from everything but he just needs to cut, to bleed, and make everything go away. 

he drags the blade across his arm once.

then twice. 

and a third time. 

He’s glad that no one is around to see him like this. 

Chapter Text

It’s been nearly forty minutes since Jake overdosed and it begins to rain.

he chuckles silently to himself at the delicate pitter-patter of rain upon his window.

he doesn't feel anything yet. 

he wants to tell someone. But he’s texted drew, then deleted the messages. So he would never see. He would ask what Jake deleted: he would just say it was a funny meme he meant to send to Henry.

no big deal. 

nothing is a big deal. 

jake is okay.

for now.

but the clock is still ticking, and it’s thanks to those little white pills.

Chapter Text

He decides to put on music.

sure, it seems silly, especially at one at night.

but he slams on his headphones and plays set it off.

if he can’t sleep, then he might as well do something he likes.

Chapter Text

Cold. That’s what Jake feels when he wakes up at four a.m on the dusty morning of Sunday in November, shivering by the sudden rush of cold air all around him. Razor thin needles are pushing out of his skin from the insides, and he feels an overwhelming sense of dread pushing down upon everything. He tries to sit up but he feels dizzy and can’t keep his head up straight, and he collapses on his bed again, scared, dizzy, absolutely helpless as he stares at the blue packaging all over the floor. Who knew paracetamol could be so deadly?

When the sun finally rises across the horizon as Jake is up again, he doesn’t feel like he’s in his body. Disembodied, he feels like he’s only controlling what his brain does as his body is too heavy, far too heavy for him to carry but his insides are burning. He has to get out of this hot, hot room, yet he’s shivering and he stumbles across the floor and towards the bathroom and he just manages to clutch onto the side of the bathtub as the world erupts into flames. A thin yellow substance erupts from his mouth and drips down the pristine cleanliness of the bathtub and Jake lifts his head up to breathe before he plunges his head into the bathtub again, his weak knees tight against the floor as his only support. He feels weak, broken, broken and he pushes away his hair and clutches his chest as more of the bright yellow substance deposits out of his body. Tears are streaming down his face and he gasps for air, and the nausea subsides for one blissful moment, and he leans against the white bathtub, shaking. 

It’s only a matter of time before he retches again. 

Chapter Text

He tries to breathe. That’s all he can do. Until he hears knocking on the other side of the door. The sensation of wanting to vomit does not pass, and he makes an odd gurgling noise as the knocking becomes louderrrRr

yay.. Jake thinks, his head spinning wildly. His mother’s here, she’s gonna find out everythinggggg… Jake should be scared should close th door but it’s funny that the way his mother finds out that he’s suicidal is like this… Jake feels his head spinnIng and Feels Himselffff driftttinggggg awayyyyyyyyyyyy…

’Yes mom,’ Jake says, his speech slurred and faint.

’oh honey, you’ve been puking for a while, did you get that nasty stomach bug that’s been going around?’

jake fights the urge to laugh and laugh and laugh, or cry cry cry. He vomits some more, before weakly replying. 

‘Ahhhh, nooo, I think I need a hospital…’

’What?’ 

‘Hospital…’ Jake repeats, and he lies his whole body on the stone cold bathroom tiles, shivering like mad, his head pounding. He knows what his mother is going to say, so he tries to inch towards the Door handleee

‘Jake Sterling, open this door right now—‘

jake can’t reach the door handle, it’s too farrrrr….. Jake forces himself up despite feeling weak with faint, and opens the door, just to retch againnnn, but this time his mother seessss himmmmm…..

Jake, what happened? Mrs Sterling says as sHe stares that the vile yellow substance that's erupting from Jake’s mouth…

i… overdosed on paracetamol mommm… I don’t remember how many I tookkkk… I need an ambulanceeee..

through the tears swimming in his eyes as he whispers to his mum, he sees her collapse to the ground alongside him, tears also in her eyes as she scoops him up, cradling his head.

‘why, why, why?’ She asks him gently, repeatedly, over and over and she calls Milo to bring her phone and car keys, as well as a blanket. 

‘was stupiddddd,’ Jake simply replies, and says nothing else. His mother helps him to prop himself up against the bathtub, and runs over to the bathroom sink to get some water in a little side cup.

Jake looks at the cup, fear in his eyes. ‘I don’t wanna drink water…’ he whispers.

Mrs Sterling breathes in, doing her best impression of being calm. ‘Please, Jake, you have to. Until we can get you to an ambulance, you have to. Please.’

jake drinks the water, and immediately vomits again, but this time, Milo comes into the bathroom, and Milo drops the things that he was holding.

‘J-Jake?’

Chapter Text

Time does not exist. Time does not exist. Time does not exist.

the next few hours a blur, and Jake cannot remember every detail.

he remembers Milo gasping, and calling an ambulance. He remembers being told that he would have to wait. He remembers the agonising car journey, the loud horns, the smell of his own vomit, the coldness of being stuck in his thin pyjamas. He remembers sticking his head into a thin plastic bag and vomiting like mad. 

he doesn’t remember falling asleep on those cold, plastic chairs in the waiting room. He doesn’t remember when they stuck a cannula into his hand so they could hook him up to a IV; he doesn’t remember when they withdrew his blood. He doesn’t remember his brother and mother, holding each other; their slow, soft whispers; the way they carried him into the next waiting room. He doesn’t remember the way his mother cradled him as if he was still a baby. He doesn’t remember the murderous look on Milo’s face. He doesn’t remember the way his mother planted soft, gentle kisses on his forehead and reminded him how much she loved him. He doesn’t remember the way Milo swore that he would get revenge. 

its a strange thing, what the sense of danger can do to a person.

Chapter Text

‘His blood tests came back a lot higher than expected. Are you sure he took eighteen pills Mrs Sterling? The ppm content of the Tylenol and the ppm of his blood do not correlate. Not to mention that his INR levels are too high…’

’I just found the empty packets in his room, and I counted the empty sachets. I have no idea if he took anymore than that. And when I asked him, he just wouldn’t tell me! Please, will Jake be alright?’

’Of course. There was, unfortunately, a delay in his care. If he had taken himself to the hospital as soon as he had taken the pills, then he wouldn’t have to stay over night. I know that you’re worried, but given Jake’s age and sex, I’m positive that he will make a full recovery.’

’Oh, thank heavens. When I saw him, I was so, so afraid that he would be jaundiced. I’m a nurse, and I’ve dealt with a paracetamol overdose patients before.’

’While I can’t guarantee that the N-acetyl cysteine will completely rid the chance of jaundice developing, I’m sure that it won’t occur in Jake. Like I said, age, sex and body mass are variables which will affect the rate of his recovery. And like you said, he hasn’t drunken alcohol before, right?

‘Oh no, no, of course, I’m a nurse, we don’t keep alcohol in the house. I’ve always been strict with my children regarding whether they can drink or not.’

’Good, good… now, I have more questions for you unfortunately. As a… precautionary measure. Nothing to worry about, but given the circumstances…’

‘You can just say that Jake tried to kill himself you know.’

’M-Milo! Don’t be so rude to the doctor! She’s just trying her best, you know!’

’Mrs Sterling, it’s quite alright. Everyone would be shocked if their family members did something grave like this.’

’Grave is a fucking understatement. My big b-brother tried to k-kill himself… He’s so… oh my gosh…’

‘Oh Milo, it’s okay, Jake is alive. I know that you’re upset sweetie, but he’s alive, he’s breathing, Jake’s just having a little nap right now.’

’You know Mr. Sterling, our head mental health nurse is currently on duty at this minute, but she may be free to talk to you for half an hour, if you need it. Remember, this is a ward, the other patients must sleep, as well as your brother. Are you willing to talk to her?’

’No.’ 

‘Then, I suggest that you listen please. I know that you’re hurting, but we need to be there for your brother. Do you understand?’

’Y-yes.’ 

‘That’s alright hun. Now, Mrs Sterling, to be frank, do you believe that this was a suicide attempt?’

’I… I really don’t know. When Jake went to talk to me, he was so weak and all he could talk about was being quote on quote ‘stupid’. We didn’t force him into talking, we just brought him here, and he hasn’t said two words except for, um…’

’Yes?’

’He called the ER nurse a ‘fucking bastard’ when he tried to take his blood. He fell asleep after that.’

‘Is it true what Milo is saying Mr Sterling? He hasn’t let anyone talk to him?’

’No, I’ve had to do most of the talking. He’s refusing to say anything.’ 

‘Alright. So, intent is currently unclear, but… if this was a suicide attempt, do you know what might have caused it?’

’I don’t…’

’Any home arguments?’

’I…’

’Mrs Sterling, I can judge you to be a kind, caring mother. We all have difficulties parenting, and believe me, if you did have an argument with Jake prior to him overdosing, then it is not your fault. Do you understand? We are not looking to blame, we are looking for answers. Can I trust you to give me to them?’ 

‘…Yes.’ 

‘Thank you.’ 

’…Jake and I…’

’Yes?’

’…We’re not that close. I’ve been stressed recently with work, and three years ago, my husband and I had a divorce. I’ve been working long hours, but due to inflation, my pay has been cut. Last night, I came back home late and Jake… he wasn’t very happy. He was frankly, really upset. I called him down for dinner but he wouldn’t come down, and we had a huge argument about his cheek. We said… some quite hurtful things to each other. But I don’t want to go into specifics.’

’Of course not, and thank you for giving me some idea of the home situation. Have you and Jake had frequent arguments?’

’Not really. I’ve been working mainly, and so I don’t see him a lot.’

’Good, good… now Mrs Sterling, does Jake have a good school life?’

’I think so—‘

’No, he doesn’t.’

’Care to explain Milo?’

’Jake comes home puffy eyed and exhausted. He’s decided not to go on to do senior year. He had a huge fight with his friends and now he’s alone. He’s always so fucking depressed, but no one noticed. And he kept shutting me out, mom out, and now, and now…’ 

‘He tried to kill himself. Oh my god, my brother tried to kill himself.’

Chapter Text

Light.

There is no light. Semblances of colour and flickers of light begin to filter in as Jake slowly opens his eyes to the world around him. The memories of the past are jumbled in his brain: foggy, unclear, incoherent and Jake feels like he’s falling down a deep dark pit. He knows exactly where he is. The hospital. And he doesn’t like it one bit.

Alone. 

He somewhat remembers that people were there. His mother. His brother. But it seems to be early morning, but Jake doesn't have a clock, and he has no idea what time it is. He doesn’t hear voices, but the occasional snore from people around him. He’s alone. He wants his mother, his brother, and maybe he’s being a baby but—

Sharp. 

Jake vision clears as he stares at the thin white crocheted blanket that covers his legs, barely able to keep out the cold. His ward curtains are drawn, a blue cavern enclosing him. And that’s when he feels it. Something sharp. Something cold. Something painful. 

Pain. 

Jake’s headache is still there, a never ending dull throb that hasn’t diminished since he last took the pills. But it is nothing in comparison to the weird thing stuck into this hand. Tubes connect out from where it meets the right hand side of his left wrist, held on by tape. And that’s when he feels it as he begins to slowly move his fingers one by one. A slicing, painful needle is up his arm, giving him something. Breathlessly, he looks down across his pale, dry hand with bated breath, to those thin plastic tubes with the clear liquid running through it, down to the ground where it collided, and then back up the dull grey metal pole of a stand… and into a bag, filled with a clear liquid, marked with a label as yellow as the vomit he had puked up yesterday.

Jake hates this.

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He can’t get up.

jake can’t get up. 

he wants to go to the bathroom but his head, his arm, he can’t move. 

it’s scary. 

it’s frightening.

he tries to lift up his head and feel something and he sees all the other men, sleeping peacefully, inside the ward with him. 

he wants to go to the bathroom. 

but he can’t move. 

why can’t he move?

Chapter Text

The doctor is annoying Jake. 

Visiting hours is still three hours away, but the head consultant is making his way around the wards already.

Jake couldn't stomach breakfast, yet he's starving. He's thirsty, but he can't keep water down. All he can do is lie perfectly still on his bed, making sure his cannula doesn't stab him if he so much as breathes in the wrong direction.  

Medical students have come and gaped at Jake more than once that morning as the nurses filter through the room, stabbing thin needles down a vein in his arm in order to draw blood. These medical students, barely older than Jake himself, watch intently at Jake's pain; studying him as though his suffering is a social experiement. 

It's mad. It's sickening. It's disgusting. 

What's even more sickening is the stupid doctor with his stupid glasses. He's got stupid black hair and stupid circle spectacles and Jake wonders if the doctor is a TEMU version of Harry Potter on crack because of all the shit he's spewing— and Jake's the one with a brown cardboard sick bowl on his bedside table. At this point, Jake isn't even sad that he couldn't kill himself— no, he's fucking pissed. 

"So, how have you ended up here?"

Jake stares at the doctor, unblinking. "I took a lot of Tylenol." Jake replies flatly. Wasn't this dude supposed to be briefed already? The doctor puts his clipboard on his lap and throws a disbelieving look at Jake. 

"Why?" He asks condescendingly. "Don't you realise you could have died?" 

Jake sits up in his thin hospital bed that creaks and moans every time he moves, and his mouth gapes open. Well, that was the fucking point, wasn't it? The doctor knew that he tried to kill himself, yet he was acting so fucking dumb. 

"If you hadn't come to the hospital any quicker," he continues, "you could have destoyed your liver."

"I know that." 

"If we didn't administer the n-acetyl cysteine, you could have died. It's one of the only antidotes that we have that isn't stomach pumping."

The room begins to swim, and Jake tries to not let the nausea take over him. 

He doesn't want to think about this, the hospital, the overdose, the aftermath— all he wants to do is go to sleep and pretend that none of this is happening. That this stupid Sherlock knock off is trying to interrogate him about— for fuck's sake, he tried to kill himself! Wasn't it obvious? 

He's in the hospital for Christ's sake. He's had thirty two pieces of Tylenol; tiny white murderous pills that could have killed him if he wasn't such a freak and—

The doctor seems to realise that Jake isn't in the mood for an interrogation, and so he writes something else on his clipboard, before standing up. His chair squeaks and squeals across thd linoleum floor, and Jake cringes.

"I think you should talk with our mental health consultant." The doctor finally says. "She has the afternoon free, so I'm sure she'll be able to talk with you about what happened." He smiles at Jake kindly, and waits for Jake to aknowledge his offer.

Yet Jake continues to stare at his hands. He's so pissed off, but he's stuck to him bed. All he can do is lean on the sawpaper fabric pillows and stay silent, glaring silently at the doctor.

The doctor heaves a sigh that's far too loud and obvious, and then walks away and through the ward curtains, leaving Jake alone, with his darkening mood for company.  

He can't even kill himself properly. And now he had a shrink coming after him. 

What a joke. 

Chapter Text

The sun glitters, filtering through the thin gaps between the curtains that remind with of endless depths, providing light to Jake's dark enclave.

All Jake can feel is pure, explicit rage coursing through his veins, and the light becomes too much. And Jake bites his lips hard and tries to leans to the side, trying to keep the nausea down.

The cannula continues to drip down into his arm, the knife like needle poking, scratching, painful, painful, painful, but everything Jake is used to. He should be used to this, after all, he would drag a razor across his arm and hope for pain, hope for peace, hope for the relish that he was finally doing something right. But instead, instead, he's ended up in a hospital bed. 

Jake wishes that he overdosed more, or with something more deadly. He wishes his body was weaker. He wishes he didn't bounce back. And he wishes, wishes that he didn't feel so guilty. Jake licks his dry lips and runs a hand through his hair, matted and greasy.

Disgusting. That's what he is, plain, plain, disgusting. The rancid stench of rotten eggs ooze out of his underarms, creating a pungent smell that makes Jake gag. His teeth die and fumigate behind his chapped lips, and he zones in and out of the light, hoping for sleep to overwhelm him. But he's not entitled to that.

He's not entitled to anything  really. Not after what he did.The doctor left over half an hour ago, but Jake feels like he's still there. He sees the disappointed drop of the doctor's face, the hidden accusatory glares, the regret and pity. But the accusation was blaring.

How dare he? When children are dying, when people are being abused, where people are having their human rights stripped, and here he was, a privileged white American man, acting as though his life was that awful that he had to overdose himself?

Overdose.

That word still feels foul on his toungue, agressive and fake. Reality isn't reality. Dreams aren't dreams. He shouldn't  shouldn't feel  bad. He shouldn't. Jake doesn't want pity. Jake doesn't want nurses to gawk at him. He doesn't want to hear fake apologies and fake concern and fake fake fake everything. 

The sickly white substance coating the entirety of his mouth twists and moves with his saliva, and Jake feels like gagging, so he reaches over to his bed side table, with slow careful movements, scared of that building pressure beneath his skull, and holds the brown paper bowl close, close, close. 

Being here is punishment enough. Being surrounded by other adults in toxicology makes him want to curl and curl and curl and eventually disappear. But he can't, can he? Instead, he's stuck in this parody of his life, a life that up until recently, he had loved. And now, that dream of happiness looks too far away. 

Being stripped of his dignity, his selfhood, was not what he was expecting. The fact that he can't walk long enough to go to the bathroom— well, he can't keep water down anyway. But he'd have thought that... 

He'd thought he'd be able to move. Jake shifts slightly to the left, his drip's wire entangling with his pajamas, those same ones that he wore the day he tried to kill himself. It's funny how yesterday had become 'The Day.' It rarely held any real significance to anyone who could care. For them, it was just another day. 

Jake opens his eyes. He shoves the bowl away from his body, and he slowly works to untangle himself from the substance that's keeping him alive. And that's when he sees the scars left over from yesterday. 

It's not like Jake was unaware of the scars. A nurse had applied plasters all over every offending mark, those tiny scratches and larger gashes that was the embodiment of his pain and anguish. Jake traces over one slowly. Small scabs create friction with his fingers, and Jake feels tempted to pick it, but he doesn't want it to bleed.The irony isn't lost on himself. The blood escaping him didn't end the pain after all. 

The delicate passing of blood as he sliced through the epidermis of his skin, brought him an indescribable amount of joy, once. It brought him peace. He could hurt and feel the consequences. It was freeing, revolutionary. So why, why now, was he so scared? Scared of that vile red? He shouldn't. Memories flood back. 

Hints of an argument, faces of those he once called friends. His mother's words, angry and agressive, circle around every crevice of his brain, and Jake feels the pressure in his skull mounting. Jake groans quietly, and shuffles ever so slowly, trying to ignore the pinprick of nausea needling his stomach. It doesn't work, and Jake drags the bowl over to him, and makes a pathetic gagging noise, before a salty substance slithers up his  throat and out into the bowl. 

He cringes at the sickliness coating the edge of the bowl, and shoves it onto his bedside table. He doesn't have any tissues here, so he lies on his bed again, the edge of his mouth dripping with his toxic saliva. How disgusting. Jake stopped vomiting yellow a while ago, but he had to completely stop drinking water for thatvto happen. Technically, he should drink, but he can't. He doesn't want to puke again. 

His mother would be shocked to see him here, Jake thinks. Helpless, for real this time. And nor faking. His mother is supposed to be here soon. She was supposed to be here. But why isn't she turning up? When he asked the nurse earlier, to tell him what time it was, she said it was around ten-thirty. 

She had stuck a long thin needle into his arm, and drew his blood.She explained that they needed to do that to test his INR levels, to see if his drip was making any difference. Jake supposed it was important to do. But it was painful, so, so painful. Jake taps the plaster covering the dump where his blood was drawn gently, and eases it off. He's stopped bleeding, then. Interesting. Jake fiddles with it in his hand, and stares up at the ceiling.

He's not entirely sure if he actually wants to see his mother. And that's when the tears fall. Who does he think he is? Fuck, why is he pretending? He just wants his mom. He wants her arms around him, her gentle smile, the way she holds his hands and helps him think that he's alright...

He just wants his mother.

He cries harder.

He wants Milo. He wants his stupid baby brother, the brother who isn't a kid anymore, but who is still so young. How could he have overdosed like that, in front of his family? How could he have been so selfish?

Jake thinks of Milo, and how scared he must of been when he saw Jake helpless on the ground. His baby brother. That stupid, idiotic kid who would babble and follow Jake around, and had turned into a man of his own. Jake never wants to do that to Milo again. How would he react, if Jake had really died? He would never see Milo smile again. He would never feel his hugs. He would never, ever hear his voice again. He wouldn't notice the small things, like that hand drawn card, the rearrangement of his room when Milo stole something...

The tears free fall now. Jake's so sick of himself. How could he? Genuinely? Milo, his mother— why was he prepared to throw all that away? Why? And fuck, he didn't even leave a note. He just decided to overdose. Why, why, why didn't he think? Because of his recklessness, his selfishness, he had tried to kill himself! Who was he, trying to tempt fate? 

And fuck, did he really try to kill himself? Genuinely? Jake gives out a tiny shaking gasp, and tries to muffle the sound of his crying with his fist,  biting down hard onto his knuckles. The reaction is instant, and Jake manages to calm himself down. 

The curtains draw, and a nurse pokes he head around. 

"Hi, your family is here for visiting." 

Jake blinks. 

Oh.

Chapter Text

He feels like a baby. 

Wanting the attention from the woman who gave birth to him. He wants to feel her soft soft hands cup his face and those soft lips to kiss his forehead and murmur sweet, sweet nothings of the delights of the world. Delights of a reality that had faded into darkness.

It's strange, seeing his mother standing in the doorframe. His curtains have been thrown back, revealing questioning looks from other members of the ward  as Mrs Sterling advances towards Jake, her eyes wide and fearful.

Jake huddles in on himself. She's here.

She's here, she's here, she's here—

Jake wants to cry. Tears gloss over his eyes again, and nausea creeps over his intestines and threaten to spill over.

But he tries to smile. 

"Hi Mom."

Mrs Sterling is at the foot of Jake's bed, and suddenly she comes closer and closer. 

They stare at each other, brown meeting brown and all Jake can think about is that if he did die, he wouldn't even be in this situation.

Jake's never felt so uncomfortable in his life. 

"Hey Jake," she whispers softly, and she pulls a seat over from the nurse who had been following her, and lowers herself down in the cold plastic. She's smiling softly, he is too, but all he is reminded of is the kaleidoscope of memories from last night. Or was it the night before that? 

Time blurs, and Jake already feels that he has lost sense of who he is. 

The nurse mutters sonething quietly, and she then exits the curtain enclosed cave, dragging it with a high pitched squeal that leaves them in a coma of blue. 

Jake can't read his mother. Her hair is matted, greasy and enlargened circles darken his under eyes. It should be easy to say why Mrs Sterling is stressed. 

But he feels like he hates her. 

Chapter Text

He shouldn't hate her. 

She's the person who gave birth to him, who held him, who watched him have his first footsteps. She's the one who hugged him close when he fell down, who dried up his tears. She drove him to school. She defended him and herself and Milo when Jake's father decided to disappear. 

She's the one who shouted at him. She's the one who took every one of his dreams and stamped it under her foot until it was nothing. She's the one who ignored him, who prioritised Milo, and made Jake out to be the ultimate bad guy. She's the one who compared him to his father, shouting about how he was good for nothing, and a waste of space. Jake watched her bang her head against a door and pull his hair and scream about how she wished they all were dead. Mrs Sterling doesn't remember this. Jake does. 

But she loved him. Or at least, that's how she acts as she pulls her chair closer to Jake and begins to mutter sweet nothings as she runs a hand through his hair and asks him, 

"Why did you do it?"

But Jake doesn't have an honest answer for this. He doesn't have the words to tell his mother how he truly feels, how selfish and self-centered he is that even with all of this live being shown to him, the fact that he's using up his mother's hard earned money to pay the medical bills, and he can't tell him how much he hates her, because he loves her, too. 

It was complicated, messy and Jake just wanted to sleep, goddammit. 

Mrs Sterling softly kisses Jake's forehead and murmurs about how she loves him so much, and murmurs how she wishes that he will never do this kind of thing again, and that they will get through it. 

She whispers about how she is so sorry, and that they will fix things. She brings a glass of water to his lips and he drinks unwillingly, and begins to feel that unpleasant twisting sensation of his stomach lining contracting. 

He should reciprocate those feelings of love. He should, he should, well, his mind is filled with a lot of should. 

Yet why, why did it take her so, so long for her to say it? Why did it take Jake to be dying and in hospital for his mother to begin caring again? 

Jake feels tears well up in his eyes but he clamps his mouth shut as a doctor walks in and mutters about how a woman is hear to see him.

She's from teen mental health services and she's got short pink hair, a badge that declares her pronouns proudly, and she has bright clothes with mismatched blues and purples to complement her cheery smile. She introduces herself to himself and his mother, and he asks him in soft tones if he wants her mother there while he speaks with her.

Jake's gaze traces all around Mrs Sterling's body, and in his broken voice, he replies with a resounding "No."

Jake doesn't look at his mother as she walks away, and leaves Jake alone with yet another person who wanted to know all his personal details. 

Chapter Text

"I'm with Mental Health America," the lady whose name proudly reads as S. Brooks says. "We offer free emergency mental health counselling in severe cases. Would it be okay if I ask you some questions?"

Jake is locked in an impossible circumstance, and he simply shrugs in his hospital bed, wordless.

"I know how uncomfortable you are right now, so I'm not going to push you to say, or do anything,” she says kindly. “This is all due procedure, to make sure that you’re mentally fit enough to go home once you’re well.” 

Jake groans internally. 

“Can you give me your full name please?” 

“Jake Sterling.”

“How do you spell that?”

“Uh, J-A-K-E then S-T-E-R-L-I-N-G.”

More furious scribbling. 

“Can you give your date of birth for me now please?” 

“Um, August 3rd 2003.” 

“What’s your address?” 

Jake blinks. “Why is that relevant?” 

Miss Brooks shrugs her shoulders. “It’s just for this form that I need to fill out.”

Jake isn’t very comfortable with sharing his address with this random woman that he just met, but of course, he’s stuck to a hospital bed, so he doesn’t give it much thought before he states his address dispassionately.

”And what are your pronouns?” 

Jake stares at Miss Brooks in surprise. “Um, he/him.” 

Miss Brooks grins. “No fancy ones then?”  

Jake shrugs. “No.” 

“Thanks,” Miss Brooks says, and she quickly scribbles on her notebook, and she looks up with an uneasy smile. “Have you heard of America’s Mental Health Services before?”

“Before this, no.”

Miss Brooks continues to smile, and she shuffles slightly in her seat. “Ah, so you’re unfamiliar with the actual work that we do, right? So you’ve never been in contact with them before?”

”Um, yeah. I don’t really make a habit of ending up in hospital on a Saturday evening,” Jake says. Miss Brooks bursts out laughing, but Jake’s manner is stoic and she soon mellows out into uneasy chuckles.

“Well, good for you. Now, we’re going to start your mental examination, so I’m going to ask you a few questions, and we’re going to come up with a safety plan in case this kind of thing happens again.” 

“Okay.” 

“And based on this, we’ll see if you’re fit to go back home, or if you need to stay at a mental health facility.” 

Jake is instantly filled with horror, for the one thing that he wants to do is absolutely not go to a mental health facility, so he just smiles and nods and says, “Yeah.” 

“Has anything gotten worse with you since you were admitted into hospital?” 

Jake thinks immediately of the fact that he can’t get out of bed easily without having to drag his IV, he thinks immediately of the fact that he has to vomit every hour, and he thinks immediately of the fact that he’s basically surviving on anti-pain medication, but he simply says that he doesn’t think so. At this point, he’s only been in hospital for around two days. He shuffles slightly in his bed, and he pushes a button to his bed remote so he can actually lift himself up more. “Not really. I mean, I’m still stuck here, but nothing is out of the ordinary.” 

“That’s good. Well, not good, considering the circumstance, but clearly better than most.” 

Jake shrugs again. 

“Now, I’ve only been told that you ended up in hospital, and that I need to carry out a medical examination. I haven’t been actually been told the details as to why you’re here. That’s for you to tell me.” 

“Um, yeah, so I overdosed on paracetamol, basically.”

”Do you remember how many you took?” 

“No, I don’t remember.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I really don’t remember— I wasn’t exactly counting.” 

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, 100% that sounds like a silly question. Do remember how many boxes it was then? One or two boxes?” 

“Um, something like that. It’s a bit hazy.” 

“Oh?” 

“I mean, it was late at night, and I wasn’t really thinking, I had a bad argument with my mother and everything just kinda… yeah.” 

Surprisingly, Miss Brooks doesn’t seem shocked by this, and she continues to scribble. Jake quickly realises that while this is probably one of the worst days of his life, this is just a standard Monday afternoon for Miss Brooks. She looks at him attentively, and Jake continues. 

“It’s been pretty rubbish, and then my mother had to go on a shift, and then I was left home alone with my younger brother who had already fallen asleep, and it must have been around midnight when she came back, and at like, one, or something. I must have overdosed. Like I said, hazy. I don’t— I don’t really want to talk about this that much.” 

Miss Brooks puts the clipboard down on her lap, and looks at Jake with concern. “And what day did this happen?” 

“Um, Saturday night? I was admitted into the hospital on Sunday morning.”

”So, you’ve been here for, two days now?” 

“Something like that, yeah, if the days add up that way.” 

Chapter Text

Jake was... a liar.

That much was obvious.

As Miss Brooks continued her questioning, Jake realised how utterly pointless this all was. 

But put of everything, nothing, and nothing could ever make him want to end up in a psychiatric ward. 

The scars on his legs? A result of pain. Not suicidal attempt. 

The fact that he overdosed? Oh, he was just feeling overwhelmed— with fucking what, Jake couldn't answer, but he was fine, fine, fine. 

He didn't need stupid safety plans, or a list of things to do if he ever felt suicidal again— Jake knew that if he would ever be so fucking stupid again, he would damn well succeed. 

But that's not something that he could tell anyone. 

But Jake was a good liar.

A damn good one at that.

Miss Brooks left the ward without so much as a backwards glance. 

Chapter Text

Days passed. 

Jake soon fell into a familiar routine, with a long list of familiar steps. 

Don't sleep, because the machines will beep you awake. The medicine that is being administered from your cannula has to be replaced after all. 

Don't eat. You can't stomach anything— not even that chicken broth your mother made you. 

Don't be rude. The nurses are doing their best with you. Don't be fucking ungrateful. 

Following these rules were easy. It's just that Jake didn't want to. 

Jake's stay was plagued by the worried looks of his family, routine questioning from doctors, the painful agony of walking across the ward in a thin hospital gown, trembling in the cold. 

Jake wished that the pills had killed him.

Maybe he regretted it before. 

He didn't know.

Instead, he remained silent.

.

.

.

.

.

"You'll be discharged tomorrow." The doctor that had so rigorously questioned Jake a few days ago barely looked remotely pleased to be delivering this information, after Jake had been so catty with him— but Jake looked up from his phone with mild disinterest and shrugged, trying to hide how relieved he felt. Home. His bed.

Oh how he missed his bed. While the adjustable bed was cool, nothing quite beat his soft covers, his pillow— Wait. His room was a mess. Didn't he completely trash it that night? 

Immediately, Jakes head was filled with concerns, with worry, and his stomach made an odd swooping motion, which made Jake curl his legs closer into himself under the covers. 

And at least here there was nothing to worry about. As much as Jake said he hated it here, which he did, don't get him wrong, he wasn't prepared to deal with his family members. 

Let alone the rest of his life. 

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Jake wished that his family didn’t care about him. 

Jake leans against his doorway, staring into his bedroom. 

His room smells… clean. 

Too clean. His bed is made, the window is open letting in a chilled breeze that sinks deeply within Jake’s soul. His piles of worn clothes are gone; the stacks and stacks of random school work is gone, his myriad of mugs and cups and random utensils are also gone. 

Everything, gone. 

It was far too clean. Too good. 

It doesn’t seem like the room he killed himself in. It doesn’t seem like the room where he was screaming, balling his eyes out, wishing that he was dead. 

But it is. It is. 

The blue packets of paracetamol might not be there anymore, but Jake can feel the stench crawling out from deep within his soul. He can still see his shaking hands popping the pills one by one. 

Jake’s whole body shakes like a leaf, and his legs buckle, knees slamming into the ground. 

Chapter Text

She washes his hair. 

Mrs Sterling’s hands, her warm, loving hands, gently folds shampoo into Jake’s scalp, massaging until his hair is almost invisible because of all the lather. His t-shirt and shorts that are covering his body are beyond dripping, but Jake can’t bring himself to care because this experience doesn’t seem real.  

She’s caressing him gently with a certain motherly feeling that Jake hasn’t felt in a long time. And yet even though he’s in his mother’s arms and is surrounded by love, all he can think about was that just a mere week ago, he was sitting here in this same bathroom, vomiting until he collapsed. 

Tears overwhelm his eyes and Mrs Sterling pauses from her shampooing, and looks at Jake as if he’s some kind of broken thing. 

“Oh, honey, no,” she says softly, and she plants a kiss on Jake’s forehead. “It’ll be alright.” 

Jake hates the way his mother look at him now. Like he’s some kind of pathetic, fragile thing. But he’s not broken. He’s not fragile. Or depressed. 

He's just sad. 

He’s just sad. 

Chapter Text

He wallows in bed, watching the clouds outside his window pass by. He spends a lot of time in bed now, actually. 

All day. 

He falls into a steady routine of waking up at noon and having a bowl of soup before lying in bed and sleeping once again. He fails to see his family in the morning and stays silent as his mother and brother come into his room and offer some kind of solace.

It hurts too much to talk after all. 

Jake showers every day and brushes his teeth and tries to feel alive but even then, he can't see the point of it all. The meaning of it all. It's pathetic, he knows, staring at the ceiling, picking at his barely healed self harm wounds, but it barely matters, does it? 

He's alive, he's alive, even though he doesn't want to be. 

The week passes by far too quickly for Jake's liking. The hours blur in waves of Tiktoks and Instagram Reels and YouTube Shorts and anything, anything that's mind numbing enough to make him forget about what happened. 

He's beginning to suspect that people want him to get over it. On more than one occasion, Milo comes bursting in, wanting to talk with Jake, wanting to hug him, hold him, wondering where his big brother went– but Jake is too tired, even for Milo, who he knows, deep down, why Jake hasn't tried to kill himself again. Milo wants revenge, but what Milo really wants is his brother. Not a pale, shaking, anxious shell of his former shelf. 

As for his mother...

The rain pounds on Jake's window on Sunday evening, and as always for this past week, Mrs Sterling comes in, and sits herself down on the edge of Jake's bed. But Jake immediately feels like there's something wrong. 

"Jake," she begins softly, and he lifts his bedcovers from over his head, and forces himself to sit up. The light-headedness hasn't gone, but it's dulled substantially. He locks eyes with his mother. 

"When are you going back to school?" 

Chapter Text