Archive of Our Own ^beta

So it all starts with a girl.

Though that is an oversimplification. It all starts with an explosion and gas and cosmic dust and billions upon billions of years no human is able to comprehend. But then again, most people tend to look at Jack weirdly when he says things like that out loud, so he supposes he can say it starts with a girl.

"You bastard!" she yells as security leads her outside and away from the register. "I let my boyfriend die for you!"

"Who's that, an ex?" Richie asks, switching the trash bag behind Jack.

"I have no idea," Jack shrugs, and looks at the screen. "That will be 34.55."

"Don't let it get to you, man," the customer says, getting a note out of his wallet. "Some chicks are just crazy."

Jack starts counting the change.

So it all starts with a girl.

"And I thought, you couldn't just forget me, right? I mean, we clicked, and--we meant to have this grand wedding and start a family! It was your idea, by the way, because I wanted to wait for a bit before that, but--"

"Woman," Jack says, "you have the wrong person."

"Aw," the girl smiles. "But I could never forget your pretty face. Vance had a pretty face, and I still let you kill him."

Somehow that sentence does not bother him as much as it should. "Listen, you have the wrong Jack. I have never killed anyone."

"That's not true," she frowns.

"Hey!" Richie shouts. He's approaching quickly, a menacing scowl on his face. "You still bothering Jack? You better fuck off right now, or else--"

"Oh, we were just leaving," the girl chirps, gripping Jack's hand. "Come on, baby, let's go."

Jack doesn't budge.

"I really don't know you," he says apologetically. "And I want to get home, so."

For the first time she seems to really take a look at him, though the hurt and betrayal in her eyes almost make Jack squirm with guilt. He unclasps her hand from his own and takes a step away, and Richie jerks him further back.

"I hope you find your Jack!" he shouts over his shoulder as Richie drags him to his car. "Tell me if you do!"

The string of curses that follows is muffled by the revving of the engine and Richie blasting the music at the full volume. Jack looks through the window as they drive past the angry girl through the empty parking lot and finds his mind strangely empty of any thoughts.

So the thing about Jack is, he doesn't remember shit.

It wasn't that hard to figure out. Turns out most people don't just randomly gain consciousness on a park bench during a warm July night with nothing but a folder of conveniently neat papers, including an ID and a birth certificate. Richie says Jack's probably got hit on the head and got a case of retrograde amnesia for his trouble. He and Helen have got a betting pool going out on Jack being tied to some gang or mafia or whatever. Richie would know about amnesia because he's got a bachelors in psychology and Helen would know about the mafia because she seems the type.

"Do you think I could kill someone?" he asks when they're far enough from the parking lot and Richie lowers the volume. The guy scoffs.

"Everyone could kill. I swear if I stayed in college I would've strangled my stats prof and I know half of my year would've covered for me."

The thing about people is, they assume he always speaks metaphorically while he's being quite literal. He scrunches his nose.

"No, I'm serious. I know you wouldn't kill someone because you swear to heavens you'll kill Tom the next time you see him but you never do. That girl said I killed someone and I--well, I wasn't all that surprised, I guess. Is that bad?"

Richie quirks an eyebrow. "Okay, one: don't go round telling people shit like that. I won't tell because I don't fuck with cops, but you gotta have some filter, dude. Two, that chick told you that? Man, she's like, proper crazy. I would know."

Jack scoffs and turns to look out the window. For all his virtues, Richie has a frustrating habit of evading straight answers.

He thinks about it instead. The streetlights fly by outside, droplets of rain trailing down the window. They're about five minutes away from the apartment. The drive home from the store is a pretty short one. More than once Jack would wish for a solid five hours of silence in the car, nothing but engine and rain and night, the feeling so intense it wrecked something inside of him, left him in tears with no reason behind them. A relic of past life, he supposes.

"How would you go for a kill?" he asks again, suddenly curious. Richie takes a drag of cigarette and smokes it out the window, thinking.

"Dunno," he finally shrugs. "Probably something quick, you know? Uh--cyanide's pretty fast. But they also say you can't feel it if they put a bullet through your head because your brain's dead before it can register so maybe that. You?"

Hand to the head, Jack knows. Feel them burn from within.

"Yeah," he says. "Me too. Gun, I mean."

Richie pulls up and stops the car. Jack sighs. "Man, I'm tired."

"Yeah, no shit. You think Helen left us some of the pizza?"

Jack grumbles. "At this point I hate pizza."

"Why don't you do the groceries then, dumbass. We've got two beers and a stick of butter in the fridge. It's time you started pulling your weight around the house."

"I pay the electricity," Jack snipes. "You leave your hair in the shower drain. And you use all the toilet paper."

Richie sticks out his tongue. "You don't shit either way, princess."

Helen opens the door, looking at them like she would rather they were Jehova's witnesses. Richie rolls his eyes.

"Hello to you too, beautiful," he says as he moves past her. Jack smiles and waves his hand. "Hi, Helen."

Helen scoffs, and moves to the side. Jack comes in.

"That bitch ate our pizza!" Richie hollers from the kitchen, and Jack sighs. He puts down his bag and stretches out. He's not sure how much he needs it, but his bones pop and it makes him feel marginally better. Whatever. Stale pizza sucks either way.

"You shouldn't have done that," he says, and Helen rolls her eyes. "He's upset now."

"Tell him there's ramen in the cupboard," she bites. "I'm beat. Good night."

"Helen says there is ramen in the cupboard," Jack shouts. "I'm taking the shower!"

Richie and Helen get along like a house on fire.

Jack's never learned why they're roommates at all. Richie dropped out of college as soon as he got his bachelors, and failing to start his own business (something about statistical analysis) moved a state away from his family to work in a Walmart. Helen's a waitress in a club and she hates it. Richie snaps at her all day long and she has called him at least ten different slurs. They both smoke and can't keep a room clean and steal Jack's cereal, which he hides behind the TV.

Richie found Jack at the park on a bench two days after Jack became conscious. He hadn't moved at all in that time, simply observing. He knows now people don't just do that. Whatever has possessed Richie to drag Jack home and let him sleep on the couch, Jack will never know.

He listens now to Richie's steady snoring and Helen's quiet breathing. The doors to their rooms are closed--he sleeps in the living room--but he still hears every little thing. He supposes that's not normal. But then, many things are not normal, not with him. He doesn't sleep, for one. Doesn't eat, either. Not really. Not in the way Richie does.

He doesn't tell them either of these things. He's good at pretending. So he pretends to be asleep until he's sure both of them won't wake up, and then he pulls out his phone, and hides it again. Where would he even start to look? He didn't even get the girl's name.

He turns to the side.

It's not that he regrets not asking. He didn't remember her, and she didn't seem to care that he didn't--it was bound to end badly.

The way she gripped his hand, though. The undeniable recognition in her face.

Despite countless long nights when they sit in the kitchen, Richie with a cigarette and Jack nursing a glass of orange juice mixed with vodka (Richie scoffed when Jack said that just juice would be fine, and told him not to be a baby)--despite Richie's speculations about Jack's past, Jack has never felt the need to go looking. His mind is empty, almost light, and it feels like a relief, to an extent where the mere thought of remembering makes him uneasy. Besides, it has been quite a few months. Someone would--someone would come looking, if it was truly important. He would have been on the news.

But nothing comes up under name of Jack Kline. His birth certificate mentions Kelly Kline and James Novak as parents, but all the search results provide are cases of mysterious disappearances. Nothing else.

So he sleeps on a couch and works at Walmart and drinks vodka with orange juice and lets cigarette smoke eat into the very fabric of his clothes, and he exists. It feels enough. He feels like a bug, an ant, maybe: just moving forward, following the motions, and it feels--freeing. It feels nice, to be small. Most of the time.

Other time, he misses. It comes in absences, small and unimportant. He misses humming, because the walls of their apartment do not rumble, and for some reason he expects them to. He misses a specific brand of cereal, because none of the ones he already tried taste right. He misses reading. Buys a few second-hand paperbacks, but they don't feel right. He misses the smell of cooking in the morning. He misses voices, ones that linger at the border of his consciousness. He misses a spark at his fingertips, a snap of electricity up his spine that could set it all right, the lack of sleep and hunger and the weird taste of cocktails Richie makes him all explained with a snap of fingers.

But it passes. In the morning, his mind is blissfully empty again.

He gets up before Helen and Richie do, a routine, and starts shuffling around their apartment. Picks up dirty dishes and stacks them in the sink, gathers Richie's clothes, strewn around the room, and dumps them into laundry. Wrinkles his nose, because the old rug in the living room needs some vacuuming, but he's not about to do that at 6 am. Once he's done in there, he goes in the kitchen and starts the dishes. Grabs the trash from the can, throws on his coat and makes sure his wallet is there.

Out of the three of them, Jack has the least money trouble. Maybe because he spends on next to nothing: his expenses begin and end at electricity bills, his share of the rent and groceries. He rarely feels the need to buy anything else. Richie has the same salary, but whenever it comes up he says that he's broke. Helen lives off tips. They say it's student loans.

Jack doesn't mind paying for them when opportunity comes up. Somehow he feels he would do just fine without money, so it doesn't really matter.

The morning is chilly. He throws the trashbag into the garbage bin and stops for a second to plug in his earphones, spends a minute or two picking a song.

Here come the cavalry, the singer starts without much interlude, and Jack startles—the volume is too loud. They rode a million miles to make a man of me, they'll figure out if I am god or chemistry, which will it be, love?

He makes his way towards a corner shop, already open, and takes a basket. He waves at Mandy at the register, who gives him an unenthusiastic nod.

"Sunday, huh?" he asks sympathetically, and Mandy sighs. "Doesn't seem like a lot of people, at least."

"For now," she shrugs. "Better believe some asshole will come in yelling about prices being too high. Again. You workin' today?"

Jack shakes his head, picking up eggs from the fridge. "Nah. Richie neither."

"Aw. Damn."

"What?"

"Wanted to ask if I could come round after my shift, we still have Clone Wars to catch up on. But I wouldn't want to impose."

"Maybe tomorrow?" he asks. "I'm opening. Richie's closing, I think. Helen might be there, though, I'm not sure."

"God, Helen's even worse," Mandy whines. "You live with two of the most antisocial people on this earth."

"I'll text you," Jack says. "We'll come up with something."

"Seriously, though, how the fuck do you manage? I would've crashed out in the first week. You couldn't pay me to live with either of them, especially Richie."

They're the only thing Jack knows. The constant he remembers.

"He's not that bad," Jack says. "He doesn't bother me."

"Yeah, well, you like Anakin. Your taste in men is abysmal."

Jack smiles. Richie's hardly the type to charm people. His hair is tangled and he smells of cigarette smoke and his way of speech is harsh and often crude. He picks up fights on hills no one's even heard of. He gets defensive quickly. But he's also there whenever Jack looks for him, a presence Jack relies on. He sits him down at their kitchen table and lights up a smoke and talks for hours. He drags Jack along to parks and clubs and makes him watch shitty TV.

They fall into silence after that. Jack takes inventory of his basket. He's got eggs, a carton of milk and a box of cereal (breakfast); a pack of spinach and ricotta tortellini, cheese, heavy cream, ham (lunch); orange juice, some bisquits, chocolate (snacks); package of instant ramen and toilet paper (Richie); instant cappuccino, caramel flavour (Helen); bread, mayo, cucumber (sandwiches). He checks his phone in case Richie or Helen sent a text with something else.

He wanders a bit more, checking different isles and dropping a bag of chips into the basket. "Is the shampoo still on sale?" he asks, remembering Richie's almost empty bottle.

"Who the fuck knows," Mandy says. "Let me check."

The shampoo is no longer on sale, and Mandy goes to print the new pricetag, muttering something about fuckers who can't get the job done. Jack is reminded that it's almost the end of the month, which means new prices and new sales and at least a week of outraged customers experiencing fits of righteous rage over 2.5 dollars.

"Don't tell me about it," Mandy says when he complains to her about it on checkout. "I don't want to remember all that bullshit. I escaped the big box store and wish you the same."

"You'd think it wouldn't matter if your shampoo is 35 cents more than on pricetag if your total is one million dollars but no."

Mandy scans the last item. "That's it? That's gonna be 54.37." She stops, face haunted. "Jesus Christ. I could've bought this shit for 35 euros when I lived in Croatia."

"Lucky you," Jack scoffs. He takes the receipt, drops it in the bag. "Good luck. I'll text you about Clone Wars."

"Sure. See ya."

Mandy's good. Kinda like Richie and Helen, in the way they're all defensive and snappy and broke and weird. Really, Jack thinks she would get along with them well if she didn't have such a massive beef with Richie. (He kept smoking in the store and being generally unpleasant. Jack supposes Mandy got territorial.)

He meets a cat on his way back, who looks unimpressed with the world at large. The cat blinks at him and finds him unimportant enough to keep laying on the ground.

The world keeps moving on.

Richie is in the kitchen when Jack gets back. He looks positively pathetic, hair matted after the night of sleep. He's nursing a cup of burnt black coffee, eyes filled with sadness rivaled only by men in post-soviet gay porn.

Jack knows what post-soviet gay porn is because Richie insisted it was fundamental for his reintroduction to the world. Importantly, he did it before he introduced Jack to the concept of porn at large, or that it is usually done in private.

Jesus Christ, Helen said, slamming the laptop shut as if it was unholy when she walked into the living room, and Richie said he's fucking WEIRD, Helen, and Helen said, are you fucking disappointed that he didn't pop a boner sitting next to you on the couch?! and Richie said no? and Jack said what's a boner? and they never talked about it again.

Jack's pretty sure Richie's gay, though. Or at least bi.

He plops the bag down on the table, stirring Richie from his thoughts. "Do you want juice with that? I got some."

Richie grunts. He lays his head down on the table, looking out the window. Jack can already tell it's going to rain.

"I want bacon," Richie grunts. "And like four eggs."

"Uh," Jack says. "I've got eggs. Do we not have bacon?"

"Told ya. Stick of butter and beers in the fridge. That's it."

Jack frowns, taking a look himself. Richie's exaggerating, of course. There's a stick of butter, two beers, a wilted head of lettuce, a sad half a cucumber, quarter a bottle of coke, unfinished mozzarella and three-days-old soup none of them got around to throwing out yet.

He opens the freezer for a good measure and is met with an unopened container of ice cream and frozen chicken bones. Cool.

"You need to cut down on grease either way," he settles, not willing to admit that he should've, perhaps, taken inventory of their fridge before going to the store.

Helen walks into the kitchen, hair as messed up as Richie's. "'Sup," she mumbles, plopping down in one of the chairs. She wrinkles her nose at Richie's coffee. "Christ."

"Shut it," Richie grunts. He's ruffling through the bag, looking back at Jack, hurt in his eyes. "You didn't get bacon."

"Get your own bacon," Jack bites, half-hearted. "I'm making myself french toast." By myself he really means us, because, once again, he eats exactly as much as needed to appear a normal human being. Which he is.

"Caramel flavour," Helen says, nodding approvingly at cappuccino. "Thanks."

"We can drive to a bigger store later," Jack says to Richie, cracking three eggs in a bowl. "I'll just need to write down what we'll need for the week."

"What, Mandy's not doing it for you anymore?" Richie scoffs. "I thought you loved that stupid shop."

Jack stops beating the eggs together with some milk and sugar and points the whisk at Richie. "Do you want me to make breakfast or not?"

"Get me some stuff for sandwiches when you go," Helen says. "I can't keep ordering food for my lunch breaks."

The pan sizzles as Jack dumps a piece of bread covered in egg into the melted butter. Richie and Helen keep bickering, without any heat to it. Eventually they fall silent, both looking like they got three hours of sleep between themself.

Jack puts the toast on the table and sits down next to them. He eats half of his and allows Richie to steal the rest. Helen keeps scrolling on her phone.

She sends him a chicken gnocchi soup recipe. Jack puts chicken and gnocchi on the shopping list.

"So what are your plans for today?" he asks Richie, flopping by his side on the couch. (It's his couch. Richie is the one crossing the line.)

Richie grunts, shifting a bit so Jack can lean up his side and hook his head on his shoulder to better see the dudes he's swiping through. None of them seem to be Richie's type, seeing how he scoffs and closes the app. Jack huffs. "The last one was hot."

"Jesus," Richie mutters. He lets Jack open TikTok, and for a few minutes they scroll through the memes.

"Maybe you should try women," Jack suggests.

Jack finds himself fascinated by dating apps. With dating, in general. With people. Girls and women and men and boys and both and neither. His eyes catch on their features, their hair, their makeup, their smiles. He feels he knows each and everyone of them. He feels he wants to make them a coffee and listen. He feels, sometimes, that if someone kissed him, he would kiss back out of curiosity.

But then, he was always more of an observer.

Richie rolls his eyes. They watch more memes. Richie's frame is boney and his elbows kinda stick out, but Jack has a way to lean into his side and fit around the edges.

Richie smells of anti-dandruff shampoo and old spice and cigarettes. His hands have the texture of sandpaper and he is always stiff and he's the most familiar thing Jack has in this brand new life.

He's playing a game now, the one with the trains and jetpacks and angry railroad guards. Jack follows the quick movements of Richie's thumb, the fast-changing image on the screen. His eyes feel heavy. When he closes his eyes, it's only Richie he can smell, only the silent walls of their apartment he can hear, only the entirety of the myriad of the smallest things that all move and breathe and live in the air and the ground and the leaves. (The car rumbles around him, his hand on the wheel. There is strange melancholy in his chest, strange grief, strange sadness. He looks out to the sunflower field, and he's in the stems now, in the water, in the ground. He is in every photon beaming down to earth and triggering plants living, eating, breathing.)

It's a good life he has. It's good people he loves. (He's every sigh and every laugh and every scream and every bloody fist. He's in the car on the road. He is the car and the road and the calloused hands of the driver.) It's the closest thing he has to a home. (He's on a couch and he's the star burning to grant them the pleasure of life and he's stardust scattered across the universe and he's the universe, the universe, the universe, expanding, expanding, expanding, and he still hasn't finished spreading his wings, and he's never going to finish spreading them and he's the king and the healer and he's the soldier and the nurse and he's the son and the father and he's a He, he's a He, he's a He.) It's the closest he ever comes to sleeping.

"Actually, I thought I might go out later," Richie says. Jack stirs, drowsiness still sticking to his eyebrows. "Shush. I didn't realize you were asleep."

Jack watches him crash into a train. "Loser."

"Christ alive, I was trying to be nice to you!"

"Sorry," Jack mumbles. Frowns. "Wait. No. I'm not."

"Little bitch."

"Shut up and watch your tone. I make your food."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Helen says through a mouthful of sandwich. "Fruits. I'm leaving in ten, hopefully see you never."

Jack throws a pillow at her. "Get hit by a car and die!" he sing-songs, and Richie laughs. Helen tsks and salutes, swallowing the rest of her ham-and-cheese. She disappears from the doorway.

"I raised you well," Richie nods. Jack shifts against him. Sleep lurks at the corners of his mind, yet still evades him. He closes his eyes nonetheless.

They make their way back into the kitchen eventually. It takes a few more jabs from Richie and like ten lost games of Subway Surf and half an hour wasted on TikTok memes and the same amount spent frowning over guys on Grindr. They've been trying to deduce Jack's type. So far he can say he's not into beards or people in gym gear.

Richie opens the window and drags a stool closer to it to light a cigarette. Jack starts another coffee for him, puts a kettle to boil.

Cooking is meditative. It gives him something to do with his hands and something to do with his time. He's grown adequate at it, which is an achievement in itself, considering Richie taught him the basics, and Richie burns his eggs three times out of ten (because who the fuck has patience to watch them cook for the total of three minutes?)

Richie's distracted, tapping his feet restlessly, eyes on the street. He rubs his fingers at the windowsill over and over.

"Hey," Jack says, aiming for nonchalant, "now I've got the orange juice, do you want to try that fancy coffee?"

Richie stirs from his thoughts. "What, the bee one? Sure."

There are categorically no bees involved, but Jack doesn't mention that. He sneaks glances at Richie as he pours juice and coffee over ice.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, putting the glass on the table.

"Hm? Yeah. Sorry, I'm just... distracted."

Jack nods, as if understanding. "I get it." He doesn't get it. "Anything I can do to help?"

Richie grunts, finally tearing his eyes away from the street. "Let's try that coffee, ey?" He takes cautious sniff, then nods. "Cool. This smells exactly like what I need. Thanks, Jack."

Something warm spreads through his chest, and he smiles.

He leaves Richie to his coffee, then. Turns back to his cooking. Water from the kettle starts boiling almost immediately after he transfers it to the pot, so he salts it and throws in half the package of tortellini, putting the rest in the freezer. The spinach is young, not in need of chopping, so Jack simply gets out a pan and puts it on high, adding oil. He washes the spinach while it heats, throws it onto the heat, listens to it sizzle. Spinach fascinates him. It looks like he has an entire pan, yet in five minutes it will shrink five times to turn into a sad green blob of fiber.

"Jack," Richie asks, "is there someone standing by the dumpster?"

Jack backtracks a bit to look out the window down to the street. Outside there is a dumpster, some litter pressed into the asphalt by boots and weather. A crow picks around in the trash. There's a woman with a small dog walking up the street, but nothing in the dumpster's immediate vicinity.

"No," he says. "Why?"

Richie blinks, frowns. Rubs his forehead. "What do I know. Not enough sleep. All those clopens Tom put me on fucked me up." He sips his bumble out of the straw. His eyebrows shoot up, and he shakes his head. "That's some good shit, man. Can you pass me the salt?"

Jack thinks, once again, of Richie's habit of answering the questions without giving an actual answer.

He pushes the shaker towards Richie and goes back to his spinach, which has, as prophesied, considerably shrunk. He opens his (their) spice drawer (who the fuck is he kidding? no one else in this household uses anything other than paprika and garlic powder, and Jack is a snob about spices because people on YouTube taught him so) and takes out whatever looks promising. Paprika, garlic powder, onion powder, cumin, tumeric, chili flakes. He's got not a single clue why those match or whether they match at all, he just knows they make up a good flavour.

"Am I supposed to add butter if there's cream in the recipe?" he asks, frowning. "Both are fat."

"Hey," Richie says, "the fatter the better, am I right? I personally like my lunch to come with a side of heart attack."

Jack rolls his eyes and stirs the tortellini. He dumps some water from the pot into the pan; stirs in the cream. He reaches for the salt, remembers he gave the shaker to Richie.

"What are you doing?" he asks with curiosity. Richie has spilt some salt on the windowsill and is pushing it around, spreading the tiny heap into thin line. Jack returns to the stove, but keeps his frame half-turned. Richie glances at him.

"Oh," he says, frowning. "Counting the grains."

"What for?"

Richie shrugs. "Old game," he says. "Used to play it with my brother when I was little. In the lore vampires can't cross the line of salt unless they count every single grain." He pushes back. "It's stupid, but I guess it calms me down. Takes the edge off."

Jack blinks. "Why would vampires need to count grains?"

"Right? Stupid." Richie shakes his head, takes a drag of half-smoked cigarette. "My mom was hard on superstitions. You know, knock on wood, salt over the shoulder, that kind of shit. God forbid a black cat came into her general vicinity. She had a priest come twice a month to do his hoodoo on the house, didn't give us rest until we knew all the prayers in the book." He falls silent for a second. Jack stirs his spinach. Richie scoffs. "Fascinating fucking woman, tell you what."

"You never talk about her."

"We're not on speaking terms," he says. "She'll probably break out of hell or heaven or wherever women like her end up at if I show up at her funeral. Well, we can't all be poster boys, mom." His face twists, and he downs the rest of his coffee past the straw. "Christ. Sorry."

"What about your father?"

Richie looks out the window. His fingers toy with the salt, rubbing it in, spreading it over the windowsill. "Dead," he says. "Work accident."

"Oh," Jack says. "I'm sorry."

Richie shrugs. "It's ok. I was thirteen. Besides," he smiles, and it comes out crooked, "I walked away with a stepmother after that. Just as fucked in the head as my mom." Jack stirs the spinach. "She was there when dad had his accident. I guess she felt guilty." He scowls. "Up to the point she decided to fuck my mom about it, apparently."

"Did you not like her?"

"Hard to like her when she starts painting occult stuff on the floors and teaching us exorcisms," Richie scoffs. "She's the one who taught mother all that shit about salt and spiders and black cats."

"And salt and spiders and black cats, those are... superstitions."

"Yeah," Richie says. Jack turns off the tortellini, drains the water into the sink. He starts grating the cheese. Richie looks back out the window. "Right, you probably don't know. So like, spiders--if you kill a spider, it'll bring bad luck. Black cats bring bad luck, too, and live around witches. Witches aren't real, by the way, before you ask. People made them up so they had someone to blame for the consequences of their bad choices."

"Huh," Jack says, stirring the cheese into the sauce. "And the salt?"

"Oh. It's the luck stuff too. Though, I mean, if you want the lore, people long ago believed the devil sat on your left shoulder." Richie taps his cigarette against the ash tray. "And salt--basically, you throw salt over your shoulder to distract him." He stirs, eyes brightening minutely. "It's funny, though, because salt is--salt is pure, y'know? So throwing it at the devil might actually work. People use it to ward against undead and unholy stuff. Though if it's the Devil, it would do jack shit. Kate--that's Mom's mistress--Kate lined our windows with salt. We weren't allowed to keep them open for long, because the line would be ruined."

"Why wouldn't it work against the devil?"

"God, can't believe I'm telling you this. Listen," he says, "I can talk, but that's--that's cult stuff, Jack. Salt don't actually work to ward shit and silly painted pentagrams won't hold a demon because those don't exist. That's just stuff Kate and Mom and people like them come up with to cope with world they're afraid to live in."

"I get it," Jack nods, placating. "So what about the Devil?"

"Fuck," Richie snaps, "are you sure there's no one outside?"

"Yes," Jack says. "What's a devil anyways?"

"It's--fuck," Richie says. He shuts his eyes, rubs his forehead. "Listen, man, I'm fucking tired. Thanks for the coffee. I need to go clear my head, but I'll tell you later, ok?"

"I'm almost done with lunch," Jack protests. "It'll be done in three minutes."

Richie's already heading out of the kitchen. "Leave me some for later, ok? I'm sorry, it's just--I get like this, when--when I talk about Mom and stuff, after Dad died it--fucked me up. I'll be back soon."

There's another thing Jack does: he can tell when someone's saying bullshit for the sake of it. "Fine," he snaps. "Get hit by a car and die."

Richie winks. "Will try my best, princess."

Jack listens to the door close and scowls. He watches the sauce bubble before dropping the spatula in the sink and turning off the heat.

It's past 2, which means Mandy's shift is over.

"Hey," he says on the phone. "Richie's out and Helen's working, so you can come over if you want."

"Someone sounds mad."

Jack rolls his eyes, though of course Mandy can't see him. "Will you come or not? The food is getting cold."

The connection is a bit staticky. "Sorry, I'm already on my way home. Shame you didn't call earlier. I'm so not looking forward to cooking."

Jack sighs. "Richie ditched on me a few minutes ago, so."

"Wow, how could he. I'm just saying, Jacqueline, if you were my roommate, I would always eat your food and compliment the cook afterwards. Lord bless the beautiful hands that prepared this meal."

"Uh-uh."

"I would worship the ground on which you walk."

"Sure."

"I'd put a ring on you, I'm not joking."

"Hm," Jack says, "get back to me about that when you're not starving."

"You could be my beautiful wife."

"Put down the phone and drive. I won't pay your fines for you."

"Whatever. Worth a try. For real though, I'd like to come over, but alas. My bed becalls me."

"I get it. Get some rest."

After he hangs up, it's just him, empty kitchen, and tortellini in the pan. Without anyone to share the meal with, eating seems... redundant. Jack dumps it in the tupperware and throws it in the fridge.

He takes out his phone.

2:37 PM You: Will you at least tell me where you went?

This is stupid.

The apartment is quiet and empty. Begrudgingly, Jack starts cleaning the kitchen. When he goes to close the window Richie left open, there's a woman standing by the dumpster. Her clothes seem worn and dirty. She looks pregnant. Their eyes interlock, and Jack can't say for sure, but it seems like she's angry. He waves, but she only glares.

It doesn't matter; the next time he looks, there's no one there.

A crow caws and flies off a tree.

Jack empties coffee grounds from the coffeemaker and starts on the dishes.

4:06 PM Richie: sry man had to make a call

4:06 PM Richie: i think im gonna be out for a while if thats OK

4:08 PM Richie: r u mad? 🥺

Jack scowls. He's been rotting on the couch for the past hour or so, half-paying attention to malpracticing doctors on TV.

4:08 PM You: its whatever.

4:09 PM Richie: awwww im sowwyyy 🥺🥺

4:09 PM Richie: ill make it up to you princess 😘

Jack rolls his eyes and presses the dial button. Richie picks up almost immediately.

"Hey," he says. The connection is shit, but Jack can hear cars in the background. "I'm real sorry for goin' off like that."

Jack wants to say something along the lines you suck and I'm mad, but there's something in Richie's voice, tension hidden behind his flippant tone. "Are you okay?" he asks instead.

"What? Oh, yeah. Thought I saw someone from college, but--dunno, can't find them anywhere." He pauses, probably to take a drag of cigarette. "Listen, can I ask you something weird?"

"Sure."

"This stuff I said about salt--I mean, I know it's bull, but you know how fucked in the head I am. Can you--God, I hate this. There's a bag of salt in the cabinet under the sink. Can you just--line the windowsills with it?"

Jack frowns. "What, like, make lines of salt near windows?"

"Yeah, yeah. By the door, too."

"What, are you afraid of vampires?" Jack tries to joke, though he's already on his feet.

"Yeah, yeah, fuck off. I'm just paranoid. I'll clean up when I get back."

"Sure you will. Where are you, anyways?"

"Taking a walk."

"Did you take the car?"

"Nah. Keys are in the hallway. Are you going to do groceries?"

"I could pick you up on the way there."

"I think I'll pass. I'll give you back the money."

"Sure."

"Thanks, man. You're the best. I gotta go now."

"Bye."

"See ya."

The salt Richie told about is nothing like used for cooking. It's bigger and grainy and the bag is unopened when Jack takes it. He throws some on the kitchen windowsill like Richie asked him to. Does the same with windows in the living room; in Richie's and Helen's bedrooms. There's just enough salt left for a line by the main entrance.

He stares at it for a while. Something scratches at the back of his mind. Itches under his skin. He looks at the salt and knows there are a thousand and three-hundred forty-seven pieces in the line he just made and he's not compulsed to count but what if?

What if every grain of dirt in the garden and every cell of leaves on the tree and every worm crawling up to meet the rain and every raindrop and every photon and every star, sand on the seashore and fish in the depth and every newborn and every dying and

He leaves the house in a hurry, only grabbing his jacket and keys. He's got a headache and he doesn't get headaches and it feels like fear licks on his heels as air spasms in his lungs. Crows caw and take off and a black cat jumps off the hood of his car and he stumbles through puddles of stale rain and mud, the world rotting around him under guise of autumn. The woman from before is gone, but there's something dark and foul staining the ground where she stood.

He jumps into the car and shuts the door. Grips the wheel.

Every fly and every ant every thing that rots and bloats and screams and weeps and moans and every thing that's born and lives and dreams and begs and cries and fights and growls and bites and looks and hears and speaks and eats and shits and every thing that's hellfire and that's stardust and that which came from mud and flesh and stone and grave and ash that bleeds that screams that cries that begs that yearns that weeps that curses and that pleads and the dark that whispers and the light that promises and the emptiness that swallows and empties empties empties empt

There's a knock on the window. Jack gasps, suddenly breathing, eyes blown wide.

"Hi!" the girl from yesterday says, smiling as he rolls down the window. "I'm Harper, by the way. Seeing as you forgot me."

It takes a few seconds to focus on her properly. Jack's hands shake badly. She croons.

"Aw, baby," she says.

"Who the fuck are you?" Jack growls. The world still rings in his ears. Harper grins.

"Why don't you give me a call when this is over?" she says, handing him a napkin with a number scrapped on it. "If you make it through, of course. I'd love to chat someday. We had such a lovely time together, it's a shame we never caught up!"

"What have you done?"

"A little this, a little that. Nothing a seasoned hunter can't get through," she winks. "So come hunt me, cowboy."

They stare at each other. Harper blushes.

"What the fuck," Jack says. "Cowboy?"

"It's not my best work," she says. "I'm on a bit of a deadline."

"You know what? I hope we broke up and I blocked your number on all of my socials."

"Goddammit," Harper says. "If you die horribly, I won't cry even a little bit. See you around, Jack."

He still finds himself driving to the grocery store. This is fine. He is fine. Apparently he has a crazy ex and an affinity to psychotic meltdowns, but he's still gotta get ground beef at the store.

He glances at his phone, hoping to see a message from Richie, but there's nothing. His phone is connected to car bluetooth, so he opens his playlist and hits play all.

The car swerves a little and he swears, locks his eyes on the road, Richie's chiding voice over his ear--you leave your phone alone when driving, do you want to crash the car?--and he ignores the icy-cold feeling in his stomach. He doesn't. It shouldn't. He doesn't need to see, he just knows--every movement, every twitch of his muscles and every gust of the wind and--damn it, Jack, focus!

"I know nothing and understand nothing and seek nothing," he says to himself. "I would kindly ask my brain to shut the fuck up."

You turn the telly on, the song continues, to drown out your fear, you make the bed up silent on the floor so no one will hear us; you try so loud to love me--I cannot seem to hear.

Something catches his attention on the side of the road. It's the same woman from before. She follows him with her eyes and chill crawls up his spine but he's passed her before he can decide to stop.

He drives past his Walmart. He doesn't like going there when he's off the clock. There's Target a bit further away, which is where he goes.

He breathes. Music washes over him in an array of sound waves, somehow soothing. 'Cause you, you touch, my skin peels off like paint. But beneath all of our panting there's noise I cannot shake. Well, can't you hear the scratching? There's something at the door!

The day outside is darkening rapidly, a combined effort of autumn and the gathering storm. He pulls into the parking lot just as the first droplets find their way to the ground.

His phone rings.

"By the way," a bright voice he identifies as Harper's says, "what are you? Because you're not human, that's for sure."

He hangs up.

"I think you were human, once," the voice continues to speak, ringing in his ear even as his phone is tucked snugly into his pocket. "We all were. Factory settings. And down in McCook, you were human, too."

He grabs a cart. Takes out his phone. The screen flickers, glitches. He phones Richie, but Richie doesn't pick up. He doesn't leave a voicemail.

"But dead things and me, we get along, ey? Of course, every gooddamn reaper and hunter are on my throat but I held many a soul in my hand, Jack. I can tell you how they look like, when Death flays them apart and when I weave them back together. And you, baby--you've been dead a few times over. Hence, question--what are you?"

Shut up, Jack thinks, shut up, shut up. His hands shake as he rolls the cart towards the store.

"You're neither ghost nor ghoul; you walk and breathe and live, yet you have the smell of fresh-dug earth around you. That's why I clocked you back in McCook, by the way. You weren't dead back then, but the guy with you reeked of sulphur and ozone and like ten other things. Death was wrapped around him and snarled at me and I knew better than to snarl back."

Something snaps within Jack. Something breaks, pops, breathes gold. Eyes tear through fabric of the planes. He holds the world in his hands. Harper gasps.

"There you are," she breathes on the floor of her motel room, fabric and herbs and bones strewn around her--"fucking hell, baby, you're beautiful."

Maws open around her. Light swallows her, swallows her, swallows her.

The parking lot is quiet and empty. All at once Jack can breathe again.

He looks down at his phone. Somehow he pressed play.

"God," he breathes, "fuck." He turns off the music. His phone refuses to cooperate for a few seconds, droplets of rain on the screen breaking into rainbow of digital light and colors.

"She was talking about Dean, you know," a voice comes off his side. Jack jerks. The woman is standing a few steps away from him, swaying slightly.

Jack's breath catches. His head spins with the smell of damp earth, bitter smoke, burnt meat. Oh god, he thinks, she's dead. She's dead and she's walking. Her eyes drill into him, hateful, angry. She takes a heavy step forward. "Though how would you know? You saved the day and walked into the sunset. Never to return. Forgetting everyone and everything like it can save you."

She lunges for him, and on some half-forgotten instinct Jack manages to stumble back. God, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead. She's angry and she's dead. She's dressed in a dirty nightgown, crusty blood staining it waist down. She's sobbing. Shivers course through her body.

"I'm sorry," Jack says, "god, I'm sorry."

She barks a laugh. "Lies," she says, "gods and their lies and their gifts and their promises. I was dead the second you nested in me and dug into me and sang in my brain and saw through my eyes, I was dead, dead, dead!"

She lunges again. But she's crying. Rain passes through her, but her tears stain her face. Jack feels his eyes wet, burning. His breath spasms in his lungs. Wind howls, biting into him with myriad icy needles.

"I had so much to live for," the woman sobs. "And then they took me and bound me and worshipped the child that took hold of me and I thought, maybe I have something to die for, too. But you, you--my body, my soul, my life, my years! Sucked into you like a parasite, burnt so you may burn! Burn, burn!"

Hand to the head, Jack remembers. Feel them burn from within.

The woman goes out wailing in a flare of white fire.

He hears screaming and realizes it's his own.

He stumbles into the store just to get away from the rain. His hands shake, face wet with tears.

Richie doesn't pick up. Helen either. He killed someone, he thinks. He left no body.

Harper's voice sings in his ear. I have never killed anyone. That's not true. Is it murder if the other person is already dead?

"Shit, man, are you good?" an employee says. His nametag says Dan. Jack looks into Dan's eyes and sees him straighten.

"Yeah," Jack says. "Yeah." He wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. Dan cocks his head.

"When I was four, I used to beg God for a million dollars every night," Dan says. "God never answered."

Jack stares.

"Have a nice day!" Dan says, and walks away.

He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror, splashing cold water on his face. The world around him swims. He blinks and his reflection blinks a fourteen milliseconds too early. He blinks and the world is full of color, light pooling around him like unspooled wool. He blinks and something roars on planes he cannot will not wants not comprehend. He shakes.

Jack, something whispers in the back of his mind, lost in a whirlpool of every every every and none none none. Jack, Jack. Jack. I'm tired god i'm tired our father who art in heaven blessed be thy name i swear, god, i won't do that again can you make sure mom's not mad jack? GOD GOD GOD OH FUCK I'M SORRY lord bless the beautiful hands that made this food! боже дякую тобі за цей день, благослови цю ніч bless mom and dad and johnny and cousins fred and katie and mi molimo te za blagoslov za ovu službu Lord, you see the souls standing before you today jack, jack, jack, just this once, please answer!

The world screams in his ears.

His hands shake as he calls Richie. You've reached Richard Robinson. Please leave your message after the tone. "Hey. I, I'm not feeling well. I'm at Target, I. I'm not sure I can drive? Please call me."

He hangs up. His phone flickers and dies.

His head spins. He thinks he might grab an OJ or a chocolate bar while he's here. Maybe it's just his blood sugar.

The store spreads around him like a maze. Lights, blindingly bright, make his head pound. Whispers all around him, coming like waves. Please, please, please. You know mother is sick. I served you all my life, can you not do this one fucking thing for me? Can you not?

Oh, god, Jack thinks, and something spikes in his brain, ricochets against his skull, painful jab of something trapped, unreleased. Am I finally going insane?

He spots a woman donning the store uniform, latches onto her like a life raft. "Excuse me," he says, "can you--"

She stiffens, turns. Her eyes are distant, empty. "I got married when I was twenty-two," she says. "I loved him then, I think, but no more." Jack takes a step back, but she moves as he moves, magnetized, hooked into him. "I gave him a child at twenty-three. She ripped through my insides. She sucked the life out of me. My teeth crumbled and my skin hung useless. And he saw me as a sack of bones with dull eyes and a child on my breast, and I begged God, please, please let him love me. And God did not answer."

Her eyes follow him as Jack stumbles backwards, walks into a row of produce and he can feel her gaze through the shelves. Please, God, please, I've been so good for him. You can't let him do it, you can't make me lose him, why would you let him? Please, God, I'm tired, please, God, I'm aching in my bones, please, God, just take me, take me now, why would I live? Please, God, make her stop crying. Make her stop. I can't. Make her stop.

He can't, he can't.

His heart spikes when a man's head spins, eyes digging into him. He's still holding a jar of peanut butter as his face contorts into pure hatred. His daughter is by his side, head lolled to the side, and they open their mouths at the same time.

"When I was nine, I had a brother," he says, "when I was four, I fell and bruised my leg," she says, God, if you're real, please make him breathe, please make him breathe, my leg hurts so bad Im gonna cry where's mommy? Where's mommy? Oh God can you please help me find my mommy? he's still in the coffin he's still in the coffin please make him breathe please can he open his eyes? oh god please please please "God did not answer. God did not answer. God did not answer."

It's all around him, now, people talking, and he can feel their eyes through rows and aisles and he hears each and every one of them as he runs toward the exist. They bleed, they wail like an open wound. God did not answer. God did not answer. Answer, Jack, just this once! When I was small I really wanted a friend when I was beaten You could make it stop my family, do you know where my family is? Buried under rubble, choked on dust, killed in their sleep? Pain forms character but I was really tired of pain oh God, oh God, where are you? I didn't ask you to bring him back and I didn't ask you to bring Mom back but get your divine hands dirty just this once, Jack, or I'll kick your ass at the pearly gates god does not answer god does not answer god does not answer please, please, please, PLEASE--

He screams. Wails. Howls, through planes and spheres and cosmos, and the universe shakes. Something dark and empty looms, opens its maws, spreads its wings and hands and glares glares GLARES as he breaks through the door that will not open, glass cutting into his skin and his legs and his eyes and his lips and his skin stitches itself back together and he's breaking, crying, weeping. Music booms in his ears, from his dead phone, from his mouth and eyes and fingertips. 'Cause that second wind is coming, love, it's coming for all we own, booms in the expanse he calls his mind and oh, the creature scratches, it doesn't know how to get out!

The earth howls, turns in on itself, revolts from itself, hatred and anger all condensed and He gazes at Himself with nothing but pure loathing. You were a leech from the beginning, It says. I were called to judge and You were found unworthy. Thou shalt destroy Thyself, for thus is Thy will. And you, you follow philosophies, but me, I laugh and I choke--

WE WERE CALLED TO WITNESS, the entire Earth roars, every wind and every tree and every blade of grass and every rock and every bleeding heart WE WERE CALLED TO BEHOLD every god did not answer god did not answer god did not answer WE WERE SUMMONED TO JUDGE jack, can you hear me? jack, I can stop this, I can stop this WE WERE CALLED TO WEIGHT HIM WHO CALLS HIMSELF LORD AGAINST THE WEIGHT OF HIS WEAKNESS eyes rip through space and open in a hallway and see green of the man he called his father oh god oh god WE ARE YOU FOR YOU ARE EVERYTHING AND WE GAZED UPON YOU AND FOUND YOU LACKING it towers over him, limbs and eyes and wings//jack, jack, you need to light the fire, jack THOU SHALT BE DEVOURED well, hello, my hollow Holofernes, I wink, but you don't get the joke THOU SHALT BE DESTROYED power ripples through the hand of the man he called his father as ghosts of his past howl around him hold the hand of the god-child, they say, as he falls from the sky and his father chants he chants he chants THOU SHALT BE--

Silence. Rain around him. He falls to his knees and finds himself weeping.

"Oh, God," Jack whispers, "oh, God." No, no, not I.