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Jack is tired of running on empty, of waking up each day already feeling exhausted, of never getting rest, no matter how long he sleeps for. He is tired of the dull throbbing in the front of his skull, a permanent shadow of pain that never goes away, even if he pushes against his head, like he’s trying to exorcise a demon.
He’s tired of being tired. Tiredness lurks around every corner, seizing him when he should be fighting to earn the money he needs to keep him and the boys alive. And he rubs and rubs at his temples, but the pain blazes up higher than ever, and the background roar of a pulsing ache is still there, and he is so fucking tired.
The migraines started randomly, really. There wasn’t a big accident, he didn’t bang his head, he hadn’t been under more stress than the ton of it he’s waded through his whole life. That’s probably the most annoying part: the fact that there’s no reason for these things that are ruining his life. They just happened and now he can’t get rid of them.
And most of the time they’re bearable; he can bury the pain down, somewhere near all his other unresolved trauma and the rest of the darkness that he hides from the boys. But some days, they are spiky and sharp, digging knives into the backs of his eyes when he looks at light and squeezing the sides of his head like he’s been trapped in a giant metal vice, and all he wants to do is curl up and cry, which is pathetic and embarrassing. There are people who rely on him to make sure they have a decent quality of life, people he loves, and it’s getting harder to help them, as these extreme days are getting more frequent, now at least three times a week.
He feels useless. Jack’s purpose in life was always to protect others, to put them before himself, to suffer time and time again and let himself bleed and go hungry and be hit if it meant they would be okay. But this is the second day this week he’s not been able to get out of bed, the pain in his head creeping all the way down to his stomach, where it spreads its roots and slowly pollutes all of him.
There have been days where he’s considered giving up. He wakes up on the roof and he looks down at the city and he realises what a big fall it would be, that his body would never survive the impact, that it would put an end to this cycle of pain once and for all. Because what’s the point of waking up when you know the next day will hurt as much as the last, when you know you won’t be healed? This isn’t a headache that goes away overnight; he’s learnt that by now, after two fucking years of waking up every day to what feels like his head splitting in half.
Today is one of those days.
He managed to force himself inside, into a bed, away from the roof. He didn’t trust himself, knew the dizzying drop would begin to look more tempting as the pressure continued to grow inside his skull. Shutting the curtains helped distract him a little, but he still keeps thinking: I want it to end, I want to stop hurting, I want to stop being tired. He’s always prided himself on being useful, but now he’s just a burden to the boys, who don’t even know when or if he’ll get better.
He’s spiralling; he recognises it by now, after experiencing it enough times. It’s frightening to happen when he’s alone - normally someone is here to catch him before it’s too late, before he gets to the window. But everyone is out because everyone is suffering because Jack is losing them money, because Jack can’t work, because Jack is sick and no one knows why.
It isn’t fair. Why him? He needs his health, he needs to work, he needs to get out of this bed. He’s going to go mad if he spends another second feeling so worn out; he can’t remember the last time he felt refreshed or properly aware. It’s like he’s been seeing the world through a fog, broken into this weak thing he would never recognise as the same bright and vibrant person he used to be.
He can’t do this anymore. He can’t. He presses his hands against his eyebrows, trying to relieve the pressure that is always there, but it just makes the blinding agony worse, the maddening pain that he is afraid he will live with forever. He can’t do this for another year. He can’t cope with weeks dotted with days of uselessness; he can’t handle a life of functioning at half the level he should.
I want it to end, he thinks as tears start to fall, the effort of crying only exacerbating the stabbing in his head that he’s so sick of by now. He’s looking at the curtains that drown the room in soothing dark, behind which lies an escape from all of this, an ultimate solution. And it sounds so appealing, when it feels like his head is exploding, when it feels like this is eternity, and it -
“Are you feeling better, Jack?” Davey’s voice drifts into the room, into the darkness, piercing through his thoughts - which are growing scarier by the second, “Guess what! Les broke his own record today; he sold twenty papes in an hour! He really wishes you’d been there to see.”
Of course. How could he be so selfish? He may be hurting physically but that is nothing compared to how it would hurt Davey mentally if he did this. How could he lose himself so much that he could forget Davey? It shows just how much these migraines have changed him, pushing to a point where he wouldn’t even consider his boyfriend.
“Jackie, you’re shaking.” Davey says, quickly rushing over to the bed.
He’s also crying, but he doesn’t think Davey would appreciate him snidely pointing that out. Besides, Jack’s too locked in his own mind to speak, too distracted by the pulsing and the burning and the inescapable pain and shocking horror of what he was just contemplating, only moments before.
“I want it to end,” He says, his voice rough and hoarse.
Davey nods sympathetically, running his fingers through his hair. “I know. And it will.”
“It makes me think things, Dave,” Jack says, “Horrible things. I want it to end.”
He’s in Davey’s arms, which are warm and comforting but make him feel powerless. And that’s the last thing he wants right now. How can Davey want someone who has lost everything that he loved about him? Who would choose to put up with this? Even Jack can’t bear to be alone with himself anymore, not now that he can’t entertain himself and fill his time doing things he used to do so easily.
“Don’t say that,” Davey says softly, “This will end, I promise. You don’t have to take things into your own hands every time, you know?”
Jack wishes he could believe the words, but he’s been waiting for so long now and there is no sign of any change. He’s afraid that he’s reached a standstill and that there is no cure and that this is who he is now, this shell of a person whom he despises.