Despite the fact that his eyes were open, Jake couldn't see anything. Pitch black void surrounds him on all sides; no matter where he turned his head, the darkness followed. Not that he could turn his head all that much - or even move an inch for that matter. Darkness wasn't the only thing that surrounded him. Dense, jagged walls encased him in, crowding him a little too close for comfort. The air in wherever he was stuck was stale, making it difficult to breath.
The fact that walls were so damn close didn't help any.
Overall, the whole place was claustrophobic in all the worst ways.
"Hello?" Jake called. His voice echoed in the tiny chamber, betraying his wobbly tone.
No one responded, but he didn't know what he expected.
The silence stretched on for far too long for Jake's taste. He huffed, which wasn't the smartest idea considering how difficult it was already to breath in here. But hey, he never claimed to the smart one. That was Steven's job.
Speaking of...
"Steven? Marc? Hell, Khonshu?" exclaimed Jake.
None of them answered. Neither Marc nor Steven were there in his mind.
It was so dark in the tight space, he had to blink a couple times just to be sure if his eyes were actually open or closed. He was able to move his arms just slightly so, bringing his hands up to his chest. They dragged on the rough surface of wherever he was, catching on little grooves and etchings in the material. The walls were rough and coarse, like stone.
Like stone Jake was familiar with. Like stone he had been stuck in once before.
A sarcophagus.
Mierda, no otra vez.
He closed his eyes and rested his head on the jagged stone of the coffin, sighing once more. It was no secret that Jake was claustrophobic. Well, he didn't go shouting it from the rooftops, but he wasn't actively trying to push it away - it was as much a part of him as his arms and his legs were. And maybe that wasn't the right way to think about it, but that was how he thought about it.
Bumping his head against the wall again, he pulled his head back and opened his eyes. He was surrounded by the faint glow of yellow light, a sickly sweet honey color that made Jake wrinkle his nose. The source of the glow was little hieroglyphics lining all along the stone walls. He gingerly stuck out his hand and ran it up and down the only one he recognized, the tiny insignia of Khonshu.
Jake shoved on the lid of the sarcophagus, kicked it, pounded his fists, did anything he could think of to get out.
Once again closing his eyes, he exhaled and summoned all his strength. And pushed.
The lid gave way and the world around Jake fell. For a split second he could see out into the room in front of him, but before he could recognize anything, he fell too.
Jake pitched forward, slamming face first onto chilly tiles. He heard the crunch of his nose more than he felt it, the nerves there shot after years of being broken. Blood begins to flow sluggishly from his nose, wetting his lips and chin.
"Mierda," he gasped, rolling onto his back. His whole body ached - his fists especially, the skin cracked and stinging from pounding them on the sarcophagus. Bright lights assaulted his throbbing eyes, head lighting up with the beginnings of a migraine. Raising a hand to shield his eyes, his eyelids heavy and his blinking lethargic as he struggled to gather his bearings.
"Was that really necessary?"
Every muscle in his body tensed at the voice, soft and deceptively calm. Jake shot up quickly into a defensive stance. Sitting in front of him at a clinically tidy desk with an unamused look was the man Jake had killed almost a year ago. Arthur Harrow, in the flesh and blood. And his stupid sweater vest. And stupid mustache.
"¿Qué demonios?" Seriously, what the hell? He fucking killed that guy - shot him almost pointblank in the back of a limo, disposed of the body in the English Channel, and spent weeks cleaning that stupid motherfucker's blood out of the upholstery - just for him to be here, alive? Here, Jake glanced around quickly in disgruntled disgust, being his psych ward office. It looks exactly the same as the last time he saw it, much to his annoyance and bafflement. Even Harrow, he notes, is wearing the exact same clothes as before. As if no time had passed at all.
Harrow eyed him with barely concealed distaste, "Ah, so I'm talking to Jake Lockley now, am I?"
"What the fuck is going on? Why am I here?"
"Well, I was trying to conduct a session with Marc Spector before I was interrupted. To be honest, this has been happening a bit too often as of late - any session I've had scheduled with one of you has been halted by the other two. I've begun to worry, Jake, about these interruptions. Before, I could have gone weeks without seeing you, and yet, recently you've joined every session unprompted. Not that I don't appreciate seeing you, it's just we haven't been making any progress - if anything, I would say the three of you have regressed in progress. Why is that? I was trying to discuss with Marc his mo-"
"You talked to Marc?" Jake interrupted, trying his best not to perk up at the mention of the alter, but after spending however long alone in that sarcophagus he was just glad to hear he was around.
"I wasn't making very much headway. He seems very distance recently, more so than he usually is. Like he is here, but his mind is elsewhere. I understand that he disassociates when confronted with difficult memories or subjects, but this seems different." Harrow explained, gesturing with his hands in a very vague way.
Jake stares down the doctor warily. Even in this unassuming form of a kindly psychologist, he knows just how dangerous the other man is.
He's sure Harrow is just as aware of how dangerous Jake was, too.
"But now that you are here, there's something I'd like to discuss with you. Please, have a seat." He waves to a chair behind Jake, knocked slightly askew from Jake launching himself out of it earlier. "Now, I was talking to Steven not too long ago, and he mentioned something curious to me."
"Steven?" Keeping his eyes firmly on the other man, Jake takes a seat.
"Yes, he said that you told Marc and him that you shot me."
"Yes."
"And why did you say that?"
Jake shrugged, "Because I did."
The sigh that escaped Harrow probably wasn't the most professional choice, but Jake highly doubted the doctor's credentials were legitimate. Harrow leaned back in his chair, hand clasping his chin and mouth in thought. He stared Jake down like he was a particularly difficult riddle to solve, scrutinizing him with a half-lidded glare. Jake didn't break eye contact. Was he the biggest fan of direct eye contact? No, not really, it made him want to rip his skin off. But was he one to back down from a challenge?
Hell the fuck no.
"Why don't you explain to me the circumstances that led to you 'shooting me'?" The doctor suggested, seeming to decide that this was the next best place to take the conversation. It really wasn't.
Shifting slightly in the chair as to fully stretch out his legs, Jake crossed his arms. "Why? What's the point? It's not like you're going to believe me anyway."
"Is that what you think? That I won't believe you when you explain to me what led to you telling your alters that you shot and killed me? When I am very much alive and well in front of you now. When all three of you have a carefully documented history of hallucinations and delusions," Harrow raised an eyebrow at the other man, inclining forward to jot something down on the notepad resting neatly on his desk. "I don't understand why you would think that," his words were dripping with insincerity and sarcasm.
Ah, so this was a challenge.
"Look, Doc," Jake leaned forward to meet Harrow's gaze, elbows moving to rest on his knees and fingers lacing together. He rested his head on his hands and smiled slyly, "We could sit here and do this whole sesión de terapia, de corazón a corazón bullshit. We could this dance for, what? The hundredth time? But we both know where that's going to get us. So, let's both be grownups and cut the shit, yeah?"
He knew how he must look to the doctor, eyes manic and smile crooked with a busted nose that continued to bleed onto his shirt. He looked deranged, but that was fine with him. Maybe that would scare Harrow off, like a snake rattling its tail in warning. 'Back the fuck up, or get your shit rocked,' a warning that he wasn't to be messed with. Dr. Harrow may be able to trick and manipulate Marc and Steven, and have them confront things about themselves, but Jake refused to play this game. He refused to relinquish control to this asshole just because he had a fancy piece of paper on his wall.
"Jake, you know that's not how these sessions work," Harrow chastised. "You remain in my office until our time is up at four o'clock, and if we make successful progress, you get to skip the next appointment. If not, then we meet again for an extra hour the next day. It's like I am always telling you and the other two; there is no escaping, so you might as well go along."
Well, that wasn't ominous.
"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"
The doctor chuckled, "Oh, Jake." His tone was condescending, like he was talking to a child. Jake grit his teeth, oh how badly he wanted to end this just like the last time he had seen Arthur Harrow. "The only exit to this office is locked and staff is on standby in case there is any funny business, only as a direct cause of your own actions. Your bad behavior has bled out and affected how we do things here, especially with you and your alters.
"You all are so... Unpredictable," he explained. "It's difficult to know what will happen during these sessions considering how prone to violent outbursts you tend to be. Poor Steven, so simple and scared, has to deal with the repercussions of your actions. So confused as to why the other patients avoid him like the plague. So unsure of himself as the staff keep a close eye on him. So frightened to find his knuckles bloody when he is suddenly thrown to the forefront. Because of you."
Clenching his jaw so hard it ached, Jake barely resisted the urge to launch himself over that stupid tidy fucking desk and knock the condescending smile off the snotty doctor's face. Any fun he was having earlier riling up the doctor had completely melted away. "Don't talk about Steven." He growled.
The way the corner of the other man's lips crooks up ever so slightly tells Jake that he isn't taking the threat to heart - that he finds this all amusing. It's the same look he gave to Marc in the Pyramid of Giza, when the gods turned their backs on someone in need. All of this was a game to Harrow, a target to hone his cunningness on, flex the muscles of his brain. Jake wasn't a challenge to him personally, just one of many obstacles in the path to Ammit. And now, Jake was just another pawn for him to control.
"How about this," Dr. Harrow rose from his chair with a little difficulty, reaching immediately for his cane. He took slow, measured steps towards a chest of drawers against the wall, painted the same obnoxious white as everything else in the room. "You play nice, you behave and contribute to this session. And if - and this is a major if - you are good, you can have this back." He opened the top drawer and pulled out a flat cap - Jake's flat cap.
Jake stared wide-eyed at the hat with poorly concealed want. That was his hat, probably his most prized possession. Anything else he owned could be easily replaced; leather gloves were not hard to come by, guns were a bit too easy to get, and limos were a dime a dozen. But this, this seemingly bland gray hat, it was everything to him. This was his item. And this puta had it in his greedy paws.
If there was one thing Jake hated, it was giving others the satisfaction of seeing him submit, of letting people know how to get to him. He wasn't some subservient bitch - an argument could be made about his relationship to Khonshu, a voice in his head that sounded faintly like Marc told him, but now wasn't the time or place. Threaten him, his property, or - God forbid - his alters, and you'll find out what being the viscous Fists of Khonshu really meant.
But, of course, overreacting now would only be playing into Harrow's hands.
"What, you think that'll work? I'm not a perro you can bribe with the promise of a treat," he said, trying to come across as indifferent.
Harrow stares down the bridge of his nose at Jake for a minute, peering at him with an apathetic scowl, "No, you are lower than a dog."
The room grows colder.
"A dog," Harrow continues, slowly stepping towards Jake, ignoring how the other man tensed every step closer, "is a mindless little creature. It lives and then it dies, having very little impact on the world around it. You, on the other hand, have just enough willpower and consciousness to get in the way. You have the most minuscule chance of hindering progress. And yet, you choose to waste what little potential you have on spiting others and on the novelty of thinking that all this 'tough guy' bravado you put on will get you anywhere. Steven is like a dog, clueless and with little purpose. You, Jake, are lower than a dog."
Jake gawked at the doctor in disbelief. "And, where does that leave Marc, in this little analogy?" He says half-heartedly, testing the waters.
The doctor had the nerve to roll his eyes at the question, before heading back towards his desk. The flat cap is still clutched in his hand, Jake's eyes trained on it the entire journey. Harrow stops in front of his desk, half leaning and half sitting on it. "Marc is a person who never had the opportunity to be a person. He's had to spend his entire life playing babysitter to you and Steven. That's something I am trying to help him overcome in our sessions together, and finally become a fully realized contributing member of society - instead of a hazard to the public."
"Having DID doesn't make Marc any less of a person than anyone else. And you don't just overcome having DID. It's something you can work on improving, but it doesn't just disappear."
"And what about you, Jake? Are you a person?" Accosted Harrow.
Jake threw his arms up in the air, looking at the doctor in bewilderment, "Fucking of course! The fuck else would I be?" Sighing, he rubbed at his tired eyes, feeling the migraine growing behind them. "¿Me estás tomando el pelo?" He muttered under his breath.
"See, I find that hard to believe." The doctor pressed his lips into a thin line obscured by his mustache, and shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly, "Because what do you have outside of your alters? Marc has Layla. He was a history, a past, a tangible record that he exists. You don't. Steven has highly doctored documentation, just enough for him to get by on and not draw attention to himself. He has a job. He has a goldfish. What do you have?"
"I-"
Harrow cut him off before he even had a chance to defend himself. "You have nothing. You are nothing. It's like I said earlier, you are lower than a dog. We can have proof that the dog existed, even if it didn't leave an impact. I don't have that for you."
"And, you know what?" The doctor asks, though Jake knows he's not really looking for an answer. "I think you are insecure about that."
Squirming in the uncomfortable plastic chair, Jake didn't rise to the doctor's challenge. While he didn't feel like he was necessarily insecure about it, he couldn't exactly denounce the accusation. Jake was a bit touch-and-go with his feelings, so he hadn't really had the chance to explore how he felt - not that he really wanted to. There wasn't much that could be said to his existence; Marc needed someone who could take the blows that came, so Jake came to be. That was it... Which was sad on a few different levels.
For one, the fact Marc, who was a child, needed someone to take the punches and protect the body because he couldn't - because again, he was a fucking child - was so upsetting. Not a day went by that Jake wished that it hadn't happened and it didn't have to be this way. Even if that meant that he wouldn't exist, because there wouldn't be reason for him to, he dreamed of a world where young Marc was okay.
For another, that was Jake's whole purpose - to protect. At least for Steven, his purpose was to give Marc a chance to disappear and process things, and to live the mundane life Marc could never have. Jake was just meant to protect, to take out any threat - both to the body and to the travelers of the night, now as Khonshu's avatar. And once Marc and Steven had learned of his presence, he was able to take over more often and begin really living. But still, he didn't really have much going on. He didn't have friends (sure, there was Layla, but Jake felt a tad weird calling his alter's sort of, not quite ex-wife a friend. To be honest, he wasn't quite sure what they were. It was another thing he didn't really want to explore.) He didn't have hobbies. He just did his job and left.
And Jake realized that he was giving the doctor's observation too much thought, and that that was exactly what the doctor wanted him to do. Harrow wanted to do what he hadn't been successful at in the past; to get into Jake's head and make him question himself.
Instead of arguing, he decided on, "Stop psychoanalyzing me."
"Well, Jake Lockley, that is kind of my job."
With every passing moment, the migraine behind his eyes reared its ugly head and grew more aggressive, pounding and stabbing. How Jake longed for it to stop - for this whole thing to stop; the therapy session, the psychoanalyzing, the self-reflection, this weird ass dream/nightmare/eternal damnation he was stuck in or whatever it was. He put both his hands over his face, trying to block out the blazing lights and obnoxiously white room.
"Please stop." Jake asked, almost begged, almost prayed.
But things never went his way, they only ever got worse.
Once again, Jake's environment changed around without his permission, throwing him for a loop. The firm plastic chair he was sat on slipped into a plush fabric seat that dipped subtly in the back like it was been well-loved, the glaring bright lights of the office dimmed down to a soft early morning glow that peeked through his fingers, and there was a subtle feeling of movement under him instead the dead static of before.
Slowly and with great care, he moved his hands from his face, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the changes all around.
Jake recognized where he was right away.
Mierda, not this. Please.
He recognized the feel of the old fabric car-seats under him and the distinct smell of coffee that they never could get out. Dad's car, his old Volkswagen Golf with its faded sage green paint and heaters that never worked. Jake would say that this was probably where his love of cars stemmed from, his father's shitty old vehicle that looked about two seconds from falling apart. He had so many fond memories in here.
Sadly, this was not one of them.
From his spot in the backseat, Jake could see his father Elias driving the Volkswagen down some long forgotten Chicago road with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, worry lines having already taken root between and above his brows. He was wearing pajamas with a robe hastily tossed over the top. He didn't look mad - Elias didn't get mad, he only ever got upset; Wendy had enough rage for the both of them. Every so often his glance would trail off the road and onto the boy next to him in the passenger seat.
The kid, no older than eleven, was sat with his pajama-clad legs pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. Sleep-tousled curls fell over his arms as he rested his head on his knees, his face turned pointedly away from his father. A mark graced the young face on the outer corner of his right eye, just above his cheekbone - a wicked bruise forming not for the first time, and definitely not for the last time. Tears fell softly from the tired eyes, the only sound in the car was the occasional sniffle.
To anyone else, they would believe this was Marc out on a drive with his father. But to Jake, as well versed as he was with the system's distinct little mannerisms - and, of course, his own memories - he could tell this was a young Jake failing to be distracted by a drive with his father after a fight with his mot- Wendy. The way he gripped his own arms hard enough to draw blood from the crescent shaped indents from his nails and how he was scowling so hard his eyes were almost shut gave it away.
Jake didn't want to see this. He didn't want to be here, reliving this memory - it was painful enough in the moment to endure, but looking back on it now with all the things Jake had learned since, he much rather be trapped in the sarcophagus again.
"Marc..." Elias tried, speaking softly like he didn't want to spook a frightened animal.
Of course, Elias didn't know he wasn't speaking to Marc anymore - hadn't been since Wendy hit them. Their father hadn't known about the system back then, and if Marc had his way, he would never know.
"Marc, son, please talk to me." Begs Elias, glasses slipping slightly down his nose.
Jake - young Jake - doesn't move, doesn't turn to look at the man speaking to him. He just takes a shuddering breath and whispers, too faintly to be heard clearly.
"What?" The older man's eyes leave the road for a beat, two beats, before returning.
With his shoulders heaving and a deep scowl firmly planted on his face, young Jake whips his head around and shouts; "I said why didn't you fucking stop her!"
Elias has the gall to look taken aback by this outburst, as if he didn't expect someone who was hurt to fight back. Maybe Marc didn't, maybe he was quiet and subdued and wallowed with what felt like the weight of the world on his shoulders - but Jake didn't take shit lying down. While Marc wallowed, Jake seethed. He was a fire that burned, spitting insults like a fire billowed smoke, and torching anything in his path. The flames of his fury only grew as he got older, but now, present Jake felt like his blaze had been put out and all that was left was the scorched earth of his soul.
This probably was the first time 'Marc' had talked back to Elias like this. But unlike Wendy, he didn't get mad. Instead, his eyes got this sad, far-away look and his frown turned down farther. "I- I'm sorry."
Young Jake scoffed, rolling his tear-soaked eyes, "Yeah, because that fixes everything."
For his spot in the back of the car, older Jake watched the scene unfold in front of him with a growing sense of melancholy, mournful and sharp. He watched as his father and his younger self had a painful, stunted conversation; Elias trying to placate Jake with half-hearted excuses for his wife that he hardly believed anymore and Jake not buying a word of it. This display of a crumpling family was difficult for all parties, but none more so than for the spirit glued to the backseat.
Without his permission, tears welled up in his eyes. He knew now that his father didn't agree with Wendy - he was just afraid of losing another loved one. Maybe he thought that if he excused her behavior and eventually helped her seek treatment, she would leave their only son alone. But in reality, he was inadvertently pushing Marc (and unknowingly, Jake and Steven) away by keeping Wendy so close.
Because, the sad fact was, the bruise young Jake sported wasn't the worst of it. It was rather tame, actually.
It was only going to get worse and worse, and Jake knew that it was never going to get better, it would just end abruptly. And it didn't even end fully when Marc ran away, or when Wendy died. That shit haunted them to this day.
Jake gripped the fabric of his pants, pulling a choked breath through his nose. "Okay, I get it, alright? I had a fucked up childhood, made me a fucked up adult. We done here?" He asked whoever put him here. But no one replied, no reacted. The two in the front seat continued on with their conversation, Jake's words falling on deaf ears.
"Your mother, she's sick. Ever since..." Elias hesitated, trying to find the best way to put it, but it didn't need to be said. Ever since Roro drowned, died, pass on - the wording didn't matter. "Ever since what happened, she's been really struggling. And I know that it's been putting a strain on you, but she's going to work on getting better, doing better. We're supposed to go see a grief counselor soon. And they're going to help her."
Young Jake lifted his head, eyes flickering over his father skeptically, "And she's actually going to go this time?"
Because how many time had Jake, or Marc, or any of them, heard that line. 'She's going to work on getting better,' was said more times in that house than 'I love you,' or 'I'm sorry.'
"Yes. Yes, she promised." Elias assured him, though it sounds like he was hardly convincing himself.
Add that to the list of times he lied.
They settled into a silence that seemed to last eternities both in the moment and to Jake now. He stared down at his hands, longing for the familiar tug of his leather gloves. They always grounded him, and protected him from anything his hands may come into contact with. He wished he could be like a pair of leather gloves to his younger self, protecting him from the horrors that lay ahead.
But those horrors made him who he was today.
That didn't make it any better.
"Do..." Young Jake began, the words dying on his lips almost as soon as they started. Elias looked over at him, mindful of the road, and gave him an encouraging nod. "Do you blame me for what happened?"
It was like the car had suddenly plunged into icy water, the tentative atmosphere going frigid in an instant. Jake felt like he couldn't breath. The look Elias sported suggested he was feeling the same way; his lips pulled into a thin line, his eyes boring a hole into the road ahead like it was the most interesting thing ever. His hands gripped the steering wheel, the wedding ring on his left hand digging into his skin and turning the area around it red.
No one said anything at first. Jake didn't blame him for not replying, how do you even respond to that, but hesitating was worse than saying nothing - if only marginally.
"I know it was an accident." He seems to decide. But based on how young Jake's face fell, that wasn't the answer he was looking for.
Jake sighs a little dejected breath, "You think I did it on purpose, don't you." It was more of a statement than a question.
"I didn't say that."
"Why don't you just admit that you hate me?" He implored, voice and breathing becoming frantic. "Why don't you admit that you've always like Roro better, just like she does, and that it should have been me!"
Jake watched his younger self as the tears he had barely been able to keep at bay began to slowly glide down his face, watched helpless as the past version of him was entering a similar fit. And Elias didn't understand, he never did. He always tried to be there and be helpful, but he always fell short.
"I don't hate you, Marc." He said in a low, soft voice.
"Really?" Again, this wasn't so much a question as it was an accusatory statement, sarcastic and bitter.
"Really, I don't."
Rolling his eyes, young Jake slumped back in the passenger seat, "You know, at least Wendy has the guts to say it to my face - instead of pretending and lying to me."
In that moment, Jake saw something he had missed when he had been living through this years ago; he saw a look of udder heartbreak and anguish in his father's eyes. The look of someone realizing that they were losing one of the few people they still had left. His heart broke along side his father's. Jake's breathing hitched, hiccupping gasps catching in his throat, tripping over his own sorrow.
Mierda.
Elias, ever the gentle man he was, mercifully pulled off the road onto an abandoned path and put the car in park. He unbuckled himself and turned to face his frantic son, placing firm hands on his shoulders. "Now, listen to me," he implored, "I do not hate you, Marc. I could never hate you. There is nothing you could ever do to make me hate you. Am I still grieving the loss of your brother? Yes, I am. I miss him every day, because he was my baby. But, Marc, you are my baby too."
Both the Jakes in the car further lost the battle with their tears and wept in tandem, though only one was heard by Elias. He pulled Jake into a solid, grounding hug, tight and familiar. He placed a gentle kiss on sleep-tousled curls, then rested his chin on his son's head.
"I know it was an accident. I know that you would never intentionally do anything to hurt your brother. And for whatever reason, your mother can't see that right now. But she is going to try and get better. And maybe then, she'll be able to see it too, and remember that you are still her baby."
Present Jake inhaled, casting his glance up at the stained ceiling of the car as he tried to blink through tears. "I want to leave." He whispered.
"I already lost a son, I can't lose anyone else." Elias all but sobbed, tightening his hug on his trembling son.
At that, older Jake couldn't stand to hear anymore. He folded into himself, pressing his face into the soft fabric of his pants. "Please," cried Jake, "I can't be here anymore. Por favor quiero ir." He closed his eyes, trying to will this painful memory away.
"Jake, are you finally ready to talk?"
"No."
"Really, we can't keep wasting our sessions like this."
"Fuck. Off."
Even with his eyes screwed shut, Jake can practically feel Dr. Harrow rolling his own.
Mierda, could the universe, or Khonshu, or who ever the fuck was doing this give him one fucking break? Was that seriously too much to ask? His head dipped heavily - like the weight of his misery was too much to bare, chin falling to his chest. The frigid air of the office made the tear tracks on his face tacky, and the dried blood flaking from his nose wasn't helping the overall foul feeling.
He took a deep breath in, but it caught in his throat, choking him. Even his breathing was pathetic right now, more so wheezing than an actual full inhale.
Pull yourself together, Lockley! You see one memory and you turn into a big bitch?
But it wasn't just a memory. Memories weren't supposed to hurt like this. They weren't supposed to make you feel like you were drowning, becoming turned around in the current and believing you were swimming towards the surface when really you were just diving deeper. Like you were out of air, and your lungs were about to burst, but you can't break the water's surface. Like you're stuck, doomed to become a soul lost to the sea.
Was this how Marc felt?
That's who Elias' kind words had been meant for in that car ride; his father thought he was talking to Marc, he didn't even know that Jake existed. If he had known, Jake doubted he would have said the same things. He probably would have thought that the alter was responsible for Rolland's death - chalked him up as a mindless murderer like everyone else did.
Harrow cleared his throat, drawing him Jake out of his spiraling thoughts, "Let's talk about your mother."
"I want to leave," he sounds defeated even to his own ears. He can't imagine what he sounds like to the doctor.
"You know that's not how this works."
His eyes shot open and he glared up at the doctor, "I don't care. I want to go." He says with force, gritting his teeth.
Harrow's hands were folded neatly in front of him. Everything about him was neat, clinically so. He gave off an air of properness, well-kempt in his office space and in his appearance. Except for a bandage on his left temple, smudged with the faint pink tell of old blood. He was bruising something awful under the cover. "We've made no progress in any of our sessions, and you skipped the last one. You are staying here and we are going to conduct ourselves civilly, if that's something you're even capable of. End of discussion." There was not a hint of kindness or playfulness in his tone, just cold hard apathy and resentment.
"¿Qué está pasando con el moretón?" Jake jerked his chin towards the doctor, eyes on the bandage.
With a huff, Harrow settled back further into his chair. His hand gripped the other tighter, clean trimmed nails digging into pale skin. "I had a rather... Peculiar session with Steven earlier. I must say, I do believe you and Marc are rubbing off on him. He acted a little - how do I put this," his eye twitched as he struggled with his words, "oddly while I was trying to help him. Rather remorselessly, even. There was an altercation."
¿Qué? Steven, remorseless? Okay, sure, sometimes the guy remembered that it wouldn't kill him to stick up for himself ever now and then. But he rarely, if ever, got violent. Argumentative? Sure. Irritative? Occasionally. Petty? Oh, absolutely. But remorseless, to the extent of an altercation? That sounded more like Jake's interactions with Harrow than it did Steven's. ¿Qué diablos pasó?
"I think you got the wrong guy, amigo."
"Oh, I assure you, I did not. Especially if the profuse apologizing afterwards is anything to go by," and okay, yeah, that did sound like Steven, "but you needn't worry. That issue has been dealt with."
The doctor rolled his shoulders, a hint of a smirk ghosting his face. "Unfortunately though, because of Steven's little outburst, we have had to take more precautions with him - and by association, you and Marc. I had to put you all on a stronger medication than the one I had already prescribed to you, it should help with the hallucinations as well as excessive switching. Sessions will become longer and more frequent, for your benefit. And - to insure the safety of myself and the orderlies, as well as to keep you from hurting yourself - I have decide that restraints are not only required, but enforced." He gestured down to Jake's wrists with a sweeping wave of his hand.
For the first time, Jake looked to his wrists. He had been so focused on the clusterfuck happening around him that he hadn't even noticed the pressure ingulfing them, or the chill of metal. Instantly a sense of absolute panic washed over him, a cold sweat breaking out down his neck. No, no, no, this couldn't be happening. What the fuck, what the fuck! All he could do was gape in horror at the shiny strips of metal gluing his wrists to the arms of the chair, like the world's shitty pair of bracelets. He jerked at the cuffs, trying in vain to break free, but all he was doing was hurting himself, much to the doctor's amusement.
Harrow began talking again, droning on and on as if this was business as usual, seemingly oblivious to Jake's building panic and terror. While the doctor went on about actions having consequences, the patient only grew more distraught. He tugged franticly at the bands keeping him to the chair, his breaths coming out in whining pants as he failed to take a complete inhale. Long forgotten was his busted nose, or the locked door, or creepy way Harrow discussed his alters - the only thing on Jake's mind was panicpanicpanic.
"Ah, I've gotten us completely off track. Let's continue where we left off, shall we?" Harrow asked, feigning ignorance towards the other man's panic attack. "Let's talk about your mother."
Jake couldn't breath. This was all too much. The metal of the cuffs - despite being cool to the touch - scorched his skin, like a thousand tiny red hot needles stabbing into his wrists. His lungs weren't taking in enough air, but it felt like they were pushing up against his ribcage and his heart was going to explode out of his chest. Tears bubbled up, his vision going watery and hazy.
"Jake?"
Shut up, shut up, shut up, Jake thought as he screwed his eyes shut.
"You can't leave until we talk about her, Jake Lockley. She seems to be at the root of a lot of the system's problems - even being the catalyst for there being a system in the first place - so if I am going to help the three of you get better, I have to know what happened. What happened with her and your father-"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Jake roared, fists clenched so tight his nails broke the skin on his palms. His body was shaking so hard the chair under him rattles as the metal legs scraped against the tiled floor. "What the fuck is wrong with you? What kind of fucked up doctor are you? You can't just chain up a patient then ask them questions like this is normal!"
Harrow recoiled at his words and the volume of his voice.
Good.
He wasn't done yet, "Fuck you! You wanna know what happened with Wendy, you piece of shit? Here's what happened; she blamed Marc for something that was out of his control, she beat him for it, his father did fuck all to stop it. Marc's mind made me and Steven because he couldn't handle it, because he was a fucking child! Is that what you want to hear? You want to hear about how she would use his own belt on him, then make him wear it to synagogue? Or, how about how she told him she always knew he would something like that? What about the time she tried to drown him in the bathtub? Fuck you!
"You have no right asking me, or Steven, or Marc, about any of this. You're a phony ass doctor who abuses his position of power over those you feel are weaker than you, to make yourself feel almighty. You use force and fear tactics to bend others to your will - just like you did when you were still alive. But you don't scare me, Doc," his voice sounds stronger than he feels, echoing his words with all the venom and malice he intends. "You just piss me off."
With his eyes trained on Harrow, he spots the other man's hand reaching for a button - a panic button for the orderlies. "Now, let's calm down, Jake." He says, trying to placate his patient.
Jake chuckles darkly, almost hysterically. "I am calm. You haven't even seen me at my worst yet. But you will if you keep pushing for answers to questions you shouldn't be asking. Let me spell it out for you; you bother me, or Steven, or god forbid Marc, about any of this shit again, and I'll fucking snap your neck. Me shooting you in my limo for Khonshu was a mercy kill. I won't make that mistake again. Vete a la mierda y descúbrelo, capeesh?"
The second Harrow pushed the panic button, orderlies burst through the office door, clearly having been waiting outside for something to go wrong. They storm forward towards Jake, the same two who had pretended to be cops to take Steven straight to Harrow. Billy and Bobbi maybe? It didn't matter to Jake though, his full attention was still of the doctor. Staring him down with the intensity of the fire that was Jake Lockley, his glare sent a message.
Wouldn't hurt to spell it out, considering the doctor didn't take no for an answer.
"You think a little bruise from Steven was bad? Motherfucker, that is nothing compared to what I'll do to you. Suit or no suit, I'll make you wish you'd chosen a different profession."
The woman orderly grabbed Jake's shoulder, and he jerked away from her grasp. "Don't fucking touch me!" He barked, teeth bared.
"Jake Lockley, stop this at once. You are only going to make things worse for Marc and Steven if you continue behaving like this." Harrow rose to his feet. One hand went to the pocket of his sweater vest, the other reached for his cane. He pulled his himself up and stalked closer to the commotion across the room. The windows behind the older man gave him a sort of ethereal glow, lighting up his silhouette and casting a dark shadow over the man chained to his seat.
The two orderlies took Jake's momentary distraction by the lights as an opportunity to grab him and hold him still, mirroring each other on either side of him with one hand grasping his forearm and the other hand on his shoulder. He screamed, he shouted at them, called them every name in the book. But they held tight, holding him still in his chair. Keeping him in position as Harrow arrived in front of him with a syringe in his hand. Just like the first time Jake had met the doctor.
For an old dude, he was surprisingly lithe, swiftly jabbing the needle into Jake's neck before he had a chance to react. His scream turned into a roar, growing in volume and intensity. As his consciousness faded, his gaze fell onto the doctor's desk, landing on the flat cap laying abandoned there. In his last moments, he stared at the hat as the office fell away into pitch dark nothingness.
Ever so slowly, Jake awoke from the sedative. Blinking lethargically, he wasn't aware of where he was. He wasn't aware of a lot of things at the moment, the only thing his mind could focus on was the sickly sweet honey-colored glow surrounding him. A tickle in the back of his mind told him he had seen it before, but he couldn't place where. It reminded him of the sun almost, if the sun was too close and gave off no heat. In fact, he felt chilled to the bone.
It also reminded him of the halo of light around Harrow as he stalked closer to Jake.
Fuck, that's right. Harrow.
He huffed, his breath coming out in a little cloud, causing the air in front of him to seem to fog up. Raising an eyebrow, Jake rubbed his eyes and squinted at it. Upon further inspection, he realized that the air hadn't fog up, but instead glass had. His gaze followed the glass, surprised to find that it went up above his head and down below his feet. He was encased in a glass prison of sorts, like an odd-shaped dome keeping him in and giving him no room to move.
No, not a dome. A glass sarcophagus. Still a prison none the less.
Goddamnit. He was getting real fucking tired of these damn sarcophaguses.
Past the glass, Jake peered out, appeared to be a cafeteria or something. It seemed familiar, like he had seen it before. But he couldn't place where. The lights were off, the only lighting in the room coming from glowing hieroglyphics aligning the walls - the culprit of the honey illumination. The exact same hieroglyphics etched into the stone of the sarcophagus he had been stuck in earlier, glowing the same as before. The gleam lit up tables surrounding Jake as far as he could see in the small room. But the tables weren't important - it was who was sat at them that was.
Filling the seats at the tables were the decomposing corpses of people he had seen before. People Khonshu had asked him, and the system, to kill.
"Are you kidding me?" He sighed, "Can the dead just stay dead for once?"
They stared at Jake with unseeing eyes, some of them lacking eyes all together. They didn't blink or breathe, or really do anything, just ogled at him. In the dim lighting of the room, the honey glow shone every little detail of a rotting body; little wisps of hair that had yet to fall out, missing fingernails, mini holes from moths and bugs chewing the clothes. It was grotesque - not anything he hadn't see before, but still. Running into a corpse was usually one and done for Jake, a quick dump somewhere it would never be found (if he even bothered to dump the body) and then he was on his merry way.
But now there was no where to go, no where to turn, no where to look but out at the people he had killed. Nausea rose up in his throat, but he swallowed it down.
"¿Hola? ¿Hay alguien vivo aquí?" He called, straining to look around the room. No one reacted - Jake doubted they could, something told him this wasn't a Night of The Living Dead kind of situation. Despite his better judgement, he pounded his hand on the glass. "¿Eh? ¿Alguien?"
Movement by the last table caught his eye, dark hair ducking out of sight. Jake's eyes widened and he pounded on the glass again, "Hey! Who's there? Please, help. I promise I don't bite!" He joked, hoping to pull them out of their hiding place.
They didn't come out and he almost questioned if he even saw anything, or if the stress of today was playing tricks on his mind.
"Come on out, it's okay. I can't do anything from in here."
A little mop of dark hair peeked out from behind the last table, followed by frightened eyes. A child, and they were clearly scared. "Hey, it's okay, amigo," Jake said softly, trying to put on a kind smile despite the predicament he was stuck in. "It's all good, I'm not going to hurt you. I just need your help out of here. Can you come closer and help me out? Then I can help you with whatever you need."
In spite of how it might seem, Jake had a soft spot of kids. They weren't like adults, they weren't scared of him and stared at him with wide, curious eyes. Kids were on his list of stipulations when it came to being Khonshu's avatar; he didn't kill kids, and would never kill kids.
Which was why it was odd that there was a child in the room of people Jake had killed.
No, his heart dropped, it couldn't be-
Out of the shadows stepped forward his little brother, Randall, looking exactly like he had when Jake had last seen him.
Oh fuck.
"R-Randall?" His voice came out in a quiet stutter, so different from the normal strong tone he had. He was stunned. He thought he would never see Roro ever again, but here he was. The boy tilted his head at Jake, like a puppy might, staring at the glass coffin that held the older man. He didn't say anything, just watched Jake with curious eyes.
"Hey buddy, it's me. It's Marc- Or, well, um. It's Jake. But you know me, don't you, Roro?"
At the mention of Marc, Randall's face lit up and he bounced on the balls of his feet. But, before Jake could ask him anymore questions, the kid turned and took off, running behind a pillar and disappearing from his line of sight.
Jake heart sunk even lower; the last time Randall disappeared from view...
His fists pounded on the glass, and he cried out after his brother, completely unaware of the crack growing along the ends of the sarcophagus. "No! Roro, please come back! Please, we can't lose you again! I can't lose you again!"
Without warning, the sarcophagus holding Jake shuttered and fell away, and he too fell into darkness.
Glass showered down around him as Jake fell to the floor, landing unceremoniously in a painful heap. Suddenly, the world around him was alive with movement. Gone was the sterile white office of the madman Dr. Harrow, and gone was the honey-tinted cafeteria of dead people. Instead, people bustled all around him, paying the bloody man surrounded by glass shards no mind. Cars and taxicabs flew by, honking as they went. Where as all the other places he had been recently were only artificially alive - about as lived in as a dollhouse, here was moving and breathing, and living.
His chest hurt. Vaguely, he was aware of the fact that he was sucking in air too fast and not giving himself enough time to let it out. But he was too busy staring up at the sky to do anything about the discomfort. It was bright blue, and it was cloudless. A sea of calm above the chaos below.
It was strangely reassuring, and beautiful.
For the first time in a long time, Jake allowed himself a moment to rest. To not move, or think, or anything - a second to just be. It was nice. Sure, there were other things happening and other things to deal with; he still didn't know where he was or what was happening, he still didn't know where Marc or Steven were, and Harrow was still alive. But the sky was blue.
Jake sighed, and allowed a smile to creep onto his face.
It was nice.
Alright, enough of that mushy crap.
With a grunt, he heaved himself to his feet. Once he was up right, he recognized more of his surroundings. This wasn't just some random street, this was Chicago. This was the street Marc grew up on. This was the last place he saw Wendy and his father. The home town where Rolland's Shiva had been held. The same sidewalk where Marc and Steven's lives had bled into each others, and everything changed. This was his home turf.
Yikes, Jake thought with a grimace. He had been hoping he would never have to come back here.
Mindful of the broken glass, he stepped out past the civilians, who continued to either ignore him or not see him. They seemed to both walk past him or through him, if that was even possible. But his head continued to ached with the remnants of the migraine that plagued him earlier, so he wasn't too keen on expending a lot of thought to the strangers. He just strolled by, looking down the stone road and familiar street. What he was looking for exactly he wasn't sure, but surely something would catch his eye eventually.
Hopefully.
And then, as if the universe had heard him and finally decided to throw him a bone, Jake spotted a familiar mop of curls. Half way down the street, stumbling around on wobbly legs, was someone he had known his whole life. A person who he could easily pick out in a crowd, a face he saw in the mirror every day.
"Steven?" The name left his mouth before he had a chance to think. What if it wasn't Steven? What if this was a person who just so happened to look like his alter, and the people around him would finally decide to pay him attention, and take notice of Jake's situation? There was a thousand reasons he could come up with on the spot as to why this was probably a bad idea, but they melted away the moment he saw the other man's head perk up and he caught a glimpse of nervous eyes underlined by dark bruises.
It was him, who else could it be? "Steven!" Finally, the man turned around and after what felt like forever and no time at all, his gaze landed on Jake. Standing only a ways away was his alter. He was here. Steven was here.
"Jake?"
"Steven!" Once again, without thinking, he took off into a sprint. He soared past the strangers on the street and the cars zooming by, all of it forgotten in favor of his better half. As he neared, Steven's eyes lit up in recognition and he stumbled forward as well. But Jake reached him first, arms outstretched for him. His hands fumbled for a grasp on the other man, and he pulled him in with such a force he almost sent the two of them toppling over. To keep from pitching over into the road, Jake used the momentum to lift Steven up and spin him around.
The laugh his alter let out was music to his ears, warm and bubbly and infectious. "Oh my days, Jake!" He exclaimed with a high-pitched cry, fingers gripping the top of Jake's shoulders. As soon as he set him back down again, Steven's hands found their way to the other's face, cupping his cheeks. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you!"
"Steven. Steven, Steven, Steven! Oh man, are you a sight for sore eyes!" The relief Jake felt to finally have one of his alters here was immense, like a weight had been pulled off his chest and he could take a deep breath again. He yanked the other man into a hug, just needing a moment to hold him close and know for sure that this was real. Steven was warm and there was no hesitance as he hugged back, squeezing Jake with a surprising amount of force. "Oh ratón de biblioteca, no tienes idea de cuánto te extrañé." He whispered, rubbing his hand up and down Steven's back.
"I missed you! So, so much," whispered Steven back with a shuddering sigh, like he was holding back tears. It was obvious to Jake that there was a reason why Steven was so glad to see him, outside of the fact that the system really didn't like being separated. Something must of happened to him, and he could only pray that his hunch was wrong. "I was so worried that I wouldn't see you or Marc again."
Jake reluctantly pulled back from the hug to get a good look at Steven, to check for injuries. Sadly, his intuition was correct; most notably he was very clearly favoring his left leg. His right ankle was twisted at an odd angle, partially obscured by a shiny strip of metal covered in blood. It was amazing that he was able to stand on it, let alone run to Jake - which, looking back on it, explained the stumbling. His hands and face were adorned with small cuts and nicks, nothing too bad but they couldn't have felt nice. Another thing was a large gash on his chin, though it thankfully looked like it was beginning to scab over.
There were a lot of things Jake was feeling right now. He felt anger that this happened to Steven, a fire simmering under his skin at the thought that anyone was cruel enough to hurt someone like Steven. He felt guilt that he hadn't been there to stop it, that he hadn't even known that his alter had been here and suffering, and there was nothing he could do to fix it. He felt so tired of being in the dark about what was going on. But most of all, he felt his heart breaking as he looked in Steven's eyes; watery and bloodshot, lids heavy with exhaustion and dark bruises planted firmly underneath. "What happened to you?" He asked, a lump forming in his throat.
Steven looked surprised, "What happened to me? What happened to you!" Taking Jake's chin gently in his fingers, he tilted the other man's head to get a better look at his face.
:Jake waved away the question and the hand. "Doesn't matter." He planted his hands firmly on the other's shoulders and moved his head to meet Steven's eyes, making him maintain eye contact. He knew how much Steven hated direct eye contact, but he needed to make sure he was playing attention. "Who did this to you?"
"What do you mean it doesn't matter? Jake, your nose is right busted, and you think that doesn't matter!"
"I lost a fight to the floor - the details aren't important. Now, stop avoiding the question; who did this to you?" Implored Jake. His whole attention was on Steven and it was clear it was making him uncomfortable, not to mention a bit irritable. It was plain as day on his face, from the thin-lipped frown he wore down to the way his eyebrows scrunched closer. "Was it Harrow?"
For a split second, surprise and fear splashed Steven's face before it was masked by the expression from earlier. His eyes darted away, going to stare at the sidewalk. It felt like ages before he responded, "Harrow didn't do this."
"But he did do something?"
This time he didn't say anything, just bit his lip and nodded solemnly.
The fire of anger burning inside Jake roared to one of rage, threating to scorch anything in its path. He'd kill him. He'd kill him, then find a way to bring him back to life just to kill him again. Surely Khonshu had some kind of trinket or oddity that would do the trick.
But Steven didn't need the blaze of the fire right now, he just needed the warmth. Jake pulled him back into a hug, tucking the other man's head under his chin. Rocking slightly from side to side, he tried to pour all of his love and need to protect his alter into the hug, hoping to make him feel as safe as possible. And maybe it didn't come off that way - Jake didn't like to show what he truly felt. But for Steven, he would make an exception.
It was nice, being able to hold someone he usually wasn't able to. He just wished it was under different circumstances.
Tears beaded in the corner of his eyes, the weight of today finally hitting Jake. It was a lot. His breath hitched as he fought back the tears, sure that Steven felt the hiccup in his chest. But Steven didn't mention it, because he was an angel and too good and Jake didn't deserve him. Man, he was staring to sound like Marc. He pressed a gentle kiss to the messy curls atop his alter's head and gave him one last good squeeze. If he stayed like this any longer, he'd never want to leave. But there was work to be done.
"Come on," Jake said, "let's go find Marc."