#ncf

Mary didn't like mirrors, or rather she thought they had their time and place in life. She had removed the mirror from the bathroom, and replaced it with a handful of standing mirrors throughout the house. They were covered in sheets, and when she needed to use them, she'd dramatically toss the sheet off. 

The guest room, which Jack occasionally made his own, had one of those closets with mirrors on the door. When they'd slide they'd make a horrible, vicious screeching noise, so Jack usually just kept it open when he was around. 

The most annoying part of those doors was the fact that when he laid in the bed, he'd see himself in them across the room. Jack liked looking at himself, but not at night.

When Mary fired him, she told him to go back to New York and, pressing her key into his hand, instructed him to recover at her home, not with whatever dancer he could convince to let him crash. He appreciated it, but those doors. 

Putting down his bag, Jack looked around the room. It'd been a few months since he'd been around Mary’s. Robert couldn't stand him, they'd argue, Jack would be thrown out. Mary would always say that he could always come here, but Jack wasn't stupid, and he liked the adventure of finding somewhere new every week. It really showed him who his friends were. Despite that, this room still held elements of Jack's past life. 

Mary called it Jack's closet, because anything he couldn't bring around with him lived in here. There was a bag that Jack had brought with him when he was a child, with old shoes and some clothing, books from the Minneapolis Central Library that were well overdue, and letters from his mother. There were a few notebooks, full of sketches and notes from Jack's time working on Mary’s shows. There was a bit of clothing, nicer things that Jack didn't really wear, most of it he had actually kinda outgrown, but it wasn't like he planned to wear them again. 

In the mirror, Jack caught his own eye. He looked sick. He looked gray. His eyes were sunken in, his hair was weighed down, sinking past his shoulders, tangled in the back. But he looked thin, for the most part, the steroids had added some weight to him, and strong enough, he still looked like a dancer. Maybe. If he squinted. It had only been a week at Boston General, he didn't understand how he had deteriorated so rapidly. He'd been in perfect physical condition.

The doctors had been rude, the nurses worse. Jack didn't know his American history very well, but he was pretty sure there was nothing in the US constitution that meant he had to live. He'd tried to explain this, and they only got more fixated on keeping him alive. His arms were still all bruised up from the IV needles. 

They'd sent him home and told him to follow up with a specialist in the city, but Jack didn't plan to do that. He had a better idea

Jack, during the show, hadn't been sleeping. He'd take 3 tablets of dexedrine, a gift from Mary,  at intermission every day, and that would keep him up all night. He'd feel locked in, his body heavy, exhausted, every muscle tense and painful, staring at the ceiling, feeling his chest rise, until morning came and he was right back up. He must've slept at least a little bit, but he certainly didn't remember it.

Dancers stuck together though, and eventually through trading some of the Dexies, he got his hands on a bottle of Librium. That let him sleep! It was excellent.

And he still had it. Most of it, at least.

And today, looking at himself in the mirror, he was going to take them all. 

It was really a double whammy – all of them alone would probably put him in a coma, and just in case, with the state of his lungs, he wouldn't be able to breathe. It was almost certain. Mary and Bert wouldn't be around for another week, there was no chance he'd be found until it was too late. It was perfect. It was infallible. 

He took 5 of the 10 pills and unbuttoned his shirt. He had one more thing to do. He went to the kitchen and dialed on the phone. He wanted to tell his parents that he'd been fired. They'd learn eventually, but he wanted to be the one to tell them.

Bert hated when he made long distance calls, but Mary always said it was okay, as long as it was his parents. 

An unfamiliar voice answered the phone,  maybe the stupid operator had connected him to the wrong household.

“Hi.” It was someone young, a little girl maybe, “Let me get Dad.”

It clicked. Jack knew who it was. 

“No.” He said, “It's okay. I can talk to you.”

“I'm not supposed to talk on the phone.” The little girl rambled, “I'll get Daddy, he's in the yard.”

“No.” Jack said, “Can I just tell you? I'm your brother, it's okay.”

The little girl went quiet for a while then groaned, “Okay. But I'm not getting in trouble for it.”

Jack held back a laugh, “I’m just calling to say I got fired. And I'm quitting forever. So you can expect some real big news!”

The little girl didn't say anything. 

“Hello?” Jack said.

Silence.

Jack hung the phone up.

By then the wooziness of the Librium had hit in and he stumbled into the room again. It was over.

But it wasn't.

Sun dripped in from the inch at the bottom over the blinds, spreading out over the room. Jack found himself, head pounding, on the floor. His chest heavy, when Jack first realized he was still alive he considered just laying there to see if that heaviness would eventually overtake him. But it didn't, and eventually Jack succumbed to the discomfort of the floor and climbed into bed.  He caught himself in the mirror door, looking worse than before.

That was it. That was the worst part about it. He had tried to do the one thing he was supposed to do, the one thing he had spent the past five years training and planning and learning for, and he had failed. Jack had given up so much for it: his family, his schooling, friends, his time, his name. But in an instant, it was all gone. Mary had invested blood, sweat, and tears, into him and he'd fucked it all up. Jack had fucked up the one thing he was supposed to do.  It wasn't a surprise that he wasn't allowed to die, then that the world was going to keep him here to live out his humiliation, really making him look like a failure in their eyes. Or maybe he was such a fuck up he couldn't even properly kill himself. Jack wasn't very smart, he wasn't good looking, no one really liked him, and he couldn't even dance. He couldn't even dance! He wondered if Mary had been lying to him all these years, if everyone had been lying to him all these years, or if Jack had tricked them all into thinking he was capable of it, or really capable of anything. All these people had loved him and he let them down. Twice.

Jack could've tried again. Lying there he could think of about 20 other ways he could do it. There were lots more pills in the cabinet, Jack might not know what all they do but if he took lots of them… Jack knew where Mary kept her stash, too. The windows in the front room were big enough to climb out of.  There were razors in the bathroom and knives in the kitchen. That is what Jack really wanted. That was the perfect way to go out. Too perfect. It made his stomach twist.

Jack stayed in bed the rest of the day, only climbing out early the next morning. He enjoyed the silence for once, avoiding opening the windows or even the blinds, letting in as little sound or light as possible. It was like a cave. He looked through their liquor cabinet. Neither Bert nor Mary were much drinkers.  Neither was Jack. He'd tried beer when he was a kid and anything else that his dancer friends would give him, but he had been 18 for almost 2 months now and he'd yet to have a real drink. 

Everything in the cabinet was old, dusty, and most of it was gone. He decided on the one unopened bottle, creme de menthe. Sitting down at the table, he cracked it open and took a swig. He winced at the taste. Why did Mary keep this around?

Regardless, he muscled through it. He got a quarter of the way through the bottle before the nausea took him over and he laid his head down on the table. 

“Jack?” 

Jack looked up. The Corey’s maid, Shirley, was standing at the entrance of the room. She'd opened the blinds. She looked pathetic, standing in that stupid white dress with her hands crossed over her heavy frame. Why was she here?

“Why are you here?” Jack hissed, trying to sound confident despite the pounding headache, nausea, and overwhelming scent of mint.

“Mrs. Corey asked me to come in every other day to get the mail.” She said, “I am surprised to see you.” 

She passed Jack, grabbing the bottle from next to him and putting it back in the cabinet.  She went into the kitchen.

“Why are you all the way in here?” Jack said, “Shouldn't you just drop off the mail —?”

She returned a few moments later, looking serious, “I thought someone was here and investigated. But it's just you.” She crossed back to the entrance, “I’d recommend vodka if you want to drink at 9 in the morning. Vodka vomit is a lot easier to clean up off the carpets.”

Jack stood up, “I can do whatever I want.” He said. Which was true. Which was amazing. Managing to stay upright, he spun around and pulled the creme de menthe bottle out of the cabinet, then flung it at Shirley with all his strength. It shattered on the wall only inches from her head. She screamed and stumbled back.

Jack felt something, maybe just a pang of nausea or maybe guilt, as he watched the green liquid soak into her white dress and drip down the walls, gathering at the white baseboard. He pushed past her and went back down the hall. He entered his room and stood at the mirror door, then sat right in front of it, watching himself.

Hours later, as it was getting dark, he left, standing silently in the dark hallway, hoping for a sign that she was gone. She was. The house was dark. He stuck his head in the dining room. The walls and floors were not stained green, in fact, other than the broken bottle being sat on a tray on the table, there was no remnant left of what had happened at all.

There was a note by the broken bottle, “Jack, think about what you've done. – Shirley"

Jack crumbled it up and pressed it into his pocket, then grabbed the tray. He carried it into the kitchen and dumbed the glass into the trash can, then tossed the tray into the sink. It landed with a loud clatter. It made his skin crawl and his ears ring. He lowered himself to the floor. He hated the kitchen. He hated the kitchen and he hated himself and he hated the kitchen. He hated everything it stood for. He wanted it all to end.  But he didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve a chance for it to end. He deserved to suffer through it for the rest of his worthless life. 

He forced himself up, and went back into the other room to sleep.

Thus became his new routine for the next 4 days. Wake up, drink until he felt too sick to, puke it up, and sleep, and do it all over again. He did nothing else. He did not shower or change or open the windows to get fresh air. He ignored the phone when it rang. He ignored the doorbell. He ignored Shirley. He definitely did not eat. This was what he was allowed to do and it was what he deserved to do. This was Jack's right and obligation.

On the 5th day Jack heard Mary and Robert come home. He stayed in bed. He waited for them to come to him. 6 hours turned to 12 and finally at around 10:30pm, Robert knocked on his door.

“Jackson.” He said.

Jack half sat up, pretending to not have been listening to everything and anything the entire day. Bert entered.

“Don't touch our liquor.” He hissed, “Unless you intend to pay for it.”