Jack’s life had been fairly simple so far, well as simple as being in an outlying district of Panem and not in the Capitol could get. He had never been particularly enthusiastic about taking part in the Hunger Games, even if his father - his whole family - were mad for them. Every year they gathered round the television set together, his father laughing, smiling, being a jovial-sounding man that Jack barely recognised. Well, it was amazing what watching a bunch of kids killing each other could do to lighten the soul. Or something. Mostly Jack endured it, trying to view they footage as some kind of training exercise so that he watched the strategy and technique behind the kill, not the expressions on the faces or the blood spurting from deadly wounds.
So I could only manage angst today so hello sad!future!fic.
It was a strange sort of feeling, to forget so absolutely what you were doing. It had been something that had been occurring more and more though, as the years ticked on and though Jack, in theory, knew what that meant, something in him compelled him to keep it quiet. It was fine so far anyway, just the usual walking into a room and having no idea what he was doing there, or making a cup of tea and then forgetting where it was – even if it was just on the coffee table right in front of him. But that happened to everyone every now and then right?
“Jack, things are going to be different now, but that doesn’t mean we won’t get through this. We will. We’ll figure it out together …”
‘Bobby, what do you want me to say? Do you want me to say I agree, that I have confidence that when we get home things’ll slot into place because we’ll have time to work it out? I can’t - I don’t know what happens, what can happen now … The best part of me has been murdered before my eyes and now I’m forced to live in this useless shell. Everything hurts, all the time, and it just feels like there’s nothing left to even try for. I don’t know what to do - I don’t know what I’m for now. Maybe one day the rest of me will be as numb as my fucking legs, but right now that’s just a dream - the nightmares are when I can walk and dance again, because I have to wake up.’
He looked at his brother, and even though his head was crying out with pain, emotional and physical, he couldn’t say it. He knew Bobby well enough to see the strain and hurt in his eyes as much as he tried to hide it - the younger boy was trying his hardest, for him. And that’s when he realised that maybe that’s all he needed to try for, what he needed to focus on - their lives had been entwined for a long time and it looked like that was the one constant that was not going to change. Never, no matter what ended up happening.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he eventually said, honestly, his tone pained (but that was a standard since he’d regained consciousness a couple of weeks ago). Pulling his gaze from his brother, he brought an arm up to rest heavily over his face, just no good at being overemotional.
So because it was almost the case that Boblyn’s wedding was Jackless, when I found out musey and whiny boy demanded I write a post there and then (even though the thread was far from being in existence). Now it’s not relevant, but I sort of liked it because it put Jack’s internal feelings about Bobby out there more succinctly than I usually manage. Or at least I think so, anyway. So if anyone cares … here it is :p
Since his talk with Bobby Jack had been putting off perhaps the most important doctor’s appointment of his life. He’d dodged the subject, busied himself, gotten fake phone calls … pretty much the only way he hadn’t tried to avoid the subject was by pretending he’d forgotten about it, because that was far too close to the nerve. Honestly, when Bobby had spoken to him he’d tried to brush it off, claim that he was overreacting, even though he had been the one that had been so sure he’d get it from being quite young. However, although his mind had been unconsciously rationalising when he’d been confused, misplaced things or plain forgot where he was for a while, once it had been pointed out it was impossible to ignore. Honestly? He was scared to go.
Time was winding down for Jack Scott in every way. He’d been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s ten years previously and everything had been exactly as he had feared, even if in his current state he had no idea that was so. But then in his current state he had very little grasp of the world around him, his part in it or even simply himself in general. It had been a good few months since he’d last uttered any clear sentence. Still words escaped his lips occasionally, but rarely did the seem to mean anything and when placed together they didn’t make sense. And as far as movement was concerned, he’d not emerged from his bed for a few weeks now - he of course had lost the ability to transfer himself to and work his wheelchair himself, but for a long time Bobby would bring him out. Not any more though. Now the most movement he got was when Bobby exercised his muscles manually or occasional flailing when he was uncomfortable or something was wrong.
Jack sat at the reaping, good and proper, or so he looked. It had been a long ten years since he had been in the arena himself, a volunteer, of course, as was the way in District One. It was what they were raised for – like it was some fucked up kind of privilege to support a system that condoned murder in the most twisted manner possible. Of course, he hadn’t always thought in such a cynical manner; no, he had been the perfect Career. He had been the one to win, with the strength, stamina, mindset and training that those since had lacked in one way or another. Well, they must have – they were all dead, weren’t they? It was unusual for there to be such a long period of District One not winning, and as the years passed Jack grew more and more cynical, sending these kids to their deaths. He could tell in five minutes whether they had everything it took.
