I Am Jack's Broken Heart

[Hollyquin*]

Fuck you.

He didn't say it.

Which was fucking weird. Fuck you, those were Garrett's two favorite words in the universe. The former was his singular favorite, to be used in combination with, what, every other word in every other sentence? Motherfucking motherfuckers being motherfucking dickheaded cocksucking fuckfaces. There we go, that was normal, that was a Garrett Hunter sentence, and he'd be lying if he said every one of those words didn't go through his mind. Fuck you, he wanted to say. Fuck you, you can't fucking do this to me. I don't have a life anymore, you can't just fucking leave me here. This is what I've been looking for my whole life, it was never worthless bullshit, it was never fucking around, it was never- how the fuck do you want me to go back to that life? Just- just fighting for no reason, fuck, when you come that goddamn close to getting your motherfucking face blown off- I've got my scars, man, I'm set on that front, but I've still gotta-

You want me to go back to that life on this fucking thing?

(They'd fought for it. It was his fault, Garrett's fault, he knew that, he knew he should've done that whole disinfecting thing, but the wound really hadn't seemed that bad at the time. He'd got around on it pretty well, but he hadn't even looked at it after that first day, so he never noticed the festering wound, the pus, the massive infection, and it was far, far too late for that by the time he actually got to the hospital. Never had a fuckin' chance. Gimpy Garrett. One-legged Garrett. Might as well cut it off, they said. Yeah, like that was helping his chances here.)

His chances were shot from the start, of course, because there never was a chance. He just thought, maybe, just maybe there was something he could do. Because that was all there was, that was all there was to his life, there was fighting and there was finding something to fight for and look, see, he found it. And it was telling him to go the fuck home, Garrett, go home to this not-fucking-life that you're gonna have from now on. Not in so many words, of course.

He didn't say so many words himself.

"Sorry," they said. We're not looking for any help right now. STAR is fuckin' closed, man. Let that dream die.

All those words that went through his head and all he said was "Okay."


Fast-forward to the boy sitting on his couch, staring blankly at an old picture, a seventh grade picture, of two old friends. His father was a compulsive scrapbooker- his aunt told him, from the day the man's wife and Garrett's mother died, Samuel Hunter didn't let a damn thing go. So every embarrassing picture, every dumbass Halloween costume and stupid Christmas card and bullshit thank you letter was saved, somewhere.

Anyone could tell you Garrett Hunter wasn't the sentimental type.

And yet look at him now, six months later. Staring at this damn picture, a relic of a past life. Still not quite going anywhere with his life, still not used to the wheelchair and still with a semi-permanent scowl accompanying every expression of pity that came his way. When he got home, after the initial outpouring of emotion on his father's part, the man had tried to distract him, keep him mentally as far away from the island as humanly possible, but it never, ever worked. Garrett was still stuck in the past, in other words. Still stuck on Survival of the Fittest.

He had this weird feeling that he wasn't the only one.

Not that it mattered, not that he knew. Garrett didn't know any of the other survivors, really- the only one he knew at all was Jeremy fucking Franco and no fuck that he'd had enough of that prick on the goddamn boat. Someone had won, he didn't give a shit who, didn't even remember. He wasn't planning on watching any of that shit. To see what, how his friends had died? Who gave a fuck. It was all the same shit either way. And maybe that was a dickish thing to think but fuck if anyone knew dickish like motherfucking Garrett Hunter.

He kept staring at the picture.

Seventh grade.

Curly hair, a slight edge to his scowl like he was going to break into a smile at any moment. The hair was brown, like his was once again, the fire-engine red long since grown out. The girl next to him wore a similar expression, though her eyes and her skin were darker, her hair straighter. His father used to tease that they looked good together. Gross, he'd thought, the consummate believer in cooties.

Funny how things change. One moment you're best friends with a girl, next moment you hate everything about her.

Moment after that, she's dead.

And so as he laid down on that couch, he felt okay. Okay in knowing that he never had to figure this shit out. She was dead now, dead and gone, who cared that she kept on his mind? Who cared that he kept finding himself looking at pictures of her? It could just be a weird mystery he could forget about. Piecing together his emotions was never a thing Garrett was very good at and he hardly wanted to deal with that on top of all the other shit, the flashbacks, the gunshots that woke him in his sleep, the visions of corpses and death. He hardly needed to be thinking about emotions like some pansy-ass bitchfuck- see, that was the Garrett he was meant to be, that sounded better to his own inner ear. And yet it didn't change anything.

So he didn't have to figure it out. Didn't mean it was going away.

And he just kept on thinking about Mirabelle Nesa, and some part of him was really glad she was dead.

Considering the alternative- fuck. He'd never live that shit down...