For Better Or Worse (Doctor Who Fanfiction)

Too Far

Trigger warnings: references to past suicide attempts, past abuse, and past self harm

"Stupid bastard!" "Worthless asshole!" "Fag!"
Vile words wouldn't stop screaming at Jack, circling his head like vultures ready to swoop. Shouldhavediedshouldhavediedshouldhavefinallydied. Jack was in no mood to fight back, he just let the words assault him. The Doctor had been practically his only friend. Now? Now he was completely alone.

Filled with guilt, he paced the floor outside the Doctor's room for ages, pondering and muttering apologies through tears. "Should I have let him die?" Jack mused out loud. A soft "yes!" came from the Doctor's room in reply. Well that clears up everything. Great. 

He had to go. He paced to his room, and locked the door behind him. He had forgotten the tragedy of his room. The walls, bedding, the smell. His childhood in a box. That's all fine, unless your childhood was filled with abuse and hated. Which his was. He visualized his dad pressing him against a wall, bottles strewn on the floor, bruises appearing on his neck. Could almost smell the liquor on his breath, the heat of his words, the greasy fingers on his throat. Choking, choking, choking. Jack started hyperventilating. This can't be real. Not this. Not again. I escaped, this can't be happening. No no no no no. But when had "no" ever saved him before? He collapsed on the floor, shaking, eyes flitting.
This can't be real. The Doctor would never turn against me like that, he would never do anything like that, he's the Doctor for fuck's sake. This isn't real. I'm dead and went to Hell. Finally. Finally, finally, finally, dead. This isn't real. That's it. The Doctor is safe. My father is dead. It's okay. These tears aren't real. This isn't real. Give up! Let it be. Jack's mind frantically worked to deny the truth of the situation, push away the reality. Disassociate himself, disassociate from the pain.

Meters away lay the Doctor in his bed, eyes unblinking, staring at his ceiling. I should be dead. What did he do? Why? I was trying to help him, this is how I was going to fix him, to keep him safe. Jack can never be safe from himself. I should have died. I really should have died...but I didn't, and I can't understand why. I couldn't rescue Rose, I can't help Martha, and I can't help Jack. I definitely didn't help Gqllifrey. Couldn't save all those species and planets I doomed. The universe is better without me. I shouldn't have been so harsh with Jack. He was trying to help, he did help. But when I yelled, he reacted like I had hit him, he recoiled like he did earlier. It's probably all my fault, again. I should have locked my bedroom door, should have done it earlier, should have kept him in his room, should have should have should have.

"What have I done to him? What have I done to myself? What kind of hero, what kind of Doctor, what kind of anything am I? I can't save anything." He whispered to himself. "Should I talk to him? Should I leave him alone? I've probably caused enough pain for his long, long lifetime. But what about that unconscious flinch, the turmoil under his surface? That wince when I raised my voice, shielding himself from fists I never formed? That isn't right. That isn't the Jack I know. I can't just ignore that. I'm curious about him and confused about how I'm alive, but caring for him as to come first." Decided, he rubbed his eyes and sat up.

He checked his arms, and the cuts were still there, still bleeding a little bit, still marring his arms worse than anything ever had. He could only imagine Jack's arms. He'd have to deal with that later. Physical injury could wait, mental agony seemed to be a more pressing matter now.

It was only a short walk down the hall, but his legs still protested. They were sore from disuse, and also the loss of circulation that comes with death. It took a few minutes of stretching and a few pops and cracks before he could feel them again.