I shake my head at myself in disgust. I know better.
What I see when I look over my shoulder makes me drop my shoulders about five inches.
Jackson.
He doesn't realize I'm in front of him from the looks of it. His eyes are mostly closed as he drags one foot in front of the other. He runs into the neighbor's tin trash can, knocking it over and making it clatter all over the ground. But he just keeps walking, not sparing it a glance or reaching down to pick it up.
I scoff and shake my head at him as he approaches. What the fuck?
He's walking more horizontally than vertically at this point, and I'd laugh at him if I wasn't so numb.
He's just steps from bumping into me when I stagger back and yell, "Jackson!"
His eyes fly open and he almost falls over at my voice. When his vision clears and he sees its me, his eyes go flat along with the rest of his face.
He turns away from me and continues on his walk to his house, but I can tell his limp is getting to him.
See, the night Logan died, Jackson was also shot. He almost didn't make it, but he pulled through. Every time I've seen Jackson, he's been trying to hide his limp that I know he doesn't want anyone to notice. I notice it though, because the pain on his face is so similar to the pain I know is written on my own face.
I'm not sure if it’s from the pain or his intoxication, but on the next step his legs give out and he falls to the ground. He lets out a small grunt, but otherwise doesn't say anything.
Walk away. Walk away.
I so badly just want to leave him here. He's not my problem. Not like he's ever helped me out in any way. I think he's only spoken to me a handful of times since I met him. Five years ago.
But, my inability to walk away from someone hurting is just in my blood. I may be scrappy, but my heart is a fucking pillow.
"Come on, idiot. Let's go." I walk over to him and grab him by the arm. I use all my might, but I'm barely able to lift him even an inch off the ground. "You're going to have to help me up here, Jackson. I can't lift your heavy ass myself."
For fear he's actually fallen asleep, I get close to his ear and shout, "Jackson!"
He twitches, giving away the fact that he was starting to doze off.
"Help me get you into your house, or else you'll be sleeping outside and who knows what neighbor will be leering on you tonight. Maybe Patty from the corner will feel you up as the sun comes up."
With those words, he lugs himself to a standing and leans most of his weight on my shoulder. Fuck, that hurts. Jackson is big, and by big, I mean he's one tall ass mother fucker. At over six feet, you wouldn't think he's in high school. He is, though. And although he isn't as muscular as Easton, or even like Logan was, he's still defined and obviously works out.
I can tell, because as I carry him into his house, I can feel each and every ab muscle flex and move against my hand as I try to keep him steady.
Once we get to his front door, I nudge him in front of me. "You're home. Go inside." He walks up his steps and opens the door, not sparing me a grunt or a glance as he walks inside and kicks it shut behind him. I stand and stare at his closed door for a second until I hear a loud crash.
I run inside Jackson's house without even knocking. "What the hell!"I screech.
Jackson stands in the kitchen with a bottle of whiskey in his hands and he drains the last few drops. Blood drips down his wrist and manages to make a trail all the way down his forearm, hanging on for a few seconds and then escaping and splashing onto his faded linoleum floor.
I realize this is the first time I've ever been inside his house. He's never let people in before. He’s barely even let people even look inside before. The only time I've stood at his front door was when Easton and Logan came over, and I kid you not, Jackson peeked open the door, saw it was us, and opened the door only enough for him to slide out of. Never even saw a glimpse of his house.
Which doesn't make a whole lot of sense, since it's not like his house is much different from the rest of ours. Inside the front door sits the living room, and directly off to the left side is the kitchen. The carpet is dark and worn, and the kitchen has light wood throughout with white counter tops that are chipped in more places than I can count. None of that matters, though, because my home doesn't look any different. Neither does Easton's, and neither did Logan's.
Logan.
My heart clenches, and I want nothing more than to curl into myself and let out the agonizing groan wanting to break free.
Unfortunately, I don't have the time for that. Jackson's blood dripping hasn't stopped, and I'm worried it might need stitches.
It must not hurt that bad though, considering he isn't even flinching or paying attention to the fast falling blood in the slightest.
"Jackson." No response. "Jackson! You're bleeding." He sets down the empty bottle and looks over at me, confused. I point at his arm, and when he looks down, he furrows his brow at the blood smeared on his skin.
"What happened?" When I look around, I see the block of knives spilt at his feet. He must have knocked it over when he was reaching for the bottle and cut himself in the process.
But, seriously? How do you cut yourself and not even realize it?
"Are you going to say anything?" My eyes feel like they're going to bug out of my head. I realize he doesn't like talking in front of people, but come on, it’s just me!
He narrows his eyes at me but doesn't say anything.
When I can start to smell the blood in the air, I swallow down a groan and walk up to him. "Where's your bathroom? You need to get cleaned up before you bleed out all over your kitchen."
I feel like, realistically, I should be too drunk to be doing this, but dealing with this man-child has made me sober up, otherwise I know I'd be almost as incoherent as he is.
The moment I grip his forearm, his entire body stiffens up. He doesn't move away from me, but the look in his eyes could kill. He doesn't like to be touched, that much is clear.
But why not?
I suddenly realize that I don't know a thing about Jackson. I don't know where he grew up, I don't know what he likes. I have no idea how this guy grew up.
All I do know is his dad is scary, his mom is a druggie, and he's a mute.
Who are you, Jackson?
I don't look at him as I pull him into the bathroom, because my face suddenly feels hot and I'm not sure why. I don't want him to know the weird feelings lighting me up on the inside. How is that even possible when your soul is dead?
When we get into the bathroom, I switch on the light and flinch as I try to adjust to the obnoxious white glare. The bathroom is so small that you can barely sit on the toilet unless you close the door. Directly in front of it is the sink, and off to the side is the bath/shower combo that looks like Jackson would never be able to fit into. The shower head reaches the top of my head, and I'm a little over five feet. How in the hell Jackson can squeeze down for it to reach the top of his head is beyond me.
"Okay." I shove him up against the sink, looking for the source of the bleeding. "Shit, what the hell happened?" I don't look up at him, since I'm not really expecting an answer.
There's about a two-inch cut along the inside of his forearm, not too deep where it needs stitches, but it needs to be wrapped so it doesn't get infected. "Do you have like, uh, first aid kit or something?"