Saving Jack

The left side of his face throbbed. The heat and the fact he could no longer see out of his left eye meant it had puffed-up pretty good. Trevor had outdone himself this time. However, his abused face wasn't the reason Jack finally left. No, a swollen cheek or black eye was something he had dealt with before. Especially when Trevor was drunk and pissed. And Trevor being drunk or drunk and pissed was always a toss of the dice. Jack gave up some time ago trying to discern how to tell in those first few crucial moments when Trevor stumbled in the door after being “out with the boys.” There never was an obvious sign, but sometimes reasons came out later, like some asshole had called him a loser, he lost at pool to a “fucking shark,” or the bartender shorted him his change. Whatever the motive, it wasn't immediately evident when the man finally showed up.

And he would take it out on Jack.

Thankfully, those particular nights were not as frequent as Jack’s boss at the restaurant thought they were.

“Trevor do that?” Mark had asked him when he came to work one night with an ugly scratch on his face. Unfortunately, Trevor had been flailing his arms, angry about something Jack had said, and had accidentally backhanded him, catching him with one of his rings. Jack had simply been in the way. But he couldn’t tell Mark that. He would never have believed him anyway. “Why the hell are you still living with him?” Mark continued. “He’s always doing shit like that, Jack.”

Jack wanted to lie about it. Honestly, he usually did. “No, no, it wasn’t Trevor. I ran into a door” or “I slipped on the rug. I’m just a klutz, is all.” That night, he simply remained quiet.

It wasn’t true, though, Trevor always doing shit like that. Actually, life with Trevor was quite normal, even boring. Most often by the time Jack would get home from work, Trevor would either be asleep on the couch or in bed. Sure, he was, on occasion, surrounded by empty beer bottles, but as long as Jack didn’t wake him, everything would be fine.

However, lately, something changed in Trevor’s world. He had become angry, violent. He wasn’t “out” to anyone so it could have had something to do with that. The first time Jack sported a visible bruise, one he couldn’t cover, was when one of Trevor’s coworkers questioned that very thing.

“Fuck no! I’m not living with a man. It’s a fucking two-bedroom house! I have a fucking roommate, you moron.”

He had come home that night and ― well ― let loose. Like it was somehow Jack’s fault Trevor was gay.

“Why the fuck couldn’t you be a girl, huh? You look like one. That’s the reason I’m attracted, you know. Should make you one, is what I should do.”

Thinking about it now, things had gotten ugly after that.

God, Mark was right. Why had he stayed so long?

Except…

There had been many more good moments than bad. Often, at least in the past, the Trevor Jack had fallen in love was front and center—a touch of a hand, a genuine smile, a possessive arm holding him close. Laughing, sharing a joke, a rough day, or a tender moment. It was at those times, when Trevor would tell him things would get better, that eventually he would come out, Jack believed old Trevor still existed. The hell of it was Trevor knew he needed help, knew he needed, at the very least, to get clean.

“Just let me get through this month, Jack. Things are crazy at work right now and I just don't have the time to do it yet.”

“You promised!”

“I know and I will!”

“I can’t live this way―”

“Jack, you're my lifeline. Without you, I would die.” He had held Jack tight to the point Jack could hardly breathe. “I won’t let you leave me. I won’t. Do you understand?”

Looking back now, Jack wondered when Trevor's sweet nothings had turned into veiled threats.

Well, maybe not so veiled.

Two years of his life he had spent descending into this black hole as Trevor slowly turned into someone he didn’t know.

There were times Jack provoked it, though, according to Trevor anyway.

“What the fuck is this?” he had asked one night when Jack had tried a new recipe, one he hoped he could show Mark.

“It’s lemon chicken pasta. I… not a great name, I know. Have to come up with something else. But… I sort of made it up.”

“It fucking stinks. I hate lemon. How do you not know that? Your fucking boss put you up to this?”

Of course, it wasn’t true. He loved lemon. He just hated Mark. After a hard slap, dinner went in the garbage and Trevor stormed out.

Then there was the time Trevor’s black skin-tight T-shirt wasn’t washed by the time Trevor needed to go.

“Didn’t I tell you I needed my fucking shirt? Fuck, Jack, it’s tournament night!”

“I forgot! I’m sorry! Can’t you wear something else?”

“It’s my lucky shirt. You had the day off and I asked you to do one fucking thing!” He had pushed him, presumably out of the way. But Jack ended up on the floor. The fact Trevor didn’t apologize―well―said a lot.

However, two nights ago, Jack had reason to fear for his life. As fucked up and sad as his life had become, he still didn't want to lose it. There was a new guy at the restaurant, and for some weird reason, Mark insisted on celebrating. Jack thought it odd Mark even closed the restaurant early so everyone, including Jack, would be there. Jack hadn’t told Trevor any of that, though. All Trevor knew was Jack was on the late shift as normal. What Trevor didn't know, he couldn't get upset about, right? Except the new guy was not only a heavy drinker but evidently gay as well because, in his drunken stupor, the man made a slobbering play for Jack. And what the fuck were the odds Trevor would just happen by and walk in at that moment? It wasn't like Jack welcomed the new guy's advances either. It was simply he didn't understand they were advances until he was pinned up against the wall outside the bathroom with the new guy's sloppy wet kisses covering his neck and chest. The booze-filled jerk had ripped open Jack's shirt too, the buttons flying every which way.

It was highly possible in his intoxicated state the new guy never felt the fury of Trevor's fists as they beat him bloody. He certainly would when he finally sobered up the next morning. But Jack had been nowhere near drunk enough as Trevor hauled him out to the car. The one fact that was bright and crystal clear that night—Trevor was sober. Trevor was acting out in rage, but he was free of alcohol. After they arrived home, Jack tried his best to assure Trevor nothing had happened; he had not flirted his way into that mess. He had no idea the guy was even gay. But he realized, looking into those crazy sober eyes Trevor had crossed over some line in his brain.

“You lied, you fucker! You fucking lied to me,” he had screamed, his already-bloody fists coming at Jack. The weird chant that Jack was going to die, that Trevor said it was over, and he was fucking done this time had been pretty damn scary too. Trevor was going to make sure no one wanted Jack ever again.

For the first time in his life with Trevor, Jack fought back. He kicked and punched and kneed and bit, pounding a very surprised Trevor back. How the old jar of pennies Jack had collected over the years ended up in his hand he would never be sure. It wasn't a big jar, but the thing was thick and heavier than shit. Somehow Jack hit Trevor just right because it broke on his head. Trevor hit the floor before most of the pennies did. There was quite a bit of blood too, but Jack had always heard head wounds tended to bleed a lot. Jack's always did. All he knew at that moment was he suddenly had a second chance at life. He had to take it.

He ran into the bedroom, grabbed his backpack, filled it with clothes and a few other things, and hurried back out into the living room. If he was going to make this work, he would need to take the car, and he had seen Trevor toss the keys on the coffee table when he came at him. He stepped over Trevor, grabbed the keys, and headed for the door. He glanced back briefly, and suddenly Trevor moved. Jack’s heart tried to jump out of his chest. Some deep part of him registered he hadn't committed murder but all he could think was run.

And ran he did, thanking whatever deity was looking down on him because Trevor didn't get up like they always did in the movies and chase him.

And now, two days later, he stood on some high bridge over some unknown river, dead tired from no sleep in well over forty-eight hours, with constantly pounding body aches and the ebb and flow of adrenaline still racing through his system, thanks once again to Trevor's uncontrollable temper. And to top it off, the backpack had become heavy. The straps dug into his shoulders, adding to his throbbing pain. And not for the first time, he wished he had thought of grabbing food too because his very empty stomach had long ago made its miserable self known.

He had no idea where he was. He had crossed a couple of state lines, driving like a maniac, only ever stopping to pee and once to relieve himself in the woods, all the while freaking out Trevor was right behind him. Then running back to the car, he saw a truck in the distance the same color as Rick's, Trevor's old pool buddy. Was Trevor sitting on the passenger side? Was he laughing and pointing at him, shouting that Jack would see now what it felt like to die? Jack scrambled into the car and tried to turn the key, but it stuck like it did all the fucking time. He pulled the key out of the ignition and slammed it back in. Oh God, the truck was nearly on him. He was out of fucking time. Yes! This time the piece of shit car did turn over, but now he knew for sure the fucking car was going to stall but thank you, Jesus, it didn't. Fuck, it didn’t matter, because Rick's damn green truck was right there and so was Trevor. He hadn’t escaped after all…

The truck simply flew around him and kept going.

It wasn't Rick's truck.

Oh, sweet Jesus, it wasn’t Rick’s truck.

Jack had to take a couple of hits from his inhaler after that, recognizing the signs of a looming asthma attack. Well, probably not. But he definitely had trouble breathing in that moment.

It hadn't been Trevor after all.

Jack only pulled back onto the road once he'd stopped shaking.

And just like he packed no food, he grabbed no money, so when the car choked to a stop outside of a tiny town called Benson, Jack pushed it into a parking lot of a small, busy diner and walked away. He had no idea how many miles he had walked since then. He needed to get as far away from the abandoned car as he could, though, and in a totally different direction, because they would find the car and they would connect it to Trevor. Trevor would know Jack came through here. He would be pissed as all hell he would have to come and get the car—furious Jack took it in the first place. Somehow Jack needed to disappear.