WHO: Jack and Wes WHAT: Jack sees Wes again and blames him for his death WHEN: Day 3 WHERE: The halls heading towards the lobby WARNINGS: Language, angst, anger
Jack had only been awake for a day and yet he felt more familiar with the resort now than he did when he was alive. He couldn’t pass the time with sleep or food or alcohol, and there was nothing to do but wander. Death, it turned out, was remarkably boring. But the tediousness of it all set him on edge, reminded him of all the things he was missing and would never do again. So he kept moving. He needed to stay busy because he couldn’t let himself break, not yet. He found himself flitting in and out of people, hoping that something would catch, that something would click into place and would allow him to inhabit someone’s body. He had never really given the mechanics of possession much thought. Would it be a continuous battle between him and someone’s soul? Or would they be shoved out and forced to find another host? The morality of it didn’t give him pause, but it didn’t matter anyway; it was all an exercise in futility.
He tried walls too. It didn’t make sense that he could move through people but not objects, but try as he might, no matter how many times he pushed with all his strength, walls and doors remained frustratingly solid. Then he set his sights smaller, on small objects, on things he could affect so maybe he could make Sydney, or anyone, realize that he was there and who he was. He sent a paper napkin fluttering to the ground, then a thin coaster, but nothing that couldn’t be attributed to a breeze.
And then it was back to wandering.
He had no idea how much time had passed. It felt like lifetimes. He didn’t want to think about spending eternity like this, he didn’t want to think about how this was no life at all and how being forced to exist like this might be enough to drive him mad. He wanted to find someone, anyone, even that doe-eyed friend of Izzy’s, even Alisha, because it was better than being alone and feeling your sanity slowly slipping away from you and—
Wes. There he was, just as if Jack had summoned him, had willed him into existence. His first instinct was relief, happiness at seeing a familiar face, but then something inside of him hardened. It should have been him. Wes had been the one who was supposed to go on this trip. Wes had been the one to plan for it, to pay for it, to spend weeks looking forward to it. Jack’s presence here was a fluke. It wasn’t supposed to be Jack who died here.
Jack had never really been angry at Wes before. Annoyed, maybe, when Wes refused to go out with them or gave him that paternal, disappointed look. He had been exasperated when Wes refused to play along, bewildered when he snuck out of a party early, irritated when Wes was the voice of reason when Jack really had no interest in reason at all. But never angry. And yet, there it was, his anger rising, unbidden, like the tide, like bile at the back of his throat.
“Hey asshole.” Wes couldn’t hear him, and yet Jack stormed over to him, standing in front of him to stare into his unseeing eyes. It was all Wes’s fault. He told him to take his place, he forced him to, and now he was dead and Wes was alive, and it was unfair. It wasn’t right. “You killed me. Do you know that?” There was a venom in his voice he didn’t recognize. “I’m not supposed to be dead, it wasn’t supposed to be me, you know that, right?” He was nothing to Wes but air, and Jack walked backwards down the hall to stay in front of him. “Does that haunt you? Keep you up at night? Knowing that you fucking killed someone? I hope it does, I really fucking do, I hope you never get over it. I hope the guilt eats at you until there’s nothing left.” His voice was rising, and there was a desperation there that he didn’t recognize either. He wanted to hit him, to shove him, to make him feel something, but it useless, it was all useless because he was dead and nothing he did or said mattered.
“It should have been you, Wes. It should have been you or no one, but it wasn’t supposed to be me.” He didn’t know if he meant it, he didn’t think he actually wanted this for Wes, for anyone, and yet, it was somehow also the truest thing in the world right now. He felt angry tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, and it would have been humiliating if Wes could see him. “I swear, I am going to figure this out and I am going to haunt you and make sure you never fucking forget that you killed me. Why are you here? How can you go on when we’re dead? When it’s your fault that I’m stuck like this.” Wes turned, oblivious, and Jack practically snarled at him. “Listen to me, jackass,” he yelled. “I’m dead and the fucking least you can do is acknowledge that, you—”
There was a crack as a small vase on a table shattered, glass shooting outward and tumbling to the floor. Jack stopped. That was him, wasn’t it. He had done that. He didn’t know how, but he was certain. He felt a glimmer of hope. This was bigger than a napkin, than a j in the dust. A better man than him would have calmed and embraced this as a sign that things could improve. A better man would have taken a deep breath and acknowledged that Wes really wasn’t to blame here. But Jack wasn’t an especially good man so all he did was lean forward and push Wes with all his strength and then cry out when, just like yesterday, he stumbled through him. “Fuck you,” he murmured impotently.
Wes froze, literally, as it felt like a wall of ice swept through him and beyond. He was staring at the vase that had shattered completely unprovoked. His head was still pounding from the morning, but he knew that wasn’t a normal thing. He turned around, looking behind him, eyebrows pinched in confusion. It didn’t make sense, but then again, most things hadn’t lately. He collected the pieces of the vase into his hands and carried them with him as he continued in the direction of the front desk.
“I’m in front of you, idiot!” Of course Wes didn’t see him. Of course he didn’t know who was to blame for the vase. And of fucking course he picked up the pieces. That was Wes, always trying to do the right thing. Jack was struck, then, with a profound sadness, both for himself and the others and for Wes too. “Fuck you, Wes,” he repeated, trying to harness that earlier anger that had let him break things. That had felt good. That had felt powerful. He wanted to hold on to that feeling for it was better than feeling sad and helpless and lost. He wanted to break something else, to lash out, to make Wes hurt too.
But instead he took a step back and let Wes go.
“I am going to make you regret letting me die here,” Jack called after him.