Who: Jack Landors [works as a narrative or someone in the mansion can tag if they want] What: A Relapse. When:Not long after the graffiti Where: His room in the mansion. Warnings: Mentions of Cutting, depression. Ratings: Big fat A for Angst.
He couldn't explain it. Jack didn't think ahead when he did these things. It was like he told Buffy that it seemed like he was running on auto pilot, as she put it 'going through the motions'. It was slowly killing him. He really needed to work on that. After his short conversation with Buffy he felt another one of those attacks building up inside him, and he had to pull away from the computer without even finishing his thoughts. He just had to get out of there. Boiling faster and faster. Everyone told him to take care. Told him it would take time. It would feel better. Some days were better than others, yeah. But to him it felt like it was only getting worse and he'd never see the end of the darkness. That there was this hole inside him that nothing could fill. Like part of him was empty and missing, he was confused. Scared.
So totally lost and confused he couldn't even explain himself anymore. All he wanted was to hold her again. To love her. She was his strength and he lost it, it was too much to handle. He was slipping and didn't even feel like himself most of the time until his hand wrapped around the hilt of knife Faith had given him. It touched his skin and crimson spilled down his arm. He tried to be strong for her. For Sam and Heather. But he fell off track and it happened so suddenly like a punch to the stomach. He wasn't dealing as well as he wanted people to believe, at the same time he was scared to go to them. To really lean on them and push his problems on their shoulders when they had so many things going on in their own lives as it were. Another cut to join the first, this one a little deeper. It created a sort of euphoric feeling as he watched the blood drain distantly. Eyes glazed as he looked at the crimson on the knife. He leaned back against the bed and drew his knees to his chest, his face in his hands but still no tears came. The cuts weren't deep enough for suicide, they were softer and helped release a little of the pain he felt inside. He'd escaped an emotional break down barely by a hair. He didn't feel good about it, but he didn't feel as bad.