Far From Home - Chapter 30: Chapter 30
You are reading Far From Home, Chapter 30: Chapter 30. Read more chapters of Far From Home.
Late-November
Jake woke up to the feeling of hands around his neck.
They were there, they were real, and they were trying to kill him again. His father's face disappeared when he opened his eyes, but the outline of his features still remained hovering over him with his fingers at his throat, trying to squeeze what little life he could conjure out of him. He couldn't breathe. His hands clawed at his neck to fix it, but no matter how hard he tried, there were no hands there to peel off of him. It was all in his head.
He choked down air, but none of it seemed to register.
He was right there.
He's going to fucking kill me.
Blinking back far-too-realistic images of a man he hadn't seen in months, Jake tried to center himself back to reality. None of it felt like reality, but somehow his father had disappeared, which meant he wasn't really in the room with them, was he?
Fuck.
Jake scanned his eyes over every detail he could make out in the darkened room—the closed door, his roommate's empty bed, lines on the wall from the blinds, and Connor lying still on the bed beside him like nothing had happened.
Shit.
His hand fell over his chest as he tried to catch his breath. Air ripped through him like the fire that tingled at his fingertips telling him he had put up a fight. None of it was real, but the small tremor of his hand over his bare skin made him feel differently. His body felt like it was burning—eaten alive by the nerves that swallowed him whole as his thoughts were transported back to a memory he had spent his whole life trying to forget. He traced his hand over his heart up to where his cross necklace fell stuck to his neck by the sweat on his skin and clutched onto it like a lifeline.
He's going to kill me.
If Jake were home right now like he would have been if he had convinced himself to leave for break, he might have already been dead. Even if his father didn't give him a reason, he would have found something—anything—to justify the months Jake had avoided catching his hands. Maybe it wouldn't have killed him. Maybe it wouldn't have been hands around his neck or a knife to his side, but laying in bed at night reeling in the self-loathing that maybe he had gotten what he deserved would have taken him down all by itself.
Maybe I can never go home.
The thought sank in as harsh as the reality he was faced with. Home wasn't safe. This place, these people, here in this dorm room... that was safe. Safety was when Connor held him, and Camilla and Kris teased him, and Nat and Rose actually gave a shit about his life. Calling Aaron to bitch about the little things in life and being as far away as possible from the troubles McKenna was going through although it made him feel guilty, that was safety.
It may have only been one step past survival, but it was safe nonetheless.
Jake blew out a deep breath once he felt like his lungs weren't going to explode. His heart raced in his chest with the adrenaline of a close encounter he hadn't actually experienced, but he couldn't do anything to slow it down. He felt each beat coarse through his veins, out his fingertips, back to his own shaky body that so desperately needed to sleep. Andre's clock on his desk read 2:35, but Jake felt like he had been wrestling with his demons for much longer than that. It was only three hours ago that Connor had fallen asleep on his chest, but somewhere along the way, Connor had ended up curled into the wall—the way he always slept regardless of if there was anyone else in bed with him or not.
He didn't want to wake up Connor, but he didn't trust himself to find his way back down without falling into the same dream. As gently as he could, he rolled over to bury himself into Connor's back, resting his forehead along the back of his neck as he draped his left arm over Connor's side. Jake might have been burning though his own skin, but Connor's warmth wasn't for necessary heat rather for reassurance. It took him by surprise when Connor pulled his arm down with his own, taking ahold of his hand to place a kiss along the top of his knuckles like those nights where they curled up like this in the comfort of Connor's bedroom.
"You okay?" He mumbled with a voice that was very much still half-asleep.
I think so. Who the fuck knows?
"Yeah." Jake whispered back. "Sorry."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Have you been awake this whole time?
Jake didn't even know what there was to talk about. He didn't know if he could find words to explain the experience even if he wanted to.
"No."
Connor nestled his head deeper into the wall, settling for the answer he got without question. "Okay."
The last time he had been asked that question was the last night Jake spent with Connor like this. Some echo about it felt so familiar that Jake wished he'd never asked. Do I want to talk about it? No. No, he never wanted to talk about it. He wanted to forget it ever happened. He wanted to stop thinking being with Connor was so life and death. He wanted to feel safe in his own head without the memories of back home there to haunt him. He wanted all of it to go away.
He did not want to talk about it.
The last time they talked about it that summer, Jake was walking away. It took everything in himself not to let that fear of leaving consume him again. Connor had told him a month ago with drunken emotions that he was tired of everyone leaving him, but perhaps the worst feeling was when Jake had stayed with Connor all night knowing he was leaving, and still had the audacity to seek him for comfort. It made him sick. It made him hate himself. It made his chest grow tight as he fought back the familiar feeling of awaiting the next morning.
I'm not leaving. Not this time.
Connor was here, he wasn't going anywhere. Jake was here, he had no reason to leave. They were here, safe and peaceful. There was no reason to run. He didn't have to put up a fight.
His father be damned, Jake was here to stay.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, allowing whatever reassurances he needed to tell himself to wash over his burnt-out mind before he finally drifted back to sleep.
Stay.
Stay stay stay.
Jake woke up to the feeling of hands around his neck.
They were there, they were real, and they were trying to kill him again. His father's face disappeared when he opened his eyes, but the outline of his features still remained hovering over him with his fingers at his throat, trying to squeeze what little life he could conjure out of him. He couldn't breathe. His hands clawed at his neck to fix it, but no matter how hard he tried, there were no hands there to peel off of him. It was all in his head.
He choked down air, but none of it seemed to register.
He was right there.
He's going to fucking kill me.
Blinking back far-too-realistic images of a man he hadn't seen in months, Jake tried to center himself back to reality. None of it felt like reality, but somehow his father had disappeared, which meant he wasn't really in the room with them, was he?
Fuck.
Jake scanned his eyes over every detail he could make out in the darkened room—the closed door, his roommate's empty bed, lines on the wall from the blinds, and Connor lying still on the bed beside him like nothing had happened.
Shit.
His hand fell over his chest as he tried to catch his breath. Air ripped through him like the fire that tingled at his fingertips telling him he had put up a fight. None of it was real, but the small tremor of his hand over his bare skin made him feel differently. His body felt like it was burning—eaten alive by the nerves that swallowed him whole as his thoughts were transported back to a memory he had spent his whole life trying to forget. He traced his hand over his heart up to where his cross necklace fell stuck to his neck by the sweat on his skin and clutched onto it like a lifeline.
He's going to kill me.
If Jake were home right now like he would have been if he had convinced himself to leave for break, he might have already been dead. Even if his father didn't give him a reason, he would have found something—anything—to justify the months Jake had avoided catching his hands. Maybe it wouldn't have killed him. Maybe it wouldn't have been hands around his neck or a knife to his side, but laying in bed at night reeling in the self-loathing that maybe he had gotten what he deserved would have taken him down all by itself.
Maybe I can never go home.
The thought sank in as harsh as the reality he was faced with. Home wasn't safe. This place, these people, here in this dorm room... that was safe. Safety was when Connor held him, and Camilla and Kris teased him, and Nat and Rose actually gave a shit about his life. Calling Aaron to bitch about the little things in life and being as far away as possible from the troubles McKenna was going through although it made him feel guilty, that was safety.
It may have only been one step past survival, but it was safe nonetheless.
Jake blew out a deep breath once he felt like his lungs weren't going to explode. His heart raced in his chest with the adrenaline of a close encounter he hadn't actually experienced, but he couldn't do anything to slow it down. He felt each beat coarse through his veins, out his fingertips, back to his own shaky body that so desperately needed to sleep. Andre's clock on his desk read 2:35, but Jake felt like he had been wrestling with his demons for much longer than that. It was only three hours ago that Connor had fallen asleep on his chest, but somewhere along the way, Connor had ended up curled into the wall—the way he always slept regardless of if there was anyone else in bed with him or not.
He didn't want to wake up Connor, but he didn't trust himself to find his way back down without falling into the same dream. As gently as he could, he rolled over to bury himself into Connor's back, resting his forehead along the back of his neck as he draped his left arm over Connor's side. Jake might have been burning though his own skin, but Connor's warmth wasn't for necessary heat rather for reassurance. It took him by surprise when Connor pulled his arm down with his own, taking ahold of his hand to place a kiss along the top of his knuckles like those nights where they curled up like this in the comfort of Connor's bedroom.
"You okay?" He mumbled with a voice that was very much still half-asleep.
I think so. Who the fuck knows?
"Yeah." Jake whispered back. "Sorry."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Have you been awake this whole time?
Jake didn't even know what there was to talk about. He didn't know if he could find words to explain the experience even if he wanted to.
"No."
Connor nestled his head deeper into the wall, settling for the answer he got without question. "Okay."
The last time he had been asked that question was the last night Jake spent with Connor like this. Some echo about it felt so familiar that Jake wished he'd never asked. Do I want to talk about it? No. No, he never wanted to talk about it. He wanted to forget it ever happened. He wanted to stop thinking being with Connor was so life and death. He wanted to feel safe in his own head without the memories of back home there to haunt him. He wanted all of it to go away.
He did not want to talk about it.
The last time they talked about it that summer, Jake was walking away. It took everything in himself not to let that fear of leaving consume him again. Connor had told him a month ago with drunken emotions that he was tired of everyone leaving him, but perhaps the worst feeling was when Jake had stayed with Connor all night knowing he was leaving, and still had the audacity to seek him for comfort. It made him sick. It made him hate himself. It made his chest grow tight as he fought back the familiar feeling of awaiting the next morning.
I'm not leaving. Not this time.
Connor was here, he wasn't going anywhere. Jake was here, he had no reason to leave. They were here, safe and peaceful. There was no reason to run. He didn't have to put up a fight.
His father be damned, Jake was here to stay.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, allowing whatever reassurances he needed to tell himself to wash over his burnt-out mind before he finally drifted back to sleep.
Stay.
Stay stay stay.
End of Far From Home Chapter 30. Continue reading Chapter 31 or return to Far From Home book page.