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Save Me	By : lilvior Category: +S through Z > Xiaolin Showdown Views: 3991 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Xiaolin Showdown, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Save Me
- 1
Title: Save Me
Author: Lilvior
Summary: Jack is very depressed. It’s angsty and contains implied drug use, suicidal thoughts and yaoi-esque thoughts. Jack lies on his bedroom floor waiting for someone to save him. EMO-ALERT. Jack/??
Disclaimer: I don’t own Jack, My Chemical Romance, or even any cocaine.
A/N: Depression is a medical condition caused by a malfunctioning gland in the brain. A miserable person and a depressed person are NOT the same. Depression is a serious illness and should not be taken lightly. Depression is not caused by environmental factors, so I am not saying that Jack is depressed because of his drug problem or his parents. They just make things worse. My best advice to a person who believes he might be depressed is to see a professional, but think seriously about anti-depressants if you are offered them, as they are usually not the best cause of action.

His fingers were black. That meant he’d ruined his make-up. He lay on bare floorboards, staring at the ceiling, silently mouthing along to the music coming from his cd-player. He’d turned the volume up ridiculously high about an hour ago, but he could still hear his parents screaming at each other. He tried not to listen, knowing that the subject of their angst-ridden, drug-addicted, queer son was going to come up soon. The band My Chemical Romance sang about bloody sheets, and Jack laughed at what a cliché he’d become. He laughed and laughed until he was crying hysterically, his chest heaved with sobs and he could feel tears dripping down his face and pooling in his ears. He ran the thumb of his right hand across the wrist of his left, feeling the bumps and scabs from the days when he could be bothered to release ‘the pain’. The bare light bulb that hung from the ceiling started swinging erratically as the sound of something heavy falling to the ground was heard from the floor above. So his parents had started throwing stuff a little earlier in the day, he’d be the topic of conversation any minute now. His parents had discovered that he was gay roughly six months ago when his mother had made one of her rare visits to the basement and had found gay porno magazines on the floor next to his bed. They’d found out he was using cocaine about four months ago; just when he’d been trying to quit; but their response had not exactly been supportive, in fact they’d left him feeling like if he didn’t get a hit he was going to have to top himself.
He heard his mother scream, great, that meant that his father had started getting physically abusive again. He didn’t worry about his mother all that much; she gave as good as she got, if not more. Jack had a gun under his pillow, he thought about going upstairs with it and blowing them both to hell. The thought had crossed his mind more than once, but he’d never actually do it. He was more likely to use the gun on himself, but there was something undignified about shooting yourself. He’d much rather slash his wrists; it gave a would-be rescuer the chance to save him.
But who the hell would want to save him?
Jack had a good idea of whom he’d like to be saved by, but it was very unlikely.
He hadn’t had any friends. Ever. Friendship was just something he’d never experienced, and he highly doubted he ever would have a true friend. People didn’t understand him, that and they didn’t like him. Jack knew why; he was a horrible person. He was evil, he was self-centred, he was a junkie, he was gay, he was ugly and he was arrogant. He’d never considered that he might have liked to have a friend before. He could never see the point. But now he knew why people had friends, he knew that everybody needs a person to tell them that their life is worth living, everybody needs to know that they would be missed if they weren’t there any more. Who would miss Jack Spicer? On that thought he began to cry again. If no one would miss him if he died, why did he bother to keep living?
He was lying on his back with his arms by his sides, crying. He tried to cry all the pain out, but it only ever left him feeling worse, with sore eyes and an aching head. He thought about going out and getting more crack, but not even his desperate need for the drug could overpower his intense feeling of self-pity.
He had a sharp knife on the floor next to him, it was the knife he used to use for scoring lines on sheets of aluminium back when he was interested in building electronics. That interest, along with all his other interests had gone out the window when he started feeling this way.
He couldn’t think of a single reason to carry on living, but rather than making him pick up that knife and end it all right now, the thought just made him cry harder. He wanted so much for someone to burst into the room and give him the friendship and affection that he so desperately needed, anyone would be just fine; Chase, Ashley, Wuya, any of those dumb monks. Anyone. He hated the monks most of all because they were all happy; they were ‘spiritually enlightened’ and would probably never feel the intense agony deep in their chests that Jack had to deal with every day. The agony that was caused simply by living.
He hated them because they had the life he wanted.
He wanted to do it, to finally kill himself. He had thought that the final decision would stop him crying. But it only made him cry more. He sat upright and grabbed the knife from the floor, holding it in his right hand, staring at it. No one was going to save him, and in the end that was probably a good thing, he wasn’t worth saving.
He’d cut himself before, deep, but he’d never had the courage to slice deep enough into an artery to bleed to death. He promised himself that this time would be different. Rather than his usual technique of slowly dragging the blade across his flesh, he would do it hard and fast, no chance to change his mind.
He didn’t want to look as he did it, but he couldn’t look away. He slowly raised the blade and turned his left arm over to expose soft pale flesh criss-crossed with scars. He gritted his teeth and brought the knife down in one swift arc. His arm felt cold for a split second as it registered the coldness of the metal blade, and then began burning as blood rushed to fill the trench he’d cut into himself. Quickly and without thinking about it, he did the same to his right arm – it wasn’t quite as deep as he was right-handed and had always had trouble cutting himself with his left hand.
It was done; now he just had to lie back and wait to die. He thought about moving up onto his bed, but couldn’t justify himself the comfort of dying in bed. He was morbidly impressed with the amount of blood streaming in shallow spurts from his newest self-inflicted wounds.
He closed his eyes and mouthed along to the songs playing on his cd-player. He couldn’t hear his parents any more. He couldn’t really feel the floorboards beneath his back either. He was sure that if he opened his eyes, the world would be black. It was a feeling of intense calm, the first time Jack had felt calm in a long time. He felt like this was the first – and last – good thing he had ever done in his life. The songs were starting to sound like they were being sung in a different language, and Jack could only hum along to the tune. And then he couldn’t even hear that.

End
A/N: If people want, I can have him saved. Just tell me whom you would rather he was saved by; Chase, Clay or Raimundo. Poor Jack never gets any breaks in the show, but just one review from YOU, loyal reader, could give this poor boy a second chance at life.
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