Over Here, Dear Cheshire

Sometimes at night, he likes to smile.

When the world has been consumed by darkness and there is no one left to see, he uses his index fingers to push the corners of his mouth upwards. He stays like that for a few minutes, until his cheeks start to ache, and then he stands up to turn on the light in his bedroom, and he uncovers the mirror in the corner. Laughter bubbles up within him – first a faint chuckle, perhaps a buzzing of tightly-pressed lips, and then he’s doubled up on the floor, clutching his stomach, because he’s laughing too hard to stop now and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t hold back the tears that gather in the corners of his eyes.

It’s all so that he never forgets how to smile – so he never forgets how it feels to be happy. How many nights had he cried himself to sleep already? He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to cry, to stain a dark blue pillowcase, to feel sorry for himself when there were so many other people out there in the world, in so much pain that it made him look like a fucking selfish moron, acting like this.

At first it was hard – but now it’s just routine. Some people like to listen to the sound of their breathing in the quiet of the night, and others stare at the ceiling and think of how their day could have gone, but he likes to close his eyes and remember the last time he was truly happy. The laughter emerges once again, and a phantom grin lights up his lips, but it’s not because he’s reliving old memories; if he was, it’d be too painful. No, now he’s laughing because of how goddamn stupid he is, how he doesn’t understand anything, how he’s wallowing in his own fucking self-pity and making himself seem so much more grand and important than he really is. Because what right does he have to feel sorry for himself when Jake’s in the hospital?

All he can focus on is each choked breath forcing its way past rusty vocal chords and a parched throat. The room spins, and his head is light, but still, he has to keep on laughing, has to keep on smiling no matter how painful it is. He considers it practice for tomorrow, when Sarah will undoubtedly ask him how he’s doing. And of course, he will smile, because she doesn’t know a thing about Jake or about Michael, or about how fucking scared he is each day when he steps foot into his own house. She doesn’t know any of that, and perhaps one day he’ll tell her, but he doubts that tomorrow will be that day.

So now he turns the light back off again, turning back just in time to catch one last reflection of himself, and he supposes he’s the Cheshire cat, in a way, with his too-wide smile and his forced amusement.

The tears continue to pave a path down his cheeks, and as he stumbles back to his bed in the dark, he lays down on his side. All too well, he remembers the discomfort as tears are caught between cheek and pillow.

Fuck you.

But who is he saying it to?

Even he doesn’t know – whether it’s to himself, or to Jake, or the son of a bitch who decided to shove Jake into a pile of glass just last night.

Perhaps it’s to his father. Yes, perhaps it is. It’s very likely, isn’t it?

So he traces the dark bruises that litter the sides of his stomach, and he winces as he lifts his shirt and cotton gives way to cool air. The earth hushes him, exhaling gently on scarred skin, and he closes his eyes again.

The darkness claims him once more – as it does every night – and his jaw is still clenched, veins contrasting with bruises that have faded purple.

Smile, smile, and the world smiles with you.

And for as long as he can remember, he’s been doing this, because that’s what Jake always told him to do. So he smiles, and he laughs, and he cries. Because if he doesn’t, he won’t have anything left. If he doesn’t, he’ll forget. If he doesn’t, he’ll let Jake down. If he doesn’t, he’ll hate himself. If he doesn’t, he’ll die.

And if he dies,

Jake will too.