I'm Here to Fix You

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Chapter 51



I could hardly speak. Or think. Or breathe.

This is ... I ... I don’t know what to think. I just ... I never knew. I never even fathomed. Jake lay his head on my lap, his eyes still closed. He couldn’t see me, but I could see the strength he put into remaining calm in the face of such a catastrophe. The way he gripped my hand told me that much. As if he were silently begging me not to leave, as if he were terrorized by the idea that he would open his eyes to me being gone.

My other hand was left over his chest, more precisely, over his heart. I don’t know why did I leave it there, I just did. And it served to show me, for better or worse, his emotions, because he would not let transpire a single one through the recount of his wretched family history, but his heart gave him away.

It wasn’t thumping, no, it was the opposite. It felt so deadly calm that I was beginning to worry, yet Jake still was still breathing, taking in the silence he’d blanketed us with after his long recount. Only when one of my tears touched his cheek, did he finally move his lips, but not his eyes. “I thought I’d told you not to cry for me.” He reprimanded.

I swallowed my own emotions to sound flat. “I’m not.”

“Then what was that? You sneezed on my face?”

I didn’t even feel like laughing at his lame joke. “You can’t expect me to listen to all this and not feel sorry for you. I wouldn’t be human.”

“I thought you weren’t.” He cracked a bittersweet smile. “I thought you were a heartless witch. Didn’t you say that?”

I rolled my eyes, though I saw why was he doing that. I’m starting to learn that all this ... cockiness, all these jokes and sarcasm, they’re all part of his coping mechanism. He told me once, his mind is like a computer open to a thousand different tabs at the same time, which made me smile for a moment, because so is mine, but it also made me think. What could it be like, to be a day in Jake Watson’s head?

Hell. Pure Hell. That’s the simplest answer I can give. One day in Jake’s head is pure Hell for any common human being. And now I see why.

“Don’t pity me, Silvia.” Jake spat, breaking through my thoughts about how miserable and wretched his life has been. Much, much worse than I could have ever fathomed. Now I see why he says we’re alike, he and I. Now I realize why did he say he was a damaged soul just like me. “I don’t deserve pity.”

“Jake ...”

“You’ve heard what I’ve done.”

“Yes, but-”

“Am I worthy of forgiveness?” Jake opened his eyes, and for the first time ever the depth in his hazel-greens stabbed me right through my ribs. “Set aside your feelings for me, be the rational, logic-oriented woman you usually are, and tell me, honestly, am I worthy of forgiveness after all I’ve done?”

My breaths caught short in my throat as I croaked out: “Jake ...”

“Just answer honestly.”

I wish I could say an untarnished yes, but ... it is a lot to take in. It’s not just his family history, he’s not at all guilty there, actually, they destroyed him. To be honest, on that side, if there’s anyone to blame, that’s his parents. They didn’t care in the slightest bit how would their son grow up to be after all the traumas they put him through. They didn’t think, for one second, that doing such things would inevitably tarnish their son’s soul, inevitably killing him on the inside.

Jake could have been a totally different man, hadn’t those things happened, had his parents been just a little braver. They weighed down his hopes, tainted his future, and all because they weren’t strong enough to cope with their own sense of guilt. Now look at that, he drowns in it.

If it was only about this side of the story, I would answer his question with a loud and clear no. Even when he says he killed his mom ... he did not. She would have gotten her hands on those pills anyways, one way or the other, she’d have done it. What angers me the most is that she chose to give her son the fatal blow with her request. How could she? What kind of woman asks such a thing of her son? Didn’t she know just how much would it kill him? Didn’t she consider the depths of her request?

Ugh, it makes me so mad. If I had his parents here, in front of me, I would tell them off, I would yell at them so loud that I’d deafen them. They say one can’t speak evil of the dead, we owe them respect and all that. But what respect are they owed? These people consciously or semi-consciously, willingly or semi-willingly destroyed their own son while mourning the other. It’s like they chose Michael over Jake, without even blinking.

My boyfriend can tell me the sweetest things he wants about his mom, but I’ll never respect a woman that put her own son through such pain. I don’t care if I should because she’s dead, I will never respect a woman that knowingly tainted her own son’s soul, condemning him to a life of nightmares, surrounded by demons that gnaw at his skin, day and night, without ever leaving him be.

Set aside that, however, there’s the rest ... we spent hours on this bed, the sole breaks were made of his deafening silences. Jake spat out everything. Can you understand? Everything.

That entails not only his family history, but also Dave Murray, and the way Jake waited for him, and dragged him to a dark alley with the clear intent of killing him. It wasn’t a punishment, Jake didn’t mean to just beat him black and blue so that he would remember clearly that night. His aim was murder, plain and simple. Cold blood, fully intentional, murder.

Weirdly enough, I don’t blame him for that either. I would have done the same. I know, it’s not right, it’s not the moral answer, but I would have reacted the exact same way as Jake did.

My trouble with his question, however, comes from the rest. It’s not his family, because there is sense of guilt is totally uncalled for. It’s not about Dave Murray, the bastard had it coming, let’s be honest. It’s the rest.

It’s the drug addiction, the illegal fights, all the innocent blood on his hands ... that is ... it’s a lot to take in. He may have never killed, but he went so close to it that it’s, well, let’s be honest, scary.

It’s not sexy, as movies and books may make it look like. A man that has so much blood on his hands, is not sexy, is, and rightfully so, scary. A man that blows up at the unexpected, a man that hides such a mighty monster behind his gaze is not sexy, is scary. Terribly scary. Because you can never know what’s going to happen. You can never be entirely sure he won’t get too mad one day. It’s exactly like this that toxic relationships go.

He can’t control his anger, he can’t control his hands, she winds up hurt, or worse, dead. I know all too well how that goes. My mother’s first husband, he was like that. He beat her up every other day, snapped at every smallest thing she did wrong. The whole abusive husband script, he followed it all.

And now here I am ... there’s one side of me that remembers the stories even too well and that is definitely keen on say no, you don’t deserve forgiveness, because you’ve done terrible things, and the truth is, I’m not even sure I can actually keep going. There’s that one side of me, possibly the coldest one, that tells me, where the hell do you think you’re going? Are you seriously going to put yourself into her same situation?

Then ... then there’s that other side. The side that believes in Jake Watson, first and foremost, without doubt. The side of me that tells me all his bad actions are nothing but the result of issues that have not been solved. Is it any wonder that he has issues? After all he’s been through, it’s a pure miracle that he’s still mentally sane. I know how that feels.

The truth is, it’s not going to be easy nor will it be fast, but if I leave him now, it’s bound to get so much worse for him.

I could see it in his hazel-green eyes as he stared at me. There was no hope, no glimmer of hope whatsoever, just the utter awareness. The awareness of a man that is staring straight into the abyss for the umpteenth time and, this time, he may do jump after all.

I can’t allow that. I’m not delusional, I can’t fix him, I can’t just love him into healing. That’s romantic bullshit you see in movies. No ... the right road, the only one, is long and impervious. It’s going to wear us out, it’s bound to erode us deep within, but maybe that was the whole purpose for us.

“No.” I finally answered, my voice firm. “Not yet. You’re not worthy of forgiveness, yet.”

Jake was taken aback. He was expecting a clear cut no, obvious. “Not yet?” And there it was, the tiniest glimmer of hope, shining bright in his eyes. Hope and faith. Faith in us. Faith in me.

There was a time when that look would have scared me shitless. There was a time when I would have been terrified of such a final commitment, especially after such a short life our relationship has had, but ... after all that’s happened between us, it’s impossible to even think we’ll fall apart.

And it’s not because he says I’m the air he breathes, he can’t live without me and whatnot. It’s not because that quote, those words Rochester told Jane Eyre, seem carved deep within the core of our love.

It’s because there’s something tighter to bind us. Something stronger than love and lust. Something stronger than good intentions, something bigger than just a promise not to ever give up. And I’m not quite sure what that is, but it’s deeper than our scars, it bases off true love, and it’s what’ll light up the path out of this dark valley we seem to be stuck in.

“You need to make amends.” I said. “For everything you’ve done.”

“Like a penance of some sort?”

“More than penance, it’s atonement.”

“That sounds dreadfully Christian to my sinner’s mind.” Jake scoffed. “Mister G and I don’t exactly get along. He went a little too bully-like on me in the past 20 years of my life, and I don’t deal well with bullies.”

“Call it karma if you prefer.” I took a deep breath, gripping his hand. “It’s the only way out of darkness, and it’s going to work.” I stated firmly.

“How do you know that?”

I let myself smile just the slightest as I bent down, to capture my lips in his. “Because ... I’m here to fix you.”



Hi, my name’s Jake Watson. I’m 30 years old, male. Dirty blonde hair, hazel-green eyes, six foot four tall, 180 pounds more or less. I’m an overly privileged white spoiled rich American boy according to some. A deranged and dangerous threat to society according to others.

I suffer from heavy anger management issues, I’m a sociopath with masochistic tendencies and an unconscious death wish. That means the only way for me to feel anything is through self harm, and that I voluntarily put my life on the line at least half of the time.

I served 2 years in Rikers federal prison, New York, for battery and assault. I was released three years in advance on good behavior. I am guilty of several different crimes, only four of which have been punished by the law. I have done very bad things in my life, and amongst those there is [fill in the blank].

In hopes you will forgive me for what I did to you, here I am, asking, what can I do for you? Please note that money and sex are not contemplated answers, unless you want my girlfriend to kick your ass and mine.

Yours sincerely,

Jake Watson

“How does that sound?”

Silvia rolled her eyes, grabbing the paper from my hands. “You sound sarcastic.”

“Only to a smart woman. These people barely know how to sign their name.” I scoffed.

“Jake ...”

I sighed. “I know ... no scoffing. Damnit, karma is a pain in the ass.”

“Yeah, well, you said yourself you feel better ... nightmares have been fading ever since we started.” Silvia pointed out.

I smiled, tugging at her hand to pull her onto my lap and kiss her. “That’s not karma. That’s my angel with horns.” I grinned, savoring her delicious plump lips eagerly before she pulled back. “You’re doing me good, baby. So very good.” I laughed as I reached out for her hand. “And I don’t even mean sexually. Although we do make fireworks every night ...”

“Jake ...”

“I love you so bad, Silvia.” I repeated for the umpteenth time in ... how long? Four months. Ah, right, we skipped a little bit in time ... the author-I mean, I, we, Silvia and I preferred to get straight to the good parts.

You couldn’t have been interested in months of therapy sessions, phone calls and visits to people I hurt, long letters of apologies, long, long, long sessions of wild and unbridled passionate sex ... well, maybe you’ve have liked the latter, but ... nah.

The letter I read was something my girlfriend had me write for the last 15 people on the list of those I hurt. It was odd and awkward facing the others, but I won’t deny I did feel better. Apologizing to all these people is not going to heal me, but it’s a bit relieving to hear them say they do forgive me.

I do feel better, a lot better, but ... I doubt it’s merely because of this whole ... karma thing we have going on. I think it has much more to do with the fact that every morning I wake up to my truest love. It has much more to do with the fact that every single minute of my day is spent with the full awareness that she is there, and she won’t disappear out of nowhere.

She’s fine, or somewhat fine, I mean, as fine as two people like us can be. We’ve been together for over 5 months now, and she still hasn’t been taken away from me. We’ve soaked ourselves to the deepest core, dived in our pasts, yet we’re still mostly unscathed. That is what makes me feel good.

As weird as that is, Silvia is right, my nightmares have been fading. Even my therapist is surprised. Of course, it wasn’t easy, it came as a gradual achievement, but it did come. The first times were ... messy, to say the least. Silvia still won’t tell me what I did to her, but she assured me she was fine every time. Then, night after night, I started sleeping more, until nightmares started fading, often in favor of vivid dreams about our future together.

It’s either because I sleep cuddled to her or because I dream of us, or because I’m tackling my issues for real this time, but ... I feel close, so very close to healing. I could even dare say I ... am happy.

Silvia cracked a small genuine smile, wrapping her arms around my neck as she deepened the kiss, and whispered in my ear: “Wake up, Jake.”


A core-wrecking shriek echoed through my head as I opened my eyes, jolting awake. “Silvia!” I called, leaping to my feet. “Silvia!” When I bypassed the bed, my heart sank.

She was lying on the floor, unconscious, a blood puddle covered the floor as well as her head. Oh, fuck, what did I do?

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