Chapter Text
Jamie doesn’t know when it starts exactly. Well, he knows how this starts, this right here starts with fucking Zava. He means that he doesn’t know when he started feeling like this. Sometimes, he thinks he always has.
Anyway, it doesn’t really fucking matter, does it? Because Jamie is feeling like this right now. Empty and aching. Alone, discarded, abandoned. Just really fucking miserable in general.
And it’s not like he doesn’t get it. Of course he gets it. Zava is an amazing player and they can really use him out on the field and they’ve been winning with him there. Of course Jamie can understand why everyone is excited.
It just also hurts. It really fucking hurts.
Because everything Zava is doing, is all the things the team hated him for. Jamie has pulled himself up from the lowest point he reached, embarrassed himself by crawling back and apologizing to everyone, because he wanted to be the person Ted thought he could be. That Keeley thought he could be. That mummy believed he already is. Put himself through way too much self reflection and work and talking, to mold himself into a person the team could like.
Yeah, Jamie doesn’t regret it, likes who he is now a whole lot better than who he used to be. But seeing Zava get away with all the things Jamie got ousted for. Seeing Zava get celebrated for the same things Jamie had to change about himself in order to be worthy of affection. That fucking stings.
He had always thought that those parts of him were undesirable – sure he gets to be a prick on the field sometimes, but only when it’s useful, only when others allow him – but as it turns out, it’s not those personality traits. You can be an arrogant, goal hogging prick. You just can’t be Jamie when doing those things.
That realization is probably going to stick with him for the rest of his life. For however short the rest of his life might be, at least.
Like Jamie said, he feels really fucking miserable.
Today has been the shittiest day to date, a new low. A shit fucking mid-week match… that they won, but Jamie didn’t go out to celebrate. Didn’t feel like it. He still hasn’t scored this season and Zava being here is starting to mess with his stats, and if his stats get fucked, he might as well say goodbye to his career and a possible call up for England. But Ted doesn’t seem to care about it, not like he did when Jamie was the one doing it.
But that’s not even the worst part. It’s the way everyone crowded Zava after, like he is some sort of Messiah or some shit. How none of them seem to notice Jamie doesn’t join in. Like he can just disappear into the background and no one would notice. Like no one misses him.
Jamie knows he craves attention a bit too much from time to time. Knows he needs to get a healthier relationship with his need for attention, he does, truly. But this doesn’t feel like that. He’s not sulky, because he didn’t get the spotlight, he’s upset because all his friends are ignoring him.
A part of him can’t help but wonder if they were ever his friends at all. If they can drop him this easily, who is to say they ever cared in the first place? Jamie has been replaced by a shinier model. By a teammate who scores all the goals, but still gets celebrated.
His lip wobbles as he realizes that none of the lads were his friend, that they just put up with him because he scored and they needed him and him doing better made him tolerable, but it was never about him as a person. That they were all happy to drop him the moment they could. That Jamie has been pathetically thinking the others like him, while he is merely a nuisance to put up with to them instead.
It aches. His throat burns and the tears he refuses to let out make his eyes itch. He doesn’t want to do this anymore. He doesn’t want to have to go into work tomorrow and hear all about this crazy night out that he didn’t attend, because he was feeling like shit, but no one else noticed he missed.
He’s tired.
He’s done.
He doesn’t want to be here anymore.
In a bout of upset, he goes to his bathroom and fishes out a bottle of the strong painkillers that he never used when he was injured that one time, because he was still telling himself that taking painkillers means you’re a pussy.
Jamie is already shaking the pills into his hand when he remembers there are two steps to this process and he’s doing them out of order. Annoyed, he shakes the pills back into the bottle and goes searching for a pen and a notepad or something.
He ends up finding one on the coffee table, probably left there by Keeley, because she sometimes comes over and works on his couch. She hasn’t done that in a while either. Jamie tries to convince himself it’s just because she’s busy, but he doesn’t succeed.
Sniffling and blinking away the tears, he sits there on the floor next to his coffee table, legs crossed under him, notepad in front, the pills just off to the side, ready to be taken when he is done with writing this.
This being a suicide note. Because that is what Jamie is doing. Or planning to do anyway. And he knows this is a part of it, right. To say goodbye. Give closure as to why. Confirm that you did it yourself and shit. He knows this.
Hell, it’s not even the first time he thought the two steps through; 1) Write letter, 2) Kill yourself. Easy steps. Simple.
It doesn’t feel simple now.
He sits there in front of his coffee table and feels a little bit like a knob, unsure where to even begin now that he’s here. Probably an opening right? A sort of greeting to the person reading.
To whoever is reading this , he starts. He studies it, then scowls a little. It doesn’t really feel like that’s how you should start your suicide note, he feels. He thinks that you should at least direct it at someone, right?
So, he crosses it out and starts again: Dear everyone, but that also makes him stop. Kind of presumptuous right? To assume everyone will care. That anyone will care really.
Tears well up again, because he’s not even directing this at anyone specific, because he doesn’t know if anyone will care and he’s trying to convince himself that they do – like he’s done for the last year – by starting it like this, but they probably don’t. None of them care.
A few drops fall onto the paper and Jamie swallows thickly, crossing out those words too with a heavy heart.
Afterwards, he just stares blankly at the notepad in front of him, wondering who the fuck he’ll write the letter for instead. Who will notice he’s gone? Will anyone? Will the lads be worried when he doesn’t come in tomorrow and go check? Will one of the coaches, annoyed with him for skipping training? Or will it be the neighbors when he stinks? Are the houses too far apart for that?
Jamie doesn’t really know and that makes him sad. He hopes someone will find him. That someone will care. Though, he also feels bad about whoever does care. That he’ll make one final mess for someone to clean up.
Spurred on by the guilt, Jamie writes down: To the person who just found me. I’m fucking sorry, I - he hesitates, unsure what his explanation is. After a beat, he finishes: I just couldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t mean to make your day hard. I’m sorry.
And now he’s fully crying again. Crying hard. He’s full on sobbing. Because he truly didn’t mean it, didn’t mean any of it.
He never meant to be so much of a prick that everyone hated him, he didn’t mean to make everyone’s life hard, didn’t mean to make everyone put up with him. Didn’t mean to make himself part of a team that didn’t want him. Truly. If he’d known, he wouldn’t have forced himself on everyone outside of training, wouldn’t have said yes to the in hindsight obligatory invitations, wouldn’t have made himself a part of celebrations. Swear down.
It makes him feel even more miserable and shit, to put together how annoyed everyone must have been every time he said yes. How they probably kept hoping he’d say no, but he was too stupid to do so every single fucking time. How glad they must be to be out there celebrating without him. How none of them probably miss him.
Jamie cries and cries, heaving sobs that wrack through his body as the room becomes too blurry to even make out, hands shaking. It hurts to sob the way he is. Like his chest is trying to cave in on itself and his eyes can’t bear to be open anymore.
In the end, he sobs until he falls asleep face first onto his coffee table. The 90 minute game he’d played earlier that evening along with the emotional exhaustion of his breakdown catching up with him and pulling him under.
When he wakes up, he has a pounding headache and his eyes are puffy beyond saving. He’s already going to be late, so he decides to take some time with an ice cube and some products to try and get the redness down. He feels incredibly embarrassed now that it’s morning. Like who tries to fucking kill themselves because his friends made new friends? They fucking won yesterday, didn’t they? His life is fucking great. He was just being dramatic.
That belief gets rattled somewhat when he skids into the empty locker room, the four cubbies marking Zava’s importance looming over him as he gets ready.
And it’s rattled more when he makes it onto the pitch – only five minutes late – and Ted smiles: “Hiya there, Jamie. You out late celebrating? I hope you’re ready to sweat it off,” before nodding at him to go run laps. Only Roy sends him a furrowed brow look.
Now Jamie knows the coaches don’t always go out celebrating, but they’re usually somewhat up to date on what happened out during the celebration and Jamie begged off while still in the locker room. They could have missed that, but had no one mentioned Jamie skipping out?
The knowledge sits heavily in his stomach as he does his laps, worming into his brain and messing with his head. Naturally that leads to him having a shit day when it comes to training, which would have been bad enough on his own, but it’s made worse by the fact that no one seems to notice or care that Jamie – Jamie – is fucking up.
He knows that’s egocentric and he shouldn’t think like that, but it claws at him anyway. How no one there tells him to be a goldfish. How no one needs him to be good anymore. How he can play like shit and it all doesn’t matter anyway.
Jamie carries the bad feeling all the way home.
At home, he drops his bag right by the floor, stumbling over to the couch, ready to drop on it and sleep until tomorrow. To say fuck eating, fuck more comfortable clothes. Just unconsciousness.
But unconsciousness doesn’t come. He flops onto the couch and even though he feels exhausted, he is no longer tired. His eyes burn, but they refuse to close. Due to this, his eyes fall onto the his project from the day before, the notepad and pills staring back at him.
This morning, he felt embarrassed by it, but now, the sight somehow makes him feel better. Which is probably fucked up, but he’s too exhausted to care about any of that right now, because he feels like shit and he needs something to make him feel better. A suicide note might not be the ideal pick-me-up for everyone, but it works for Jamie right now.
It feels final, in a sense. Like it’s going to be over soon, like he doesn’t have to keep doing this, doesn’t have to keep feeling like this. It’s nice. He just has to write his letter, take some pills and he can leave it all behind him. It makes him feel peaceful.
Since sleep isn’t going to happen, he slides off the couch and onto the floor, taking a seat in front of the coffee table once more.
He looks over the starts he wrote yesterday and decides they’re all a bit too pathetic. He still feels bad for whoever is going to find him, but seeing as it’s probably going to be a copper doing a wellness check or some shit, maybe he shouldn’t address the letter to them. However, he also doesn’t want to assume everyone will care. He needs a middle ground.
Jamie mulls it over for a moment, chewing at the end of his pen, before writing down: To whomever it may concern.
Cocking his head, Jamie frowns to himself, trying to decide what he thinks. It doesn’t really feel like him, does it? He thinks others won’t associate it with him at least, but it’s what his mummy always started her emails and letters with.
She likes sending strongly worded letters to the council for them to fix the lanterns when they go out or to fill the potholes, or to tell them they need to do something about the unsafe crossing near the school. They never do, but she keeps writing. She always told him not to underestimate the power of a polite, yet forceful email.
But Jaime doesn’t think his last goodbye should be a strongly worded letter, or a polite yet forceful email. That doesn’t really feel like the way he wants to go. Besides, what would be even write? There is nothing for him to say. Nothing that wouldn’t make him sound like a moody little bitch.
And he wouldn’t want to do that to everyone either. They might not care about him, but they’re all good people, unlike Jamie, so they’ll feel bad if he does that. Even if right now he’s feeling hurt, it’s not their fault Jamie mistook their kindness for friendship. He doesn’t want to accuse any of them for making him feel like this, even if they do, because it’s not like they’re doing it on purpose.
Which makes him wonder why he’s even writing them the letter. Sure, they’re the closest by, so there is a chance someone might notice him gone and go check, but they don’t really care about Jamie beyond obligation. He shouldn’t force them into this as well. He’s already done that enough.
There is only one person, who has ever loved him unconditionally. Or maybe even one person, who loved him, period. One person, who would actually miss him. One person he misses. One person who would want to hear from him.
Mummy.
Fuck, he fucking misses her.
He hadn’t really spoken to her in years until last year. Back when he was still playing with City, he was in so deep with his dad that it just hurt them both to talk. He felt too bad, hearing how she’d know something was wrong and tried to push and he would snap just to keep her away. He’d always want to keep her away from him . Especially since it was Jamie that got him back into their life.
So, it weren’t until he was playing full time at Richmond and basically dirt on the boots of his dad, meaning he didn’t care enough to berate Jamie – something he should have been grateful for, but that hurt nonetheless, like he wasn’t even worthy enough to be mad at – he found it in himself to contact mummy again.
Jamie had tentatively invited himself to her Christmas celebration with Simon, so fucking relieved when she was only happy to have him there.
They’ve been calling since. He doesn’t go to visit her. Not really. He wants to. God, does he keep wanting to. And he knows that if he goes, it’ll be like it always is and he’ll feel better, like he did at Christmas.
But he always stops himself. Can’t make himself go into her space, her life. The life she built in his absence, because he had his head too far up dad’s arse to even realize how he was hurting her. How she always supported him, even when he wasn’t talking to her. How he made her proud , even when he didn’t deserve it.
He always feels like he’ll taint her life somehow. Like he’ll touch it with the skin that dad poured so much shit in that it’s bound to leak out and fuck up her life. Like he’s too much his father’s son now to ever go back to being the mummy’s boy he used to be.
Again tears prickle in his eyes, because he knows that this will fuck her up too, but at least it’ll be the last time he does it. So he swallows thickly and writes down: Dear mummy, and the words look right on the page for the first time.
The only thing that makes it look wrong is that it’s underneath all his other attempts. The ones not directed to her, as if she’s some sort of afterthought instead of the most important person in his life. Tearing the page off, he puts it to the side carefully. He supposes he should crumble it up and toss it away all dramatic like, the way they do in the movies.
But it’s not the movies now, is it? And he likes the way it looks on his table, so he doesn’t. Instead he turns to the new page and once more writes down: Dear mummy,
Feeling satisfied, he nods to himself, before he remembers he now has to figure out what to write down next. He knows he wants his letter to be for mummy, but he also doesn’t want to put her through more hurt.
It hits him and he writes down: Mummy, I love you so much, please don’t be sad. I never want to make you sad. Never wanted that. Ever. I’m so sorry I made you sad all those times. I know I hurt you and I’d take it back if I could. Swear down. You were the best mummy I could have asked for. You’re the only person who made me feel loved and that meant so much to me. You mean so much to me. You deserve the fucking world. You deserved a better son. You deserve to be happy. So please don’t be sad, I love you.
Mummy, I’m sorry I didn’t call more, that I don’t come to visit. I’m sorry for not being a better son when you deserved it. I’m sorry for believing dad. Sorry for following him so much. Sorry for smearing his shit in your life for so long.
Writing it all down, seeing his own words and feelings reflected back at him, makes shame curl up in his stomach. It curdles there and he dry heaves, nearly vomiting on his rug. He fucking likes that rug and he thinks it’s probably more embarrassing to be found next to a pile of vomit.
There is nothing in his stomach to throw up. Didn’t see the point of eating when he’s not really going to use the energy anyway. It means that the little bile that comes up is acid and it burns in his throat when it comes up, his nose too when he nearly chokes on it and it goes up, before he can swallow it back down .
Jamie feels gross and pathetic and he wants mummy and he wants to cry an get a hug, but he’s all alone and he’s made mummy sad enough times to not want to do it again.
Can he do this now?
Can he make her sad like this?
Is it presumptuous to assume she’d even be sad after all he put her through?
He hugs his knees to his chest, curling up right in front of his couch and burying his face between his knees. As if he can hide from his feelings in the comfort of a fetal position. As if holding himself will ever feel like someone else holding him.
Fuck, he really doesn’t want to be alone right now. He’d prefer to be curled up in mummy’s arms, but it’s not like he can drive four hours, get a cuddle, drive four hours back and be on time for training. He was already late yesterday.
…But, a voice in his mind whispers, no one cared that you were late yesterday and if you go through with this, you won’t make it to the end of the season to pay that fine anyway. He can just fuck off, get a hug from his mummy, say sorry to her properly instead of through a letter, then leave her knowing it wasn’t her fault and that she can be happy to be rid of him. He can do that.
But Jamie knows he won’t.
He still cares about the team, even if they don’t care about him. He doesn’t want to leave with them thinking he’s gone back to his uncaring prick ways, even if it might make his final days easier.
Guiltily, he can admit to himself, that he also doesn’t want to do that, because a part of him is scared to get the confirmation that behaving like that, isn’t okay when you’re Jamie. That even though he already knows that is the case, he’ll get the confirmation that it’s true. That when he goes back to acting like Zava is now, he’ll get glares for it.
That they’ll hate him.
He doesn’t want them to hate him…
Jamie just wants his friends to be his friends. To have them care about him and know that they do, instead of feeling like this. That they love him, like he loves them. That they’re all Richmond until they die and he is a part of them.
God, he wishes he weren’t such a coward. That he could pick up his phone and text Colin to see if he want s to play some FIFA or Dani to see if they can hang, or Sam if he need s help at Ola’s. But reaching out means they might say no. Means they might say yes, but don’t mean it and Jamie will know that now.
So, he doesn’t call, doesn’t text, doesn’t reach out. Just sits on the floor and feels sorry for himself. It’s fucking pathetic that he can’t even seem to do this right. That he’s still stuck on fucking step one of a simple two step plan. That he can’t even write a letter without being a soft pussy about it.
He rips the page out of the notepad and crumbles it up angrily, before realizing what he’s done and trying to smooth it back out. He can’t salvage it. It feels symbolic.
Trying not to let it get to him, he tells himself it was a rough draft anyway and he doesn’t care. Sniffles and rubs his eyes, before starting over: Dear mummy,
I’m so alone. I don’t want to be alone. No one here wants me, no one has ever wanted me, except for you. You always kept your door open to me. I know I can reach out. I know you’d be here, but I don’t want to make you sad. I always seem to make you sad. I’m sorry for making you sad now, but I promise it’ll be the last time. Please don’t be sad for me.
His eyes blur so much that he can’t see through the tears anymore. He doesn’t know why this is so hard, why he feels like he flays himself open . Why he wants this letter to mean something. Why he doesn’t just keep it short and simple, so he can move on. Not like anyone will care. He rips the page out once more and starts again:
Dear mummy,
I’m sorry for doing this to you. I just feel so unwanted and I can’t do it anymore. I thought they were my friends, but I wasn’t. It’s okay to act the way I did that made everyone hate me, as long as it’s not me doing it and knowing that is killing me. That it was always me that was the problem. That I can’t make myself into something lovable. I’m sorry I’m going to make you sad again. Please don’t be sad, mummy. I love you too much to want to make you sad. I’m sorry I can’t seem to help myself. That I always hurt you without meaning to.
Live your life for me, don’t be sad. I love you,
Jamie.
He looks at it. Short and simple.
It should be a relief.
It’s not.
At it’s core, it’s exactly what is happening right now. How he feels, displayed out there yet so achingly empty. He doesn’t like feeling empty. He hates it. He fucking hates it. He doesn’t want his last words to be words he hated.
He knows that no one except mummy will care, that he’s not going to be around long to feel bad about it, but right now he feels like nothing he did ever mattered. He wants it to matter. He needs it to have mattered. He needs everything he did to have been for something. Needs to show everyone that he changed and that was good. That he was a person and he was sad and it wasn’t their fault that they couldn’t love Jamie, but it wasn’t Jamie’s fault either.
Again he starts: Dear mummy,
Again. Dear mummy,
Again. Dear mummy,
Again. Dear mummy,
Dear mummy, I’m scared.
Dear mummy, I want it to stop.
Dear mummy, I don’t even know what I did wrong.
Dear mummy, did you ever love me?
Dear mummy…
He rips out page after page, his coffee table slowly becoming filled with attempted suicide notes, like he is a lawyer in some high case thriller movie, trying to find the clue in a bunch of files. Like if he tries enough times to pour his heart out over the page, he’ll be left with words he’d want mummy to have. That they’ll be good enough for her.
The words never seem to come. He just keeps trying and he only spirals more, because it’s not just Zava and the team, is it? Jamie has always felt like this. Has never been able to escape the ache that made itself at home in his chest, before he even knew what it was. Hurts piling up on top of hurts that he never had the courage to speak about , but has always wanted someone to know without having to face them afterwards. It all just comes pouring out.
By the time he comes up for air after ripping himself to shreds, it’s because his alarm is going. He has to get moving if he wants to get to training.
For a moment, he just stares at his phone, letting the alarm go even though it grates on his ears, because he is too tired to move to even turn it off. He debates whether he should even go to training. He has enough letters for mummy that she’s bound to like one of them, right? He could just go right now and be done with it. Cross step one off the list and move onto step two.
However arbitrary, he feels like suicide is the kind of thing you do at night. It doesn’t feel like a morning activity. Mornings are for fresh starts and facing the world. This is a shameful thing to be hidden in the night, tucked away from the eyes of sensible people, who aren’t fucked in the head like he is.
So, Jamie removes himself from the floor and stumbles over to the shower. His legs feel wobbly like a baby deer and he is exhausted to all hell, but he manages to make it, shucking off his clothes and leaving them on the floor as he goes.
He tells himself he’ll pick them up later and knows that is a lie. Laundry has been piling up for weeks now and so have his dishes. The house smells rank, since he hasn’t opened a window in ages, and dust floats around, because he canceled on his cleaning lady, Margret, too many times in a row now. He still pays her, of course, because he’s not a monster, but she hasn’t been here. Maybe she is the one to find him when he finally does do it. He feels bad about that, but not enough to not want to change.
Under the shower, he is too tired to do anything other than stand there and even that he gives up halfway through. Sitting on the tiles makes him feel gross, but he supposes it’s better than nothing. He wonders if you can drown in the shower, then decides that’s too undignified.
It is also pretty undignified when he crawls out of the shower, because standing is too much and he usually wouldn’t be caught dead in the ensemble he manages to squeeze his body into, but they were just the first clothes he got his hands on that didn’t smell too disgusting.
For breakfast he chokes down a protein bar, which is definitely not enough to make up for the dinner he missed yesterday, nor to have as breakfast in general. However, he’s not sure if he can keep anything else down and the empty ache in his stomach is a distraction from the empty ache in his chest.
When he rolls up to Nelson Road without a minute to spare, he wonders if he can do it. Then he stumbles into the dressing room and Sam frowns: “Are you okay, Jamie?”
“Yeah, mate, just slept like shit,” Jamie smiles back. It’s a lie, but it’s not. He didn’t sleep, but that also kind of means he slept like shit, don’t it? Besides, the little kernel of care is enough to make him feel better, even if he knows he’s pathetic for that. Sam cares, even if that only is because Sam cares about everyone.
“Okay,” Sam says, looking like he doesn’t really believe him when he does. “I’m here, though. If there was anything.”
“Thanks,” Jamie tells him, hoping he sounds grateful and knowing he’s never going to take Sam up on the offer. They already put up with him enough, he doesn’t want to push more on them. He has his plan, he’ll set them free. No need to burden them before that.
Training goes a little bit better, despite everyone seemingly realizing that Jamie is exhausted. He feels embarrassed about that. Feels almost caught. Feels like they can read on his face why he is so tired and form their judgments about him because of it.
However, it also makes him feel so good. Because yeah, everyone is making faces at him and he is so ashamed he can’t just take it and has his suicide note waiting at home next to a bottle of pills. But they clap him on the back and at the end of training Ted says: “Make sure you get some rest, kiddo. Can’t have you sleeping on the field tomorrow, we need you out there,” and Jamie feels like he’s flying.
They care.
They care .
It’s only for a moment, only because Jamie looks undeniably shit, but they noticed. They care. They need him out there. And that is enough to carry him home and into bed.
His clothes trail behind him and he sleeps in the shirt he pulled out of some crack this morning that is definitely not meant to be slept in. He skips dinner again too, because he’s too tired and he ate a big lunch at the club anyway.
H e knows it’s not good, but Ted said to get his rest. Ted said they needed him. Jamie wants to be needed so badly that he sleeps instead of sitting at his coffee table and maybe that has to be enough for now.
Of course they win their match that Saturday. His hair is a right fucking mess and the breakfast he ate didn’t make up for all the food he’s missed out on. Zava scores all the goals and no one jumps on Jamie to celebrate.
It’ s okay though. Ted said they needed him. He made two of the assists out there today. No one is chanting his name, but Richmond is winning. That’s good. That’s all he should care about.
Jamie slips out of the locker room without even giving an excuse about why he’s not going out with the lads to celebrate. Isaac is probably going to fine him for it at the end of the season, but then again, Isaac has to notice he’s not there in order to do that.
When he gets home he’s so exhausted, he flops down on the couch, confronted with the mess the coffee table has become. The step one he can’t seem to get through sprawled out in front of him accusingly, daring him to finally finish it.
He doesn’t know why he can’t seem to go on with it. He has fel t like this so often , but now he’s finally doing it and that brought him peace, but still he can’t seem to make himself do it. Why does he have to fail at even the simplest of things?
It should be done now. He has a letter for the only person that matters. It doesn’t have to be perfect, he can let her read them all, hope she’ll be able to make sense of them and hope that is enough. He can literally just take the pills and it’ll be over.
But he doesn’t.
Maybe if he’d knocked back those pills this Wednesday, hadn’t bothered with the letters and decided that enough was enough, things would be different now. But they aren’t.
Not entirely, of course. Jamie still feels so fucking alone and like he doesn’t matter and he hates Zava for what he took from him, for what he made Jamie realize. And that doesn’t feel like anything that will just go away. Not unless that hurt is soothed.
Writing those letters helped. It made him feel more in control, less like he was one inconvenience away from exploding or bursting into tears. Made him realize that while he is lonely, he isn’t entirely alone and there is one person he never wants to leave like that.
Jamie lies back on the couch and orders food that is not at all nutritionist approved, then dials a comfortingly familiar number. “Hi, mummy.”
He eats food until he’s nauseous and lets mummy’s voice wash over him. She knows something is up, but she lets him deflect. Another time he might have been tempted to tell her, even though he knows he’d feel shit about worrying her, but today he doesn’t. He feels like he already told her in away.
This time when Jamie falls asleep in his living room, it’s not because he cried himself to the point of exhaustion, it’s because he’s sleepy and satiated and mummy is talking in his ear and it’s like he’s eight again and she doesn’t have to work the night shift.
When the sun rises the next morning, Jamie decides to take some of that fresh start energy. The state of his house is way too overwhelming for him to even begin to think to tackle, but the state of himself seems manageable.
If he’s not going to kill himself yet, he should probably stop looking a mess. He wants people to care, but he doesn’t want them to worry . He’s been acting worryingly lately, that needs to stop. He isn’t going to force everyone to care just because he’s too much of a mess. He won’t put that on them. He is staying for mummy and that’s it. He doesn’t need anyone seeing this ugly part of him. He’s already unlovable enough on his own.
So he chokes down a nutritionist approved breakfast. He draws a bath, reminds himself he’s not going to drown himself and haphazardly moves through his skin care and hair care. He air dries laying on his frankly disgusting bed, then pulls out one of his last sets of clean clothes.
By the time he’s done with that, he is exhausted. He forces down his lunch, then lies on the couch for a nap.
The mess on the coffee table stares back at him.
He should probably clean that up.
Get rid of the evidence
Cleanse himself of it.
Jamie already decided he’s not going to do it, so he should get rid of all that stuff. Fresh start to stop feeling like a pathetic loser, who wanted to kill himself because his friends didn’t carry him on their hands anymore. Like how fucking sad is that?
It would be the right thing to do, the smart thing to do, which naturally that means Jamie isn’t going to do it. No, of course not.
Because, yeah, Jamie decided he’s not going to do it, but it’s mostly a ‘not going to do it now’. He knows the feeling will come back. It always does. Ever since he was a sexy little baby and he took to not looking before crossing the street after a bad practice, because then he didn’t have to go home to dad yelling at him, or mummy looking so devastated after.
And this is the first time he actually took a more active approach, where he didn’t just stop looking before stepping onto the road, didn’t just take a bath drunk while knowing he could drown, didn’t just defend mummy, because maybe this time dad would take it too far. He actually acknowledged what he was doing and made a plan.
Making a plan and getting all the stuff out was freeing in a way he didn’t know before. And yeah, he’s not going to do it. Not now. But knowing he can? Knowing he has everything there and when it all becomes too much, he can just take the pills without thinking? That helps. Makes him feel better.
So, he naps on the couch and leaves the mess on the coffee table. Strips the bed, but doesn’t feel like making it, does a load on laundry, but lets it get ruined by forgetting to put it in the drier. All failed baby steps, but baby steps nonetheless.
He goes to training the next day and acts like himself the best he can. It’s easier when no one is really watching him and that makes him feel like shit.
When he gets home, he sits in front of the coffee table and deliberates again. Is this the moment he does it? Or does he feel okay about tomorrow? Sam had looked kind of worried, hadn’t he? That was nice of him. Even if it was just Sam being Sam.
Sam doesn’t deserve to just get left behind without a letter. He’s good and kind and despite Jamie making his life hell when he was still a loannee instead of a full fledged Greyhound, Sam would feel bad about Jamie dying, because Sam feels bad about everything.
Without thinking, he grabs the pen and a new sheet of paper: Dear Sam, you’re a good man. I hate that I treated you like that. I don’t expect you to care, but I know you will on some level, because you’re better than me. You’re better than everyone.
Writing the letter to Sam makes him feel better. Makes him feel that if he does do it, he won’t leave Sam behind hurt. He’s done that enough too, best not to add to it.
After that, it kind of becomes a habit. To write the letters to everyone. He’s under no illusion that anyone would want a letter from him after he kills himself, but getting it all out on the page makes him feel better. Makes the bottle in his chest where he keeps everything locked up feel less crowded and ready to burst. Makes him feel like he can get through the next day.
And so the words keep spilling out.
Dear Ted, thank you for believing in me. For letting me come back to the team, even when they didn’t want me there. For letting me try to become something worthy of being there. I’m sorry I couldn’t become the person you saw in me. I’m sorry I gave up. I swear that I tried. God, I fucking tried, okay, Ted? I want to be that person, I just can’t. I’m not made to be worthy. I only know how to fuck things up and I’m sorry I made you give me that chance when I couldn’t do it.
Dear Roy, I have always looked up to you and I never stopped. Even when you hated me, I just wanted you to like me. I always wanted you to like me. I don’t even know why you didn’t when we met. I know I was a right prick then, but I genuinely tried at the start and you hated me anyway. Will you ever not hate me? Will you care that I’m gone?
Dear Dani, I hope this won’t take away that football is life and that I don’t give you the yips like Earl did. I know I shouldn’t compare, because you didn’t kill me. But I miss you. I fucking miss you. I hate that you love Zava. I hate that you could drop me so easily. I hate that I miss you. I wish I was a good enough teammate for you to miss me too.
Dear Keeley, I’m sorry for telling you I loved you. I know I already said, but I wanted to again. I always kept messing up your life. Seems that’s just the way I am. I want to be accountable for all that, because that matters to you. And it started to matter to me too. I weren’t lying when I said it, but it weren’t right either. I hope you can be happy, I hope you find someone and that Roy weren’t too much of a prick to you after you broke up.
On Wednesday, Jamie manages to wash and condition his hair. It’ll take a second to recover from the neglect Jamie’s put it through, but he’s proud of himself anyway.
Dear Beard, I still don’t know how to talk to you. Fuck, I don’t even know your name. But thank you. I am too scared to say it to your face, because then you can tell me how you hate me for it. But thank you for throwing my dad out. And I’m sorry he hit you. I know you didn’t say, but I saw the bruise. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I could have taken it. You didn’t have to. But thank you for taking it instead of me, even if I hate myself for it.
Dear Sam, I hate how loved you are. How you have a good dad, who taught you how to be better instead of putting you down. How Roy liked you better and how easily you take to the team. You are so fucking talented and you’re gonna go so far and I’m so fucking jealous sometimes and it makes me hate myself, because you deserve it more than I do, but goddammit, I just want to have a bit of what you have. A scrap of the love you get. I wish I were better than that, but I’m not.
Dear Ted, I hate you for sending me away, for sending me back, for walking away from me then , for giving up, even if it was only for a moment. I hate you for not being who I thought you were. I hate you for believing in me. For making me try when it was always me that was the problem. I hate you for making me believe I could be loved. I hate you for letting Zava do the things I was a prick for. I hate that you’re a hypocrite. And I hate I can’t make myself hate you.
On Thursday, Jamie makes a second attempt at a load of laundry, successfully this time, and finally puts the sheets on his bed again. He’d forgotten how nice that is.
Dear Roy, I don’t know how to be like you. How to be all tough and intimidating. I try, but it never works. Why doesn’t it work when I do it? Maybe if I were more like you, dad would have loved me, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad.
Dear Keeley, no one has made me want to try and be better as much as you have. I want to be a man you can love, even though I know that’s not possible. I wish I could rip out all the bad parts of me and be who you think I can be, but I can’t. I tried. I’m sorry for treating you the way I did. I’m sorry for being the way I am. I’m sorry for writing you this letter. I don’t want to hurt you. I never do. I love you and I’m sorry I love you too. You don’t deserve that. I never deserved you.
Dear Isaac, I’m sorry you and Colin got dragged into my bullshit. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better teammate. I’m sorry I’m leaving you with a player down, though that’s that arrogant thinking that got me here. You’re one of the best skippers I could have asked for. I’m grateful for getting to play with you, even if you never wanted me there. I’m sorry for not being a better teammate.
They have a match next Saturday to and Jamie almost feels like himself again. He’s still smarting about the team ignoring him and how Zava’s presence ruins everything for him. But it’s a dull, resigned sadness.
Jamie knows they don’t want him there, but they have to let him be there and that is okay. He doesn’t want to keep putting himself out there, only to be hurt. He doesn’t want to sit between them and know they’re only letting him, because they are kinder than he’ll ever be.
The only reason he goes out with the team after they win once more, is because he told himself he weren’t going to bother them with his shit. If that means primping himself up and going out to Ola’s, then he will do it.
However, he doesn’t force himself to be a part of the team, just sits in his corner, while trying and failing to look less dejected than he is. He can’t help but hope someone will notice him being alone and come to check on him. That someone will see him and want to talk to him. He can’t help but hate himself for hoping that too.
Then Roy comes to sit next to him. Roy notices. Roy comes to ask him what the fuck is wrong with him in his own Roy way.
And yeah, it doesn’t feel great when Roy calls Zava the best on the team, but that sting is soothed by the fact that Roy thinks he used to be the best. That Roy thinks he can surpass Zava if he works hard enough.
If Jamie can be better than Zava, then the lads will want him there again. Then they’ll look at him again. There is nothing he craves more than that.
So he says yes to extra training. Immediately. No hesitation in the slightest. I mean, who the fuck would say no to that? It’s Roy f ucking Kent offering to personally train him. He’d have to be mental to reject that.
When Roy tells him they start at 4:00AM, his heart sinks a little, because there is no way that Roy would willingly get up that early to spend time with him of all people. And that sucks, because Jamie actually felt hope for a moment. But then again, it’s the hope that fucking kills you.
He gets home that night and looks over at his coffee table, wondering if he’s going to do it now. He has enough letters that no one should feel left out. Maybe too many and many too honest. Is there a thing as too many suicide notes? Will anyone even bother reading them all? Does he even want some of his thoughts to see the light of day?
Half of these were more to vent then to actually say goodbye and Jamie is too tired to sort through them all to make sure the right ones are found. Besides, if it’s the hope that kills him, then it’s a good thing Jamis was dying already anyway, because even if Roy doesn’t want to actually train him, he still makes Jamie believe that he can be good enough to get back into everyone’s good graces. And that’s as precious as gold.
So, Jamie tucks himself into his now clean sheets and knocks the fuck out. He sets an alarm for 5:30, because he’s not that much of a masochist, like why the fuck 4:00 AM? But he does want to start pushing himself. Doing more.
When his doorbell actually goes at 4:00AM and he finds Roy on his doorstep, he’s so embarrassed about not believing him, he can only bring himself to be a little bit rude about it. But how can he not be ashamed when he thought so little of himself, he wound up disappointing Roy over it?
Trying not to let it show too much that he wishes he were already up and ready when Roy knocked, Jamie hurries off to get changed. He wants this. He wants this so badly it hurts. And yeah, it may be the hope that kills you, but Ted asked them if they believed in miracles.
Now, Jamie never really has believed in miracles, but if there is one miracle he wants to believe in, it’s that Roy can make him good enough to beat Zava. Make him good enough to be able to stay. Make him good enough that being alive doesn’t feel like such a burden.