Jax

The first time I saw the town, I wanted to turn around and punch whoever thought this place was worth saving.

Same cracked pavement. Same rotting fences. Same blank stares from people who’ve given up but haven’t noticed yet. They called it a “fresh start.” I call it a load of shit. Like a different zip code could fix a damn thing.

I adjusted the strap of my duffel bag over my shoulder and kept walking. Head down, shoulders squared. The look that says “don’t talk to me unless you want a broken nose.” It usually worked.

This place was colder than I expected. Wind cutting through the holes in my jacket. Pale skin’s good for hiding bruises, but it also means you feel everything. And right now, I felt too much.

I clenched my jaw.

Forget it. Don’t think about it.

The old brick building at the end of the street was apparently “home” now. Group house. Last chance before juvie. Not that I cared what they called it. It was walls and a roof. Maybe even hot water if I was lucky. Good enough.

A guy with a clipboard met me at the door. Clean shave, nervous smile. He was too soft. I didn’t trust soft.

“Jaxon, right?”

I flinched. He caught it.

“I go by Jax.”

“Oh—sure. Jax. Right.”

He stepped aside to let me in, rambling about rules and curfews and “structure.” I tuned most of it out. I hated being told what to do. Always had. I had to fight my way through life, and people like him? They’d never understand. They’d never had to.

Inside was warmer. Smelled like detergent and something burnt in the kitchen. I dropped my bag at the foot of the stairs without asking where my room was. Didn’t care. First bed I see, it’s mine.

Clipboard guy kept talking. Something about roommates. I was already halfway up the steps.

Room was small. Two beds, both empty. Lucky me. I claimed the one by the window and sat on it, letting my hands hang between my knees. Pale knuckles. Faint scars. My reflection in the glass stared back at me like it was waiting for something.

Don’t.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Don’t go there.

But I was already there. The taste of blood in my mouth. The roar of a crowd. My hands aching from how hard I’d hit him. The sound his head made when it hit the pavement.

“Get up, Jax!” someone had screamed, back then.

I had. I always did.

Now, I breathed in through my nose, slow. Let the air burn in my lungs. I wasn’t there. That was a different city. Different life.

I told myself I’d burned it all to ash. That I didn’t carry it with me.

Liar.

A knock on the door pulled me out of it.

I opened my eyes. The flashback snapped like a rubber band.

Clipboard guy again. Still smiling like I didn’t just have war playing behind my eyes.

“You’ll meet the others at dinner,” he said. “You’ll like them. They’re a good group of guys.”

I bet.

I nodded once. Closed the door before he finished his sentence.

Sitting on that bed, I looked around the room. Plain walls. One dresser. One lamp. No place to hide, but I’d get used to that. I always did. Being alone was safer anyway.

People ask too many questions. They try to fix things that aren’t broken. Or worse—they look at you like you’re some wounded animal they’re doing a favor by not putting down.

Screw that.

I’m not a project. I’m not some story they can fix with hugs and therapy bullshit.

I’m just Jax. That’s it.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.