A/N: Originally posted on ao3 under the pen name youngjusticwriter. This is a fic I found while cleaning out my writing app.


Wrath; a wolf caught in a trap will chew off its own leg just to survive.


Her appearance is disheveled; uniform wrinkled, blonde hair in a messily put together with strands fallen out, no make up on her face. She looks old, JT thinks to himself, old and worn like the farm house that he use to live in before being shipped off to his aunt (she doesn't get a bullet in the head, the bullets had been sporadic and they littered her body, first the blood had been slow in staining the olive green of tank top and then there was so much of it on her - on him), to Tarsus IV, to hell.

Dante had written the path to paradise was through hell; that was utter bullshit. The only path of hell was that of good intentions.

More often than not JT had seen the back of his mother when he'd been a child and he'd had wished for his mom to be home (for Frank to get the hell out and for George to not abandon him even if that had meant taking Jim with him when George had ran away). Now, with thin lips pressed together, all he wants is to see her back as she walks away (once again). He doesn't want her here. His anger feels like it's going to overheat him, like he would explode if his body didn't feel so weak (but then again, JT recalls with old blue eyes and a morbid mind, never doubt a cornered animal). His heart monitor picks up the pace. His breath is fast.

And he simply doesn't care.

That feeling makes him want to cry or just laugh. JT doesn't know which. He doesn't want her here but he no longer hates his mother either. He should. He really should and not just because of Tarsus IV but he doesn't.

JT leans back on the pillow and he's overwhelmed. With what JT doesn't know. His breath is still fast and there's tears in his eyes but he doesn't cry. Crying did nothing after all.


Sloth; stop displaying depression as being too sad - it's not showering, being tired despite laying in your bed, and knowing you've got stuff to do but not caring enough to do it.


She'd divorce Frank. JT's mother for the first time since he was born (since her husband died) had taken a break from Starfleet and stayed home. She even cooks but it's terrible but JT doesn't mind (he doesn't mind too much these days).

His mom doesn't sign him back up to school. Good. He doesn't do much these days but lay on the wooden floor and just stare at ceiling as if it holds the answers to the universe (as if it could solve a math problem; as if it could save Tarsus IV, what had been left of his childhood, and could have saved his kids).

His hair is a greasy long thing. He smells like fried onions and it turns his stomach in disgust but he still doesn't shower. Hell, he doesn't even brush his teeth. He just lays on the floor (the bed is too soft).



"Eating is a pleasure, sir. Unfortunately one you will never know."

"Perhaps. But I will never starve, sir."


It hadn't happened immediately. It's after he's crawled into the sheets that he feels it. He leaps up (not graceful but efficient because anything but can not only cost him his life but the other's as well) and runs to the bathroom. He gets in but not to the toilet in time. He retches and his throat burns.

Milk comes out and stains the dirty bathroom floor. There's hastily chewed cookies, canned carrots, crackers that hurt his throat more, gold fish, and even chunks of bread that follow. He clutches his stomach with thin hands and just keeps puking up. It's hurts his throat and it's wasteful but (it's the first thing he's done in months) least he has food to puke up.

It had felt good as much as it had hurt to eat so much (to be wasteful). JT wipes his mouth with his hand as he shivers in a puddle of puke before pushing his hair from his eyes with the same hand.

He stays there for several minutes in days old clothes that are soaked in food, milk and water. Eventually he gets up and showers with water that isn't hot but burns.