Jack had no ship. He had no money. He had no respect.
He had nothing.
And those bloody bastards knew it.
Day in and day out, Jack was surrounded by them. Clones of him. Those buggers who stole his face! Stole bits of his personality, bits he hadn't even realised he had until he was faced with morbid Jack, pessimistic Jack, bitch Jack, gay Jack, every Jack in existence.
He hated them. They knew he hated them, and they hated him back. He remembered that he used to love them. Back when he was stuck on that ship... no, that imaginary ship in Davy Jones locker, when his clones were his crew, when they obeyed his orders because he was Captain and he was the original, the first Jack Sparrow.
God how Jack wished to be back in that bloody dimension he'd been tugged out of by those meddling fools. He had nothing now, they took everything. They snatched him back into the living so he could help them, then when they were done they just shoved him to the back of their minds.
"They never loved you. Wanted to kill you, they did," Morbid Jack tells him over and over again as Jack gulps down his rum, that wonderful, mind-numbing concoction that helps you forget the betrayal of the man you were coming to like, the man you thought might just be coming to enjoy your company.
"Barbossa? You're havin' a laugh right. Out of everyone, he probably hated you the most," Pessimistic Jack tells him. "Everyone hates you... hates us... there's no life for us. Savvy?"
The worst thing is that there's honest sadness in their eyes as they tell Jack the harsh truth of life. There's no mischief, no taunting. They aren't doing this to make Jack feel worse.
This makes Jack cry. People are used to him by now, sitting in the doorway of some tavern of Tortuga, nursing a bottle of rum he cheated off the owner and crying, charcoal eye liner he's nearly run out of snaking down his face in dark streaks as he mumbles to himself, to the other Jacks no one else can see.
At first, Jack hated their pitying looks. Now he aches for them, for some compassion, because as time went by, everyone grew used to him and ignored him and he was no-one.
"No-one gives a shit," Pessimistic Jack says, arms wrapped around his own waist, wanting some sort of comfort. Compassionate Jack hugs him and Pessimistic Jack nearly smiles before he lapses back into depression, remembering that the only reason Compassionate Jack hugs him is because he's compassionate.
It drives Jack crazy to have his personality so exposed to himself. The bits he wanted to hide, his morbidness hidden beneath his campness, his depression hidden underneath his reputation for being the craziest and drunkest pirate to ever sail the seven seas.
Oh, those seven seas. He'd give anything to be back on them, on the Pearl, sailing towards the Fountain of Youth. His only comfort is that Barbossa can't go there either. But this makes Guilty Jack cringe and murmur about how he shouldn't have stolen the main part of the map, how underhanded it was of him.
Confident Jack shuts him up by saying that he's a pirate. Of course he should have done something so underhanded.
But Confident Jack doesn't actually inspire confidence in Jack, because he agrees with Guilty Jack. At least someone should be having some fun.
These thoughts haunt Jack's mind as he tries to sleep at night, when the last of the rum's gone and he's nearly passed out, nearly drifted off into a drunken sleep but never quite reaching it. Captain Jack whines about how he wants his ship back, how they should climb aboard one of the merchant ships that come into port and hide for a bit, just so they could all be back on the open sea, doing something.
Some of the Jacks agree.
Jack doubts he has the energy to get as far as the end of this street. Let alone the port.
He fiddles with his pistol-with-one-shot. Barbossa left him another one with Gibb, before he stole the ship, Jack had found out. Optimistic Jack insists it's just a joke.
Pessimistic Jack convinced Jack different.
Jack sits up, the world swaying around him dangerously. He clutches his head, anxiety gnawing at his gut. Should he?
"You don't have long left anyway, mate. Remember all the pain you're in? That's alcohol poisoning. From all the rum," Morbid Jack tells him. Jack's not sure if it's the truth, but it convinces him that he should go through with the plan he's been going over for days. Agonizing over for weeks.
Jack lifts the pistol to his temple. His shaking finger pulls the trigger.
The next morning, Barbossa and the rest of the crew found the body of Jack Sparrow, lying flat on his back, brains strewn on the ground, and surrounded by blood. There was a smile on his face.
They would all remember that as the day depression finally caught Captain Jack Sparrow.