Page 18 of Never Too Late

For the first time, I hold my head and I cry.

“Jae, what’s wrong? Come on, mate. I’ve got you,” a familiar voice questions from behind.

Noah.

I feel his arms come around me, creating a sense of safety and protection.

Part of me wants to laugh that Noah has become like this, being the kid brother to us all, it’s normally us who are shielding him. Yet, I’ve never seen him be so protective.

And for that I am thankful.

I feel my body start to shake and my throat becomes dry from the words I’ve just read from the piece of paper, I wish it had never arrived.

Without a thought, I remove myself from his embrace, pushing him away as I roll up my sleeve, uncovering the one word that stares back at me, only wanting it to disappear. The definition of the word no longer holding its meaning.

The only thought running through my head right now is the need to remove it from my body. Not knowing what else to do, I start to claw at my skin. Itching again and again in a repeat motion, with one aim only, to remove.

I welcome the burning sensation from my skin starting to become sore, starting to bleed.

But it doesn’t fade. It stays, staring up at me. Taunting me.

Reminding me of the joke I must have become. And the lies I believed all along.

“Jae... Don’t do that. You’re going to hurt yourself.” I’ve never seen a look of so much concern on Noah's face before, and it makes me feel guilty. I’m the protector, I’m the safety net. I never wanted him to be that for me.

Right now, I’m neither of those things. And honestly, I don’t know what pains me more.

“I don't care. I just want it gone. I need it gone.” I continue to itch, ignoring Noah’s plea to stop.

It’s enough of a sting to make me forget, even just for a moment.

Quickly rushing to my side with a small first aid kit, Noah pushes my arm away, forcing me to stop the attack on myself, and takes out a packet of antiseptic wipes to clean the area.

Once he's finished cleaning the area, he takes a bandage from the same case, carefully wrapping it around the wound.

I’m not the Jae I’m known to be, and the fact I’ve just had my heart broken by the last person I thought would be capable of doing so enforces that.

“Jae, mate, what’s wrong? Is Dax okay?” Noah whispers into my ear. He places the first aid kit on the floor and pulls me into his side, making sure not to hurt my wrist. It takes me a moment to notice he’s rocking us both back and forth in comfort, something I’ve done to him multiple times when he’s been upset.

“He doesn’t want me anymore,” I whisper to myself, but Noah hears me, squeezing me tighter. My throat feels hoarse, and my eyes are blurry from tears that I've cried, now soaking through his T-shirt.

Being on the field means you see things you would never be able to imagine. You are hurt in ways you would never think was even possible.

And you cry, because it’s the only thing you’re able to do.

Normally, I hate being in a room alone and enjoy being surrounded by others, my family. But right now, I’ve never been more thankful for it to be just me and Noah in the room alone.

“I can’t read the rest, Noah. I read the first few lines, and I can’t. I can’t. Please don’t make me do it.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” he promises.

I feel one of his arms leave his stronghold as he bends down to pick up the pages I dropped to the floor, and with nothing but silence between us, I hear him quietly whisper the words “Motherfucker,” as he returns his arm back around me, shielding me from everything on the outside.

Dax ending our relationship the way he did while I was on tour was something I never anticipated he was capable of doing. The hardest part of all was coming to realise I didn’t mean to him what I thought I did, and that I didn’t mean to him as much as he meant to me. And with his request and somewhat explanation, I didn’t reply to the letter. But that didn’t stop me from writing.

The most important part about being a soldier, to me, is keeping a routine, and I wanted to maintain that whether the letters would reach Dax or not – I had to keep going.

Instead, every letter I wrote, Noah placed inside of this container. He kept it safe with his belongings so I didn’t feel an impulse to read them like I once did, and I kept my mind focused and engaged the best I could.

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