Son Fakes PTSD
I was kicked by him again and spat blood.
Everyone tells me that having a Firefighting Hero like Jack as my son is my good fortune.
Until the fire brigade's PR team came to my house, saying they wanted to do a "Firefighting Hero Family Documentary live streaming."
The PR person said to me, "Athena, we want to document Jack's real life and let society remember the sacrifices of heroes." Athena Miller is my name.
I ran my hand over the coffee cup, avoiding his probing gaze.
I replied, "Jack would feel uncomfortable in front of the camera."
He assured, "Athena, don't worry. We aim for authenticity, and the live streaming will be very discreet."
I agreed.
After the live streaming started, flowers and praise flooded toward Jack like a tide.
Six years, and the deepest pain of this family is finally about to be uncovered by me.
*****
The hidden camera has been installed.
I clipped a tiny microphone inside my shirt, held the cake, and knocked on Jack's door.
My ribs ached faintly, the spot where he kicked me last week.
I knocked on the door for a long time before Jack finally opened it.
Burn scars covered his neck and half of his face. In the dim room, he looked like a monster.
I trembled as I forced a smile, then lit the lighter in front of him to light the candles.
I said to him, "Jack, today marks your sixth year as a Firefighting Hero. I specially bought a cake to celebrate."
When the flame leapt out, Jack's eyes widened, and he took half a step back.
At this moment, the live streaming comments started scrolling like crazy.
[Jack is already burned like that, and she still lights a fire in front of him? Is she out of her mind?]
[Celebrate? Didn't her husband die in that fire?]
[Please, just put out the fire. Can't you see Jack is uncomfortable?]
I forced myself to stay calm and held the cake up to Jack's face.
Jack's breathing grew heavier.
I closed my eyes, waiting for the familiar punches and kicks to come.
Six years ago, Rowan spoiled me so much that I didn't have to do any chores. But now, I've become a nanny skilled in handling all household tasks.
I also became a punching bag for Jack to vent his emotions without restraint.
That devastating fire took the life of my husband, Rowan Miller, and ruined my son, Jack.
The father and son rushed into the fire seven times and saved thirty-two people.
In the end, Jack shielded the trapped child with his body.
And Rowan placed his fireproof mask over the childs face, leaving the hope of survival to them.
Later, Jack became a hero but developed severe PTSD.
In these six years, anything slightly related to fire would instantly drive him crazy.
One time, I just opened the oven to cook.
The moment the flames flared up, Jack rushed over and pushed me to the ground.
He roared, "You b****! Are you trying to burn me alive?"
Jack's scars twisted with anger, making him look terrifying.
He shouted, "Do you know what it feels like when fire burns your skin?"
He repeatedly kicked my abdomen.
Coughing up blood, I explained to him, "Jack, I just wanted to cook a meal."
"Fire! It's all fire!" Jack screamed.
Then, he smashed everything in the kitchen he could.
Since then, I never cooked again, only ate takeout and cold food.
It took me a long time to accept this cruel reality.
My son, my pride, had turned into a monster who didn't even recognize his own family.
But today, the violence I expected didn't happen.
Jack, with red eyes and a sorrowful voice, said, "I will never forget the screams when Dad was burned to death."
"Mom, are you celebrating so grandly on Dad's death anniversary because you've forgotten him?"
My hand trembled, and the cake almost fell to the ground.
How could I forget? This is my beloved's death anniversary.
Rowan died, and took the old me with him.
Now, all that's left is Jack's mother.
I am the mother everyone calls great and lucky, who must wholeheartedly care for Jack without any selfishness.
But years of domestic violence have left my body and soul utterly exhausted, almost unbearable.
As long as netizens see what Jack has done, I can definitely send him to a professional place for treatment.
That way, I can be free.
Thinking of this, I gathered my courage and stepped closer.
The flame flickered, seemingly about to touch the terrifying scar on Jack's face the next second.
Real-time comments instantly filled with accusations against me.
[Rowan is dead, Jack is injured like this. What is there for her to celebrate? Has she abandoned her humanity for money?]
[I truly feel sorry for Jack. He lost his father and still has to endure such a neurotic mother.]
[This is Jack, who saved countless families. How can she treat a hero like this?]
Jack suddenly laughed, a laugh more grating than a cry.
He said, "Mom, every time you say you love me and it's for my own good, yet you insist on using fire to remind me again and again."
His voice was filled with despair. "I'm a failure. I saved so many people, but I couldn't save my father."
Jack spoke with a heavy nasal tone, making my eyes sting too.
He knocked the cake to the ground.
The candle grazed my instep, bringing searing pain.
I quickly said, "No, Jack, you're not wrong."
I wanted to say he was just sick.
I crouched down to clean up the mess on the ground.
After the fire, I immediately took him to see every psychologist in the city, and he never stopped taking his medication.
When first diagnosed with PTSD, Jack would hold me and cry with guilt.
He said, "Mom, I didn't mean to, I just can't control myself."
But later, things escalated from verbal abuse to shoving, and eventually to punching and kicking.
At its worst, I was beaten so badly that I couldn't get out of bed for three days.
I once showed the doctor the bruises on my body.
But they frowned and told me it was just a rare case, and later they even stopped treating Jack.
Not just doctors, even nurses and passersby tried to persuade me.
Someone said, "He's a Firefighting Hero. You're his mom. You should think more about your child."
Some also said, "You're his mother. You can't be selfish at a time like this. You need to stay strong. It's your responsibility."
Others said, "Even if not for yourself, for society, you must take good care of the hero."
I tried many ways, but none worked.
But I didn't give up.
If this hospital doesn't work, we'll go to a better one.
But Jack grabbed my neck and screamed, "If you mention going to the hospital again, I'll kill you!"
I once cried to his teammates who came to visit, saying Jack's mental issues were too severe, and I couldn't hold on any longer.
His teammate patted my shoulder and said, "Athena, we know you're going through a lot."
"Everyone says you're amazing.
"Jack is already pitiful. If you give up first, how will he survive?"
The word "amazing" choked back everything I wanted to say.
No one believes this hero would beat his mother until she vomited blood.
I can only feed this monster devouring me day after day.
But now, Jack's unusual calmness scares me.
Normally, he loses control at the sight of a spark, never accusing me with such clear logic like now.
A terrifying thought crossed my mind.
I thought, "Does he already know about the live streaming?"
I instinctively touched the microphone under my collar, my heart pounding like a drum.
That's impossible.
The PR staff assured me repeatedly that it was absolutely confidential. The camera was so well hidden, how could he possibly notice it?
Jack suddenly stood up and walked toward me.
I instinctively protected my head.
But he just crouched down and took the cloth from my hand.
He said, "Mom, let me tidy up."
Real-time comments started praising him.
[Jack is so filial. Even though he feels so unwell, he still helps his mom clean up.]
[I've seen his photos from before the accident. He was quite a handsome young man. It's such a pity.]
[He's still quite handsome now. Does he have a girlfriend? I want to marry him.]
I have a bad feeling in my heart.
I thought in despair, "Why? Could it be that even after risking everything and betting all on this live streaming, I still can't bring relief to Jack and myself?"
If that's really the case, then I can only disappear completely and go find his dad.
At least in that world, someone cared about me.
Jack's back of the head swayed as he mopped the floor.
Suddenly, I noticed a fresh wound behind his ear.
That was accidentally scratched by me yesterday while struggling.
But now, that wound is carefully covered with foundation.
I nervously thought, "Could he really know he's live streaming now?"
"Jack." I tried to make my voice sound natural.
I asked him, "Have you been in touch with your fire brigade teammates recently?"
Jack looked up, a hint of confusion in his eyes.
He replied, "No. Why are you suddenly asking this?"
I forced a smile, trying to brush it off, but the weight in my heart felt even heavier.
If he doesn't know about the live streaming, then what made him so restrained today?
I decided to test him again.
After tidying up the cake, I pulled out an old photo album from the drawer.
Those were old family photos.
Inside were photos of Jack in uniform, looking handsome and strong, as well as a picture of him and his son standing side by side in front of a fire truck.
"Jack, look at this one," I said, pointing to one of the photos.
That was taken after Jack's first fire rescue. His face still had soot on it, but he was smiling brightly.
I continued, "You were so proud back then."
Jack's gaze lingered on the photo for a moment, his fingers trembling slightly, but he quickly regained his composure.
He said softly, "That's all in the past now."
The live comments started criticizing me again.
[What's wrong with this woman? She's always bringing up sad things.]
[Jack is so strong, staying calm even after seeing all this.]
[Does his mom have dementia? Why does she keep bringing up Jack's sad memories?]
This doesn't seem like the Jack I know.
I run my hand over the indented patterns on the heavy album backboard.
The last time I took out the album, Jack roared at me, asking why I still kept these memories.
He took the hard album and smashed it against my head until I passed out.
I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope, thinking, "Could Jack really be better?"
"Could my six years of torment finally be coming to an end?"
At lunch, I specifically ordered grilled fish that needed to be heated with a small candle.
Jack took the initiative to help me clean the table.
I stared at him intently.
He naturally picked up the small candle, struck a match to light it, and placed it under the grill pan.
Jack neither dodged my outburst nor forced my hand into the boiling soup.
My heart was pounding.
I didn't know whether to feel sad or happy.
I turned on the TV and switched to a channel reporting a fire.
Flames soared in the footage as firefighters worked hard to extinguish the fire.
"Turn it off," Jack said in a low voice.
I could almost feel an invisible pressure, instinctively tensing my muscles.
I explained, "I'll just watch for a bit. You firefighters really have it tough."
Time passed second by second.
But nothing happened.
I turned my head and saw Jack standing at the doorway, his back to the TV.
He said, "Mom, please. I don't want to watch this."
After speaking, Jack lowered his head, walked to his room, and closed the door.
I stood there in a daze. The crackling sounds of the fire were still coming from the TV.
A hope, hard to put into words, sprouted like a tender bud in spring. I couldn't help but smile.
Maybe the medication finally worked, or maybe time truly heals the deepest wounds.
I gently touched the microphone under my collar and suddenly felt a wave of guilt.
What am I doing?
I actually wanted to expose Jack's pain, to let the whole world see his most vulnerable side.
Yet he was silently striving to get better.
At that moment, the doorbell suddenly rang.
I opened the door, and outside stood Jack's girlfriend, Anna Scott.
My heart sank suddenly, thinking, "Could Jack's unusual behavior today be because Anna is coming?"
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