Jack was hunting through his room. Somewhere, was another Starbucks card, he swore he'd had one. He reached behind his desk, not touching anything but mothballs and--what was that? He pulled out a photograph and squinted at it. Was that--
him?
Oh god. It was.
It must have been taken months ago, before he'd gone into the hospital. The Jack in the photo looked pale and tired and upset at having his picture taken. His wrists were so thin that Annabelle could have fit her hand around them with room to spare. He looked like a glorified skeleton.
Jack couldn't remember having had his picture taken, but did it matter? He was terrified. Had he really looked liked that? It was scary, he was scary, scarily thin, scarily sick.
Even scarier, was the part of Jack that still thought that it was beautiful.