Chapter Text
“You want to see the scar?”
Jeff had not been lying when he told his dad about the appendicitis story. He did, however, hold back some important information; the path that one incident started him on afterwards, and the time it was the study group’s turn to save him.
It was seventh grade. Jeff was alone, miserable, at least on the inside. The external details of that year are a blur to him now, repressed through years of practice. He does remember the whirlwind that was going through his head at the time.
Appendicitis. It seemed like a perfectly believable lie, harmless even. 7th grade was the perfect time to reinvent himself, even more so since the “big cheddar” incident.
Nobody would get hurt from caring about him. He craved the attention, but not for popularity; he just wanted people to care about him. You see, he had more feelings at the time, or at least he externalised them more often. He spent many nights crying himself to sleep, over his dad. Eventually he became more numb than he intended.
This would get him back on the right track. He just wanted to be loved, he wanted people to care about him. It could fix things.
Jeff was up late one night; his mum had fallen asleep on the couch, watching one of those medical dramas. He had come down to say goodnight, and caught a glimpse. The patient had appendicitis, and it was then his lie began to take shape in his mind.
His plan was flawless. On Monday, he told the biggest blabbermouth in the school that he needed surgery to remove his appendix. By lunch, everybody was asking him questions, and expressing their bewilderment and concern. He faked sick to his mother the next day, the day of his ‘surgery’. The stage was set, and the next day was even better than Monday. He had received 17 cards from his classmates.
To Jeff, that represented 17 people that actually cared about his wellbeing, unlike his son of a bitch dad who abandoned him.
Somebody almost tore his plan apart though; Jeff wasn’t as good at lying back then. Beth Brannon asked to his cool new scar. Jeff mumbled something about bandages, and spent the whole rest of the day wondering how he was going to get himself out of this hole. The rest of the day was spent on autopilot, ‘what was he going to do?’.
He got the idea when he saw his mum open something that afternoon...the scissors. It would be harmless. Well, he supposed, not harmless...but it would be worth it.
Later that night, he snuck downstairs and took the scissors to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror for awhile, pondering how exactly he was going to pull it off. He googled “appendectomy scars”, and made sure he was actually going to get the right side (just in case Beth or anybody was an expert on the appendix). He wanted to do it right.
The first slice he made didn’t go very far, he didn’t even draw blood. It hurt slightly, but wasn’t very noticeable. He would have to try harder. He took a deep breath, and pressed the blade as hard as he could onto his side. Slowly, but surely, he made his way downwards, following the pictures he’d looked at.
It hurt.
It reminded him of grazing his knees on the concrete when he was younger. He watched the blood pool under his hand, and he let out a few jaggedy breaths.
Jeff was scared at how good it felt. Obviously it felt good to get away with his lie, and obviously it felt good to have people care about him...but...there was something more. His mind had been quiet; the pain had been too loud.
He dismissed it, looking in the mirror at his handy work. It would do. Everyone believed him.
The second time Jeff Winger took a blade to himself was when he was studying for the LSATs. He knew he wasn’t going to pass, and his mind was drowning in anxiety and hopelessness.
It was a different motivation this time, there was no one for him to make care about him, he just needed his mind to shut up for one goddamn second. It was simple. Quick. Crude. Jeff Winger had been shaving his iconic stubble for a few years now; the razors would do.
“I’m not crazy.” He had whispered to himself, right before he slashed his thigh.
Arms were too obvious, and besides, the ladies loved it when he showed them off. He cut close to the bottom of his underwear. Using the mirror, he watched the blood bead at the first cut he made. He released a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. And he cut again. And again. Each time, he took a breath to watch the blood drip slowly down his thigh. His mind was quiet. And thus, it was during the mayhem that he figured out exactly how he was going to get past this. He’d done it before, on easier things, of course.
He was going to cheat. And he succeeded. Jeff Winger was now a lawyer.
And he was a good one too, but he now had his biggest secret.
And that was impressive for a guy with a fake undergraduate degree. But that lie had been crafty, clever; this one was just shameful. When things got too difficult, or stressful, he took to cutting. He got a little crafty sometimes; there were a few burn marks from the brief period of time he took up smoking to look cool. It was sporadic, and varied, most cases were easy for the talented Jeff Winger.
The first time he planned to kill himself was when his firm found out about his fake undergraduate degree. His perfectly curated life was falling apart around him. He had worked so hard to get where he was, he reinvented himself when he was just 10 years old, and now, everything was crumbling. He needed that job, not for the money, but because he was somebody to those people. He was the Jeff Winger. He had a knack for winning the stupidest cases with the stupidest arguments, and it was impressive because it worked.
He had planned to OD that night, when he found out the news. His celebration with one of his clients was cut short, and he could barely think as he walked out of the bar and all the way home. His heartbeat thumped in his ears, and his wind was spiralling again. He went to various pharmacies on the way home, and a liquor store, and was ready to give up. Jeff Winger was a man who didn’t put in hard work, except when it got him out of harder work.
And dying? Right now, it was sure as hell an easier thing to do than living.
Something Jeff Winger never wanted to admit to himself was that he was also a bit of a coward sometimes. He had taken too many pills to count, and drunk too many bottles of alcohol to tell if they were working. He was groggy, and he felt empty. He knew he was going to die without leaving anything good in the world. Long ago, that would’ve scared him, but he had repressed those emotions deep down. Or so he had believed.
Lord knows how, but he managed to call 911 and get help sent to his apartment. He doesn’t remember a lot after that. There were sirens, the stark white hospital walls, nurses trying to get anything out of him...mostly it was slipping in and out of consciousness. He eventually stayed awake, and it took him 2 hours to be willing to talk to anyone. He was ashamed, and a little confused, his memories of the night had been washed away by drinking. Drinking that he was paying for, as his head hurt and his throat burned.
Jeff was sent to a therapist, and by then his spirit was strong enough that he knew what he needed to say. He didn’t know for sure if the hospital knew about the self harm - he assumed they did - but he didn’t care. He was discharged a few days later, a fake smile slapped on his face as he lied through his teeth about keeping up with his appointments.
The first thing he did after hospital was go to the mall. Unbeknownst to Jeff, this was the most important visit of his life.
It was during that trip that Jeff hatched his plan to get his undergraduate degree at Greendale. His life would still suck for awhile, but the self harm had gotten him through that before, it could do that again.
Jeff Winger was going to get his life back.