Losing the battle I've waged on myself. Lock me up and toss the key.

This is hell. I must be in hell.

There's a spring sticking out of the couch, poking into my back, but I lack the energy, ability or desire to adjust my position. The smell of my own blood is cloying, rising from my clothes and body like a tangible mist. Like Pigpen, from the Peanuts comic. I snicker, a diseased and unsettling sound in the silence of the house. There's a pain in my wrist, and I look down at my own hand, digging nails into the still open wounds from earlier. With effort, I pull my hand away and lay it flat on the couch cushion.

Stop procrastinating. Talk to him.Before my cowardice can get the better of me, I reach out to Alex's mind. I know my desperate attempt to keep the tone of my thoughts clear and calm is obvious. "I'm at my house. I didn't know if you'd still want me in yours. You can come here, unless you don't want to."
It's quiet in my head. Too quiet, until Alex's voice echoes in my thoughts. His tone is manic, almost crazed. "Busy. Dealing with shit. Need to work, will contact you later." My lip trembles, as he adds, "Love you."
For awhile, I can't reply. I'm trembling, terrified, wincing as each tremble sends a shock wave of pain through my abused body. I fruitlessly hope the pain doesn't register to Alex as I respond, "I love you."

Alone. I'm going to be alone. My eyes well up and spill over. Blood I can't afford to expend, but it's my fault. My fault that he doesn't want to be with me. My fault that Sailix is a hairsbreadth away from losing it completely. My fault. My fault. Blood is once more leaking down my palm, and I don't bother pulling my fingers from the wound. I need pain. I need to be hurt and punished. I can't feel this any more. Tybalt. Tybalt. Tybalt. I attempt to rise from the couch, but my legs won't support me. Abrading my skin on the threadbare carpet, I crawl into my bedroom. The only room with any semblance of comfort.

But none. What comfort is in solitude? OH GOD HE'S DEAD. Covering my mouth, the sobs that escape my lips are muffled. I reach into my own brain, searching for Tybalt's thoughts, searching for his familiar mental tone and flavor. "Please Tybalt. Please answer me. Please." There's nothing. No reply, same as before. I crawl to my open closet, unable and unwilling to seek refuge anywhere else. I push aside stray clothing and random weapons on the closet floor. My hand touches a small jar. I know what it is without looking. Clear jar, black lid. About a quarter of the way full of dark blue Manic Panic hair dye. I see Tybalt, banished from his city, stowed away in my house in the woods. The blue dye dripping slightly down his forehead. His 'how the hell did I let you talk me into this' look as I slather on more of the dye, manically giggling.

My scream is deafening in the small space. This can't be real. None of it.

I died. I died, and this is hell.

Of course. It all makes sense. I was so stupid, so careless after Mongrel left me. Not brave enough to stay in the sun, I antagonized the Sabbat. Dared them to act. Dared them to come after me. And they did. And they killed me. It took a group of them, but they did it. And since then...

I curl into a ball, my hand still clenched around the jar of dye. It all makes sense. Tommy was the last one to take me in before I died. He was the one who warned me against instigating the Sabbat. Of course I'd believe that he brought me back. Of course I'd believe that I owe him my life. I don't know any better. And being dead...that's why my Sire is so quiet. That's why I let Tommy do these horrible things to me. Someone has to. Someone has to beat the monster out of me. Into me. Whatever. That's why Pyotr is back. I'm so selfish, of course I wouldn't let him be dead. That's why I feel the need to help Sailix. I'd have to think up someone to replace Fate. Let me feel like I'm more than just a burden to people. I need someone just as crazy as me to befriend and take care of. Like Sailix. It all makes sense. That's why I lost Tybalt. My friend, my brother. This is hell, after all. The devil giveth, and the devil taketh away.

My fist comes to my mouth, my teeth biting down on the skin. It brings me the pain I understand. Something in the action is almost pacifying, and the wounded animal cries that filled the closet begin to subside. I want so badly to reach out to Pyotr or Sailix, but fear of the disappointment and disgust in their eyes is enough to dissuade me. I want to call Tommy back. He said he'd be whatever I needed. The nurturing, loving Thomas that holds me and tries so hard to patch up my wounds.

I want my Alex. The cruelest aspect of this hell. It'd be too easy if I loved him and he hurt me. No. I'm used to that. That's old news. Instead, I'm the one to hurt him. To destroy the person I love, over and over and over again. To wear him down until there's nothing left but pain and regret. The look in Alex's eyes when Tommy took my arm and led me away from him is worse than every strike, slice, burn or beating that I've felt.

This is the hell that I've made. I pull my mangled hand from my mouth and wipe and my lips. I need to see him. I need to at least see Alex. I need to know that he's... Another wail of pain. I know he's not OK. He's not, and it's because of me. I could crawl on my hands and knees back to him. Maybe I'd beat the dawn, maybe I wouldn't. No. No. I can see him. I can go. I'm safe in here. He wouldn't even have to know.

Without a second thought, I'm looking down at my torpid body. If I didn't know any better, I'd think I was a corpse. Beaten and bloodied. Inhuman. Just some forgotten trash heaped into an abandoned old house. After a moment, my consciousness moves through the house and out into the woods, heading towards Crownsville.

Selfish.

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