Re-upload. Didn't work the first time. Casey, it was supposed to be up when you commented on chapter 42. But it obviously wasn't. Meh.

Okay, this is one of my favorite chapters. I loved writing it. Absolutely loved it. Don't ask why. I don't know. It's not really something to be happy about...But I'm actually sort of proud of it. Again, don't ask why. I don't know that either.

It's sort of a strange format. It's like Fletcher's little demi-dream in Desperately Wanting. With the peanut butter. If you remember that. Except this one's not funny. And it's not a dream. It's more of a stream-of-consciousness thing.

Anyway, enjoy.

If you listen to "Tomorrow" and "What A Mess" by SR-71, you'll hear similarities between the lyrics and some of the things Breydon says here.

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What the fuck was wrong with me?

What the fuck had I just done?

I lay completely beneath the heavy quilt on my bed, in such a tight fetal position that my hands as well as my knees held a pillow to my face. I wished I could smother myself with it, but all I could do was scream into it, hearing my voice vibrate from my jaw to my inner ear, but hearing it less from the outside.

Why the fuck hadn't I been able to control myself?

Where the fuck had the hole come from and why the fuck had I fallen in?

I didn't care how hot I was beneath the quilt with all my clothes on. At least it was better than being on top of Jenna—in Jenna—completely naked, listening to her screaming. I clung tighter to the pillow, curling even tighter into a ball.

How the fuck could I have dropped that low?

Who the fuck had any right to do that to anyone?

I had never done that before, lost control like that. At least not with someone who wasn't right there with me. That's what I was used to, after all. Someone who gave their whole body to me so I could give mine to them.

When had I ever been so fucking ignorant?

How come just hugging her could give me a fucking boner?

Gods, I realized how messed up I was then. I couldn't even role-play a rape and I had almost done it for real? My current scream broke off as I choked.

What fucking right did I have to do that?

What fucking right did the voice in the back of my fucked-up head have to tell me to keep going?

I was afraid of myself.

Humiliated.

A complication.

No longer who I used to be.

No longer what I used to be.

My teeth clenched, I held back tears while trying to scream through my teeth. My entire body pounded with psychological pain, but it was real enough to break down all the defenses seeing Molly and Hailey had built up.

How dare I think of them when I was so fucked up?

What did they ever do to deserve showing up in my shitty excuse for reality?

What the fuck was I going to do now?

Cry.

Cry and throw a fucking tantrum until I felt better.

But when would that be? I didn't know. I wanted so badly to shake the answer out of someone—anyone—even kill them if I had to. Torture them, stab them, bring them to the brink of their very existence—just as long as I got an answer out of them.

Cry and hope everything took care of itself. As if it ever in the history of the world—be it my world or the entire Earth—had been that easy.

Cry and find the gun in my suitcase, or something in the medicine cabinet, or someone on the street with a syringe and a bad dose of something potent.

Cry, then apologize.

Was it possible?

Was it possible to apologize for something like that?

Such a fool. Such a fucking fool. A stupid, sad, pathetic little bastard with nothing but a complete self-supporting ecosystem of self-pity, self-loathing, arrogance, and ignorance. A fucking moron, twenty years old with a five-year-old daughter.

If I could pour everything into her, give her everything she wanted to make myself whole, what would I be like? Living in the worst conditions—in the empty streets inside my own head, covered with filth and decay—what could I ever give her?

My tears came harder as I started thinking about Hailey. How fucking weak was I if I couldn't give my own daughter what she needed? Molly took the most care of her; why couldn't she just adopt her and have her forget all about me while I whither away?

I had a problem. For the first time, I admitted that, believed in it whole-heartedly. Everyone I had ever hurt came into my head, followed by every one who had ever hurt me. The former list was longer then the latter, toppling over and raining down upon those who had hurt me, falling on top of them, destroying them.

If only it were that easy. But instead, I was so fucking stubborn to do anything. I wanted to lay there crying and screaming until someone came and made it all better. Until someone came and did it for me. Because I wasn't going to do it myself. I didn't want to do it myself. So fucking lazy.

My insides were burning, the muscles in my stomach tight from crying and the muscles in my back stretched from my position. I felt like I was going to throw up, but I didn't. I shook uncontrollably, so hot beneath that blanket and my own emotions.

I called out for Hailey. But what could she do?

I called out for Molly. But she wouldn't hear me. And even if she did, she would tell me it was my own fault.

I called out for my mother. Wherever she was. Reduced to the basics of calling out for my own mother, the fundamental state of every child in a state of distress.

When none of them came, I called out for Jenna. Again, what could she do? She was probably on her way back home. And it was my fault. All my fucking fault.

Good gods, what had I become?

I felt pathetic. I was probably drooling all over, and I was certainly a mess. The pillow was almost flat, I held it so tightly to my face.

And still it refused to smother me.

I couldn't apologize. I didn't trust myself to face her. How could I face her?

I whispered my apology to the pillow, then couldn't stop. Over and over again, the words came out of my mouth, sometimes almost silent, sometimes a desperate cry to nothing, never angry, never ashamed to be spoken. The perfect apology. But one that would never be heard.

A choked sob escaped me. I hadn't realized it was there. A violent spasm in my gut accompanied it, but maybe that was just in my head?

Jenna's name was added to my apology. I was begging now, like a guilty peasant to an invisible queen for his life. But the queen wasn't going to hear it—the peasant would die.

And then Salvation was there, holding me in her arms, stroking my hair and telling me it was okay.

But how could she? After what I had done?

I just cried harder, wanting to turn back time and stop myself, to kill my father or leave with my mother. Then none of anything would've happened. None of anything is hard to fathom, but it brought me a strange sense of calm. If there was a none of anything, then there was an all of anything, and I would do all of anything to reclaim myself in my Salvation's eyes.

I wasn't in love.

I was at peace.

There is a difference.

A big one.

Or so I told myself.

I had a reason to care: She cared about me.

Why shouldn't I care for her, too?

Her care brought me peace.

That was what I loved.

The peace.

The forgiveness.

The nothingness.