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[ Daniel ]

��������������� I tore down the hallway, streaking past the doors, chairs, and people that littered the thing. I had to get out. I had to *breathe*. My head was spinning (and beginning to ache quite badly), and I could feel hot, uncharacteristic tears springing to my eyes. Now you�ve gone and fucked it over, Daniel�

��������������� To tell the truth, I actually felt nothing but remorse. There was not an ounce of anger left in me; I was too exhausted for that. How long had it been since I�d slept? Not the drug-induced, hospital sleep� but actual rest? Too long. With each footfall, I felt myself growing wearier. The argument with Ben had pulled me out of the morphine waking-coma and back into reality� I was suddenly overwhelmed. I didn�t mean to yell at him like that� hell, he�d probably understand later, right? This was just a very� stressful time for us both. Right?

��������������� Finally, I burst through the hospital doors, slowed my pace just slightly. It was cool outside, and there was a light breeze blowing. Had it not been for the fact that it wasn�t, I would have said it was a beautiful day. I slowed to a jog, then to a walk. I glanced back over my shoulder and noted (with some satisfaction), that I was a good way from the hospital now. I didn�t want to be there. To see Darren like that� God. I needed to get away.

��������������� But now that I was out of the hospital�where could I go? No doubt there would be a million and two messages waiting for me at home� plus people dropping by, unexpectedly. So I went with the only other choice that I could think of, though I knew that setting foot inside that building would be the death of me. I�d drown in my own guilt and melancholic self-loathing. Thrusting a hand inside the pocket of my jacket (which, luckily, hadn�t been damaged during the accident, and I could still wear), I fished about blindly until my fingers clasped around a small piece of metal: the key to Darren�s apartment.

��������������� After a few more minutes of walking, I crept through the entrance of his complex, glancing around to see if anyone that would recognize me was in sight. Luckily, I was the only one in the lobby, save personnel. After climbing a few flights of stairs (I hate waiting for elevators), I found myself at the door. A quivering hand reached out to insert the key into its lock, turn it, and open the door to a whole new world of anguish.

��������������� Oh, Dazza� you always were the utilitarian one. The apartment was sparsely furnished, though tasteful, and hardly looked like the kind of place one would expect someone of Darren�s status to be living in (though he kept the place so clean, it was always a wonder to me if anyone *other* than him could actually live there). After a few steps inside, I let the door swing closed behind me, and glanced blindly around the dimly window-lit rooms.

��������������� Every picture hanging on every wall, every scent that lingered in the air reminded me of Darren. Not that it shouldn�t have. After all, this was his apartment. For the first time in God-knows-how-many days, I followed the little sign beside the door that read, �Please remove your shoes�. It was the first time I�d done it of my own accord� ever. Only because Darren wasn�t there to remind me. With a heavy sigh, I wandered aimlessly through the small hallways and rooms, coming to a stop in the master bedroom. Darren�s.

��������������� The room, like the apartment, wasn�t lavish� but it had a more personal touch than the rest of the flat. Photographs of so many moments that I still remembered were interspersed throughout the stands and walls� little �wise� sayings on post-it notes framed a large (probably antique) mirror, which leaned against one wall. Everything about the room seemed to radiate with Darren�s energy. I was too fatigued to look any longer. Staring at all of those treasures, which lined his dresser (What exactly was with those pewter figurines, anyways? Oh, Daz.), made me feel light-headed. His image was everywhere. I felt suddenly weak.

��������������� With a cry that sounded akin to a wounded animal, I sunk down onto his bed, curling into a defensive little ball and trying to keep the emotions from beating me down. I stopped for a moment, and burrowed under the blankets, resting face-down into his pillow. I took a deep breath to try and calm myself, but instead of relief, my lungs were flooded with the scent of Darren. Oh, God�

��������������� The sobs shook my disheveled body like an earthquake, and the tears stung my eyes. I clutched the pillow to myself, tightly, knuckles white. It seemed to be the closest I could get to Darren without having to remember that he was locked up in that barless prison.

��������������� After what seemed like an eternity of just lying there, holding the pillow to my chest as I had held Darren just a day ago, I began to calm down, settle my thoughts. A riptide of emotions were pulling through me, the strongest ones being senses of denial, exhaustion, and above all, the uncontrollable urge to scream. I was hurt in so many different ways� but none of it was actual, physical pain. None of it was the kind that went away after taking some Advil and taking it easy for a while. But I figured that I�d try to sleep it off, anyway, and that�s exactly what I found myself doing. A quiet yawn slipped past my lips as I remained coiled underneath the blankets, letting the sound of car horns and passing traffic from the street below lull me into a dreamless slumber.

��������������� I awoke a few hours later, feeling not rest or energy inside my system, but more feeling a sensation that I hadn�t felt in nearly a year.

I wanted a cigarette. Badly. Why the hell not� it�s not like Darren�s going to turn around and try to stop you. With a tired groan, I pulled myself into a sitting position and tried to clear my mind of everything except for that craving. Whether it would be dangerous to start smoking again or not, it was a distraction. And a distraction was the one thing I needed more than anything right now. Except for maybe Darren.

��������������� But where could I find some cigarettes, exactly? I didn�t much feel like going down to the corner shop and buying some. My mind wandered back to the last place I�d seen some. Would Darren still have the ones he kept stealing from me when I was trying to quit? I knew that he�d raided the stash in my house and taken them here� and I knew where they were. But did he still have them? Worth a shot.

��������������� Lumbering out of bed, I shuffled over to his dresser, and slid open the bottom drawer. Fumbling through some t-shirts and boxer shorts, I felt my hand clasp a box of Marlboro Lights. Not my usual flavor, but I would have gone for just about anything. Rummaging further, I emerged victorious with two more boxes and a cheap, disposable lighter.

��������������� Knowing that (even if he wasn�t present at the time) Darren would throw a royal fit if I smoked inside his flat, I stepped out onto his small balcony, sinking into a wicker chair and gazing upwards at the city that surrounded me. Daz, why�d you have to go and move to place like this? It�s so much� quieter back home. Lighting up my first (I was certain it wouldn�t be my last), I took a few, testing puffs before nodding. It felt better to be sucking tar than to be wallowing in my own angst.

��������������� I�d made it through half the carton before I felt the distraction starting to wear off. All the weight of my present situation began to press down upon my back once again, and I let out a heavy sigh. It just wasn�t fair, that I was the one suffering like this. I couldn�t take it. Who should it be, then? I cursed myself for even beginning to think of it like that. I deserved every second of torture. Darren was the one who didn�t deserve his part in this. Nothing was his fault. I wasn�t suffering at all compared to what he must have been going through.

��������������� Crossing my arms and laying them against the balcony to use as a pillow, I settled down and continued dragging away. I felt awful, I really did, but the pity was outweighed by the feeling of utter helplessness. My mind was racing at a mile a minute, and I just wanted it all to shut down and shut up. You should go back to the hospital and apologize to Ben. What kind of asinine idea was that? There was no way I�d apologize for something he was failing to accept. Let him go on, believing in his Karma, and that all of this just happened.

His illusion. Not my problem.

What I really needed was a drink. Something hard� something that could get me pissed out and let me forget about all of that. I�d go down to some local pub later. But until I was ready to face the world, I needed a quick fix. My mind drifted back to thoughts of some research that I�d seen a while back (in some magazine, no doubt) about how physical pain could distract you from your mental pain.

�What the hell,� I said aloud, shaking my head. �It couldn�t make the situation any worse.� I took a few more puffs on my cigarette before sitting up and tapping the ashes, slipping off my jacket and rolling up my sleeve.

Without a moment�s hesitation, I closed my eyes and shoved the burning end of the stick into the flesh of my upper arm.