***

Title: Yours
Author: Lizzie
E-mail: [email protected]
Rating: I'd go with R this time. With severe warnings. Don't read this if anything mentioned in the bit below this is likely to offend/disturb you.
Content: Where do I start. There's strong language, graphic self- injury, graphic attempted suicide, bucketloads of angst, and just for good measure we have mentions of m/m and incest. I think I've actually outdone myself in the general nastiness department.
Disclaimer: They're not mine, and unless I wake up one morning having mysteriously become Vince McMahon, I doubt they ever will be. Damn, that's a scary thought.
Distribution: Not that you're likely to want it, but if you do, just tell me where.
Summary: Jeff's thinking about how he's ended up the way he is. Notes: I'm not being mean to Jeff Hardy on purpose. Well, actually, I am. But I only do this to him 'cause I love him so damn much, believe me! And while I love Matt and Jeff, there's just something about them that makes me want to see how far I can push...

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Yours
***

When I was seventeen, I took twenty Valium and lay out to die on the front porch.

When I was nineteen, I slit my wrists and lay out to die in the bathtub.

When I was twenty-two, I overdosed on cocaine and lay out to die in a hotel room.

According to the official records I've attempted suicide a grand total of five times. That's untrue; I've tried it three times - no more, no less. The other times I just cut a little too deep or drank a little too much.

***

I've been hurting myself since I turned sixteen. I've cut 'til I've bled, I've scratched 'til I'm raw, I've cried 'til I want to die. And a lot of the time that's just what I want to do, only I'm not sure I could go through it all again. I mean, no matter what happens I'm never going to kill myself. Someone *always* finds me, 'saves' me for whatever the fuck that's worth, takes me to the emergency room and tells me it'll all be okay now. Only it never is. I get some lousy psych consult asking me if I loved my mother and telling me they should put me on Prozac or some fucking thing. Then I'm in therapy for a couple of months of telling everyone I'm so sorry really I am I'll never do it again I swear, before it all starts again. It's a vicious fucking circle and it's never going to end.

Never. Not ever.

But I'm tired and I want it to go away. Sad, yeah. True - yeah, that too. Being me sucks ass.

God, I sound like a whiny little kid. And I know it, only I can't stop it. I'm pretty sure it's the only way I have left to express myself a lot of the time. Nothing makes sense unless I can whine about it, unless I can slide it under a magnifying glass and deconstruct it to death.

But then, was it ever any different? I honestly don't remember.

My life's a mess. It's all these screwy tangles of feelings and wishes and desires that've gotten so caught up in each other that trying to sort through it all's kinda like trying to pick apart the world's biggest twine ball, and I suck at untying knots. So I'll be fucked if I can figure out what's going on with me. Hell, that's my shrink's job anyway. And I'm pretty much fucked even if I don't know what's wrong.

Except that's a lie. 'Cause actually I know what's wrong.

Y'see, I'm in love. *That's* what's wrong.

Doesn't sound like much, does it. But trust me, this is what's been driving me nuts since before I can even fucking remember. 'Cause I'm in love with the one person I know I can't have. And I don't just mean it in the sense that he's taken (yeah, that was a 'he' - he's a guy), even though he kinda is from time to time. I mean I'm in love with this guy who's perfect for me in every way there is but he's just fucking untouchable for oh so many reasons. But I'm crazy about him. I'm wild for him. I want him so bad. I want to be with him. I'm on fucking fire for him. He's beautiful and sensitive and we like all the same kinds of things. Not that I'm saying we're identical or anything 'cause he's so much better than me and I know I don't deserve him but I love him like I didn't know was possible just the same.

I'm not gonna be a brat about it and say it's unfair (even though it just blatantly fucking *is*); all I'm gonna say is I love him and I don't know how to deal with that so I think maybe that's why I hurt myself. That makes no sense, I know. I'm in love and I can't cope with how it hurts that I can't be with him so I make myself bleed. Way to explain self-injury, Jeff. Duh.

It's just that when I cut, or scratch or punch stuff or whatever, just for a little while I'm in control of the pain. I hurt all the time like you wouldn't fucking believe, but when I hurt myself it feels better. Because I'm the one doing it. Because I'm inflicting the pain on myself. Because that's the best way to hurt. It's a release, y'know? I feel best while I'm doing it, when there's a razorblade in my hand and I'm gripping it in my fingers so hard the tips are turning white and I'm shaking but I know I'm in control, and I see the blood well up against the skin and against the steel.

Sometimes I feel sick afterwards. Sometimes my arm's too weak to grip anything and I get dizzy and I'll throw up ten minutes straight 'til I'm dry heaving and think I'll pass out. Sometimes I'll stand and watch the blood dripping off of my wrist and I'll stare at it as it hits the sink and pools like red ink. Then I'll wash it away and I'll feel better for a while, in this weird kinda post-injury haze I get into. That's when I feel almost normal, like I'm not such a fucked-up head-case after all. Screwy, right, how I feel like a regular guy right after I've stood in the bathroom and watched myself bleed.

I think my therapist thinks I should be hospitalised. Or institutionalised, or whatever the hell it is you call it. I think he's kinda scared of me, or he pities me, one or the other, or maybe both. It's just that pretty much all his other patients are just bipolar or recovering drug addicts or something - not that I'm saying any of that's easy, but shit, I don't see as I have a whole hell of a lot in common with that. My problem's mental, not medical. I see him sitting there behind his thick, black-rimmed glasses, trying to keep that damned impassive I'm-a-shrink-and-I-feel-nothing look on his face but I can practically fucking hear his brain ticking away in there.

Crazy. Sick. Shameful. Incestuous.

Oh, sorry. I guess I didn't mention that this incredible perfect guy I'm in love with is my big brother Matt.

***

I was in tenth grade when I finally realised how I felt, but somehow I guess I've always known. I mean, the insane jealousy every time he'd go out with a girl should've been a big clue. And all those times I'd be jerking off with some model in my head when bam, all of a sudden out of the blue there was Matt instead. If felt okay the first few times, imagining that was his hand wrapped around me and not mine, moaning his name into the pillow as I came. But after that it kinda dawned on my that what I was doing, that what I wanted, was a sin. And I started freaking out.

I think my Goth phase kicked in around then - the whole moody, depressed, dressing-in-black thing where I could go days without really speaking to anyone and all I'd do was read, listen to Cure records and hope to God it would all just go away. No one was really worried then - it wasn't like they really believed I was into all that stuff or that I'd seriously consider doing anything to myself. And basically they were right. I was just immersing myself in something different so I could block out what was really bothering me.

When the kids at school started teasing me for the way I dressed I was kinda tempted to ignore them just out of spite. But eventually I realised that the whole Goth thing was a big pretence - I didn't really like reading, The Cure kinda got on my nerves and I hated the way I looked in black. So I switched back. I fit in. I had friends and I partied and I tried to act like everything was normal but inside I knew it wasn't because every now and then I'd take a knife and I'd cut myself and I'd feel sick when I realised it made me feel better. I kinda come to the conclusion that I wasn't like my friends. I'm still not. I'm not like anyone. I'm just plain ol' self-injurin' brother-lovin' Jeff.

Sometimes, when I knew he couldn�t see me, I�d sit and watch him. He�s kinda always been the same for as long as I can remember � tall, well-built, tanned, with these gorgeous brown eyes that light up when he�s happy and arms you could lose yourself in. The best time to watch him�s when he�s asleep, though. He lies there on his stomach, this little calm, happy smile on his face, framed by that halo of soft brown curls, and you can see the slow, easy rise and fall of his chest and the movement of muscles under his back as he breathes. He�s perfect when he�s asleep. Sometimes as I watch him it�s so hard not to climb right in there next to him, to spoon in behind him, to wrap my arms around him and feel us breathe together. Only I know it�s more than my life�s worth to ever let him know.

I�d been watching him sleep before I tried to kill myself that first time, y�know, just sitting in his room with my back to the wall watching him lie there bathed in moonlight. I couldn�t understand how I could love him like I did, how it could feel like heaven when we were together and hell when we were apart, how it could feel so right and yet be so wrong. I couldn�t understand why God would let me fall in love with someone so perfect and divine only to be told I could never be with him the way I wanted. It didn�t seem right somehow. It still doesn�t. So I went outside, washed down twenty valium with half a bottle of Jack Daniels that my dad didn�t know I knew he had, and I stared up at the stars as I waited to die.

But Matt found me. I guess I�d made more noise than I thought �cause I woke him up and he came looking for me. I woke up the next day in a hospital bed, looked up into his wide, hurt-filled eyes and threw up.

I never told him why I did it, that time or any other. And he never asked. He just told me that I could never do it again and I mutely agreed, then that was that. Only I did it again two years later. He found me semi-conscious in the bathtub. And again after another three years. He found me in the hotel room. It�s always him. I wish it wasn�t because I can see how much it hurts him to see his little brother like that, all ready to die, and once he told me that if I loved him I wouldn�t do this to myself. I almost blurted it out right then. I�m not doing it to hurt him. I�m not doing it because I don�t love him. I�m doing it because I love him so much I can�t live with myself.

And he�s totally fucking oblivious.

He can�t see how much I need him. He can�t see how I�d do anything for him, how in a twisted way I�m dying for him �cause I know what I feel is so fucking wrong it�d destroy him if he knew. There�s just no easy way to turn to your brother, your fucking *brother*, and tell him you�re not sure you�ll be able to breathe anymore if he doesn�t hold you.

Christ, when did I get so fucked up?

***

It was two days after my nineteenth birthday the second time I tried to kill myself, maybe nine pm. I was alone in the house, and I�ve never been sure why. So I decided to run a bath and relax and try not to think about fucking my brother.

I didn�t set off that night with a plan to kill myself. I didn�t wake up that morning and think �oh, I think I�m going to die today�. I hadn�t even been thinking about it. As far as I knew I just felt like taking a soak and chilling out while I had the time to myself. So I ran the water �til the tub was almost overflowing, lit some candles, turned off the lights and lay there, feeling the warm water surround me.

I hadn�t felt that calm for weeks. Lying there it was like all my thought and feeling just melted away until I wasn�t thinking at all. I�ve never felt that peaceful since, and I�ve tried everything.

I closed my eyes, my hand slipping through the water on some weird instinct. I just lay there stroking myself, warm and blank, not questioning my motives just enjoying how it felt to be there in the candlelight surrounded by the calming water and my own hand. For a moment I was peaceful. For a moment nothing mattered.

But then I was pumping harder, faster, splashing the water, muscles tensing. A vision of Matt had crept in on me, stolen into my moment of happiness and lit itself up in my head so bright it almost felt like I�d been possessed. It wasn�t my hand anymore it was Matt�s and I was arching into it as he pumped me and I could almost see it and feel it and then I came. Violently, harshly, hard, I came. So violently I must�ve spilled half the bath onto the bathroom floor. And I was curling up and sobbing into my wrinkly hands and shuddering at what I�d just done. It wasn�t fair how my fantasy could sneak up on me when I was vulnerable like that, how it could take me over and leave me feeling dirty and ashamed.

I was still sobbing when I picked up the razorblade. God only knows what it was doing right there on the side of the tub, between the soap and an old bottle of hair dye, but I just picked it up in a shaky hand and the next thing I knew I was slashing my wrists open.

It�s a funny feeling, slitting your wrists. I mean, you have to be feeling pretty damn funny to do it to begin with, but what I meant was the feeling as you actually do it. I lay back in the tub and watched through the water as I slashed through my veins and the blood swirled out in a thick, red mist. It doesn�t hurt as much as you think it will � sure it hurts, I mean you�re ripping your skin apart with a piece of fucking steel, but that�s kinda only for a second and then it kinda stings but if the cut�s clean enough then it doesn�t hurt like it ought to. It�s almost an anti-climax. And after you�ve done one wrist you�re not sure you�ll make it to the other �cause your hand�s going weak and your grip isn�t strong but the razor�s sharp and it slices open the veins there just as easy as the others. Then all you have to do is wait.

The waiting�s the worst part. You�d think actually slitting your wrists would be the hard part, only compared to the waiting that�s nothing at all. First off you�re not sure if someone�s gonna walk in there and find you, which if you�ve come this far it�s pretty fucking clear you don�t want. And even when you get past that and you�re swimming in and out of consciousness you�re not any better off because all you can think is why you did this in the first place. And you can�t cry �cause you�re too weak and you want it and need it to be over so you can�t think and can�t see a reason why you shouldn�t�ve done this or the people you�ll hurt and how low you�d really gotten to do this to begin with. The waiting�s agony. And I never got past it.

There was this knock on the door and it sounded like it was coming from miles away but it was only a few feet. I wasn�t sure I hadn�t imagined it, but then there was this voice and it kept getting louder until my eyes were blurry with tears and I was croaking Matt�s name. He kicked the door open and I could see this dim, watery figure rushing toward me, all the colour drained out, and he was yelling my name and pawing at my wrists and hugging me to him even though he�d get soaked then everything was red for a second as I tried to hold him but I was too weak and the last thing I did as he held me there was whisper his name before I blacked out.

***

I love him and I wanna be with him but we�re brothers and we�re as close as we can be when one of us is a fucking head case. It�s just that most of the time I can pretend like I�m fine and sometimes because I�m with Matt I even feel like I�m fine. We talk and we joke and we laugh and we watch TV and we go over what�s going on in the WWF. �Cause despite all this somehow I�ve managed not to lose us our jobs. I�m not sure what Matt would do if we got fired � he fucking loves wrestling and to be honest I fucking live to be his partner. I have no idea what I�d do if we lost that. We�re the Hardy Boyz, we�re a tag team, we�re the closest we can ever be without it being ill.

We�re a good team. We anticipate each other�s moves, we pull off perfect double-teams, get the job done. We�ve wanted this our whole lives and I don�t think either one of us can quite believe we�ve got it. But we do. And it�s fun, y�know? It�s fucking hard work with all the training and the travelling but once you get out there in front of the crowd it�s more than worth it. There�s all these people yelling our names and going absolutely crazy �cause of us and we both just lap it up. Gives me a damn good excuse to pull some crazy-ass stunts, too � I know Matt hates it when I do all that high-flying shit but the fans love it and I get a little jolt of adrenaline from the cheers and from the pain. �Cause don�t you dare think for a fucking second that the fucking Swanton doesn�t smart. Hell, on a bad day if that sucker went wrong I could wind up paralysed or something. Matt knows that as well as I do. But he can�t complain �cause he knows all that wacky shit�s why we�re famous. He can�t tell me to stop �cause I�d be outta there before you could say Jiminy fucking Cricket, and he knows it makes me feel good. To say it kills him every time I do it �cause of how I could hurt myself and how he has to egg me on like he loves it, he does a damn good job of understanding.

He even knows about the cutting. There are only so many times you can bandage an arm and call it an accident before someone catches on, and he�s had seven whole years now. He�s caught me at it a few times and he�s helped me patch myself up and he�s even dragged me to the emergency room a couple of times when he thought I�d gone deep enough to need stitches. He used to nag and tell me I�d do myself a serious injury one day and for a while I think he thought that�s what I wanted, but he�s quit it now �cause I think he�s realised I don�t do it so I�ll be hurt forever. The cuts and the burns and all that go away. Sure, I have a bunch of scars and I will do �til the day I die, but it�s not like you can die or scars. I think Matt gets that I do it �cause I have to do it to feel better. Hell, he kinda must do �cause for the last couple of years when I�m with him when I do it instead of sitting with me to make sure I don�t kill myself or constantly asking if I�m okay he�s taken to helping me get fixed up then taking me out for food and stuff. Maybe he finally gets that I feel best when I�ve cut. And even though I kinda wish he�d try to stop me from doing it I�m grateful he doesn�t.

And he�s never asked why I do it. He�s probably scared of what I�ll say and I can�t say I blame him. I mean, if your little brother�s got a habit of cutting and burning and scratching and just generally scarring himself then asking for a reason why he does it�s gotta be pretty damn scary. I think maybe a few times when he�s walked in on me he�s wanted to ask, but he never has. And I don�t want him to because I know I�d tell him �cause when he gets that look in his eyes like he�s falling apart then I�d tell him anything he wants to know even if I know it�d mean the end. He�d leave and I�d kill myself and he wouldn�t be there to find me this time. Only he�s not going to ask and I�m not going to tell. I�m not sure if that makes me feel any better or not.

Maybe better in a way �cause as long as he doesn�t know he won�t leave me. And I kinda know from experience that telling and talking about it doesn�t make it easier � my shrink told me it�d help but that was before he knew what it was I wouldn�t tell him and now he knows he treats me like a total freak. The only reason I keep on going is �cause Matt makes me. When I�m with him he actually drives me there then waits in the fucking parking lot until I come out, and when he�s not he phones the office to make sure I turned up. I guess it makes him feel like he�s helping and like I�m getting better and like one day I might be okay, and I couldn�t take that away from him. If he wanted me to see twenty fucking shrinks I�d do it. I�d go through the motions and take my meds and let him think he�s helping �cause he is kinda, �cause at least I know he cares enough to help, unlike some people. And if I didn�t see the shrink then he�d just feel like he�d failed. There�s no other way for him to feel like he�s helping while I know he�s not, unless I just flat-out lie to him.

And I can�t do that. I�m keeping enough from him already without all-out dishonesty. Whatever else I may be, I�m not a liar. I just love him too much to lie to him.

***

So he knows about the cutting. And he knows about the scratches, the burns, the bruises, all of that. He knows I hurt myself on purpose when I�m in the ring. He knows I feel good afterwards. He knows I�m kinda screwed up and he knows I�ve tried to kill myself.

He doesn�t know I love him. He doesn�t know I want him. He doesn�t know I�m bisexual. He doesn�t know my meds don�t help, and he doesn�t know my meds don�t help, and he doesn�t know my shrink�s a candy-ass motherfucker who doesn�t do a fucking thing to help either. He doesn�t know that my girlfriend�s actually a guy. So, what else? He doesn�t know about Hunter.

Yeah, that�s right. Hunter. As in Hunter Hearst fucking Helmsley, Triple H, The Connecticut Blueblood, The Game � whatever you want to call him it comes down to the same thing. Hunter. The IC Champ. 6�5� of over-inflated ego, irritating self-confidence, near-certifiable insanity and raw intensity all bound up in 250-odd pounds of bone and muscle. My lover. Except there�s not really a whole hell of a lot of love involved, so he�s more accurately some guy who I let fuck me when he wants to. Doesn�t that just sound so glamorous.

I�ve got no illusions that I�m in love with him at all. How could I? He�s a fucking lunatic. The way he looks at me sometimes � like I just belong to him, like I�m some kinda toy that he�s trying to figure out how to use � reminds me that I don�t love him. Sometimes I can almost convince myself that I do, but really I don�t. I can�t. I know I shouldn�t and with any luck I won�t.

I don�t even need him. Except sometimes I do, y�know? When I least expect it I�ll just see him outta the blue and I�ll realise how much I really do need him right then and right there and he�ll look up at me and just fucking know somehow, like the bastard can smell it or something. But he doesn�t come over. He�ll sit back and chew his gum and drink he beer like a fucking asshole and I�ll feel like barbwire butterflies are scouring out my insides while I try not to stare at him and he smiles that obnoxious, arrogant smile and somehow takes me apart with his eyes and still manages to keep up his conversation like everything�s just hunky dory. Cretin. I fucking hate him.

But I want him. Just as much as I just passionately, violently don�t. I hate him and I wish so bad that I could just turn off this want and go after someone less, well, less like Hunter. Maybe one of the girls. Maybe Lita or Trish. But I can�t, because he�s got me now. It�s like I can�t even more anymore �cause he�s watching me. And I know he watches me. He has to. �Cause the way he sees it I�m his and he�s making damn sure I stay that way. I�m not sure I could ever leave him � he�d probably kill me if I did. And I can�t see me leaving him anyway. I know he wants me just as much as I want him, maybe more.

I�m not na�ve. I know how people see me and I know how people look at me. I�ve got a huge fan base, and that�s not just from what I do in the ring. I�m good-looking. I�m not saying that to be arrogant, it�s just the way it is. But like I said, I�m not na�ve � the dye and the weird-ass shaving and the nail polish helps, makes me this shiny new toy that everyone wants to play with. I�d already fucked my way through half the federation before I came to Hunter. And I�m not stupid enough to believe a single one of them was in it for my sparkling wit. I know better. It was kinda exciting while it lasted, the sex, the lust, �cause it meant that even if I couldn�t have Matt there were guys out there who wanted me.

That�s how I thought it was with Hunter. After I�d gotten over the shock � I really thought he was straight � I thought he was just like the rest and I was prepared for another quick fling and another notch on my bedpost. Only it didn�t quite happen like that. Our first time was three months ago. I don�t think either of us has been with anyone else but each other since then � I know I haven�t.

I�m not going to call what I have with him a relationship. �Cause we don�t relate. Well, not really. We don�t go for pizza, we don�t go to the movies, we don�t really do any of that stuff. Sometimes we talk, but it�s not often and a) it�s usually after he�s just fucked me, and b) neither of us are really interested in what the other�s got to say. It�s not a relationship. But if it�s not then I don�t know what to call it. It�s not like it�s official or anything � as far as I know, no one knows. Not that I really care who knows, but I get the feeling that if people knew it�d be less fun for Hunter. And it�s not like I *want* people to know. I don�t need any validation. We�re together and that�s that.

Sometimes I wonder why I let him do the things he does to me. Not often, but sometimes I wonder. Not that it matters �cause really all that does matter is that he wants to do them and I let him. I let him strap me to the bed. I let him hit me. I let him bruise me and bite me and mark me. I let him fuck me until I literally can�t stand. I let him make me beg and make me scream and make me hate him. I don�t think I�ve even once told him no, unless he wanted me to. So he keeps going. He keeps hurting me. Just because he wants me to let him and �cause I know it makes him happy.

It takes a lot to make Hunter happy, when I think about it in real terms. But for me it�s not a lot. All I have to do is give him control and sooner or later I�m gonna be seeing that same look in his eyes that I always see like he�s so content there�s not a single thing he could want more than he�s already got. That�s when I love him. Because that�s when he�s beautiful. When he�s lying over me, buried inside me and he�ll have all his hair hanging loose around his shoulders framing his perfect face with golden blonde and he roars my name as he comes, staring into my eyes with that look in his own. He�s perfect then. And none of the stuff he does to me matters. It�s just so easy to let him do it because I see how happy it � how happy *I* - can make him. Because he could never do this to anyone but me. Never.

And we�ll lie there in the bed and he�ll run his fingertips over my scars and sometimes he�ll help me make new ones. My shrink says this relationship � I don�t know what else to call it � is no good for me, that if he loved me he wouldn�t hurt me. What he doesn�t realise is that he�s not doing anything I don�t want him to. It�s odd because it�s complicated �cause it used to be that I only hurt myself when I was feeling like this whole unrequited love thing was getting too much for me. I�d hurt myself when I was thinking of Matt. And I still do. Only now it�s kinda different sometimes, because sometimes Hunter�ll watch me do it. Sometimes I�ll go over to his place so he can watch me do it, so he can kiss me and bandage me and we�ll lie in bed together while he traces my scars with his fingertips.

That�s why I can�t love him, and that�s why I do. Hunter doesn�t realise that all this is wrong. He doesn�t realise that he shouldn�t hurt me and that I shouldn�t hurt myself. All he sees is what he wants and that what he wants he can do to me. He knows I want it. He knows I want him. He can�t see that we�re both as mentally ill as each other. And part of me doesn�t ever want him to.

If he knew then he might stop and I can�t let him. If he knew then he might leave me. Then where the fuck would I be? Right back where I started, right back at sixteen fucking years old. I�d have to start trying to deal with it again, with the fact that the only person I�ve ever loved in all my twenty-three years on this earth is my big brother. I�d have to cope alone again, and now I�ve felt what it�s like to be needed like that and to have him there, I couldn�t go back to that. Because he does need me. He pretends like he doesn�t and he�s trying to drive me insane for him, but he does need me. I�m the only one who understands him. He�s the only one who understands me.

So this is my choice, and it�s no choice at all. Either I go back to how it was, trying to live knowing I can never ever be truly happy and that essentially I�ll always have this huge hole in my heart where Matt should be can never be, trying to get better and knowing I never can, trying not to love him so much it feels like I�m short of breath for him and living suffocating, or I stay with Hunter. I drown in him, in his spirit that�s sometimes cruel and at the exact same instant needs me so much he�ll die without me. Maybe I could live without him, but without Matt either I�d just be stumbling around trying to hold myself from falling apart for him. And maybe with Hunter I could learn to forget that this is wrong. Maybe I could learn to be mad like he is and forget Matt. It�s what I�m going to have to try.

But I don�t want to. Because living without Matt, not feeling this way, would be right. When it comes down to it, I don�t want to be right if it means losing him. And I�m not Hunter�s, no matter what he fucking thinks. I�m so sick it scares me and all I can think is �oh God, I�m not his, I�m not his, Matt, I�m yours�.

***
End
***

On to 'His'