Disclaimer: I do not own The Mighty Boosh, but I wish with all my heart that I did.

I run as fast as I can from the flat, my heart heavy, thinking of the look in Howard's eyes. That look of hurt and betrayal as I once again crossed the line.

I'm always doing that. Only this time I think I've gone too far. Why do I do it? Why must I always be the one to have the last word no matter who that word may damage?

"Why can't you just mind your own business, Howard?"

"I'm just asking! Jeez, I'm supposed to be your friend!"

"I've got enough bloody friends. What makes you think I want you to be my friend?"

I didn't mean it. Not how he took it. I just meant…I don't know what I meant.

Yes I do.

All I ever wanted was to make him see me; make him look at me the way I look at him. But at the same time I feel the need to hurt him, push him away; I couldn't stand his rejection so I reject him first. And why wouldn't he reject me? What is there about me to like?

"Well, if that's how you feel maybe I should just go!"

"Fine! Move out, I don't care anymore, Howard!"

"I will then!"

"Good! I'm bloody sick of you sometimes, jazzy freak!"

I don't even want to think about what I said to him next. It makes me sick to my stomach every time I do; every time I replay that look in his eye, like something had broken…

I fight my way through crowds of people; so many people all so close to me. Every breath I take belongs to someone else and it's choking me.

I try to lose myself on the dance floor in a club. In the darkness I crash into someone, almost knocking her off her feet. She looks up ready to yell at me, then her face changes and she smiles and asks me my name. Why do people do that? I almost knocked her down and she's flirting with me. It doesn't matter what I do. I reckon I could be murdering someone and they'd still turn on the charm. Unless they were Howard that is…

I burst into the toilets, peering at my face in the mirror. Beautiful. As always. Disgusted, I swipe my hand across my eyes, leaving smears of makeup across my cheeks. Why am I still beautiful? Why is every bad thing I do, every evil, twisted part of me not visible on my face?

What makes me feel worse is that I know he won't really leave. When I finally do get back to the flat, he'll be there. He'll have unpacked the clothes he was throwing into an old suitcase when I left, probably even make me a cup of tea to apologise, even though it wasn't him who did something wrong. 'Reliable old Howard Moon, always tagging around with Vince Noir'. I hear what people say. If they say it to my face, I even agree with them. But they don't know, how can they know, that I'm the one who tags around with him. I was nothing before Howard, I can't imagine being without Howard. Without him I think I'd just fade away. Vince Noir; shadow man.

A man smiles at me as he leaves the bathroom. Why? Why can people not see that I don't deserve their attention or affection? I hurt everyone around me, and still people like me.

Somewhere there must be a portrait getting uglier.

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A/N The last line of this fic is in reference to 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' by Oscar Wilde. Needless to say, I don't own that either :)