«So, we're different. Those were your words», Annalise thought angrily, fiercely placing the glass on the bar counter. Vodka was splashing over the glass's walls, a drop flew out and fell on red wood, leaving a wet mark. «Different». Life and death, suffocating and the easiest way to cross them out with one phrase to go: «I wanted to die». And the person saying that was the one who she thought was strong… still, even the strongest ones can fall. Sometimes it's even more painful, as they were holding on for so long that they can't embrace the fall. You simply can't believe it: here you are, all is fine, and, in ten minutes, you're already in a bar, or with a pinch of heroine on your hands, and…

… from the very first step she made into his office, Isaac knew working with her would be an ordeal. She did lift her guilty eyes on him, but said nothing to explain her being late, and wasn't eager to get better after all, so he was ready for enormous obstacles. Tight control. No alcohol. He realized his intuition made a mistake afterwards, and that being patient for your client and indulging all their desires, however small they are, can make wonders. He wanted to indulge her indeed. To lie under oath, so she wouldn't hate him? Piece of cake. To help with a weird case, because she said «I trust you» and that suddenly meant everything to him? Say no more. But indulging desires of your own heart? How's that supposed to be? What can he say when it cringes from one more memory of Stella, of himself, broken by grief and slowly rotting in the heroin puddle? How must he behave, when he intentionally, putting as much effort as possible, hurt the last person he could save? Like a giant black hole, like a whirlpool, your emotions pulled everyone in the epicentrum who was stupid enough to be attracted to you even stronger. Annalise. Jacqueline. Even Stella, for God's sake. Everyone around you dies — that's what Annalise seems to think. It's a long time to die, but for you, not for her…

… Sam. She used to think Isaac strongly resembled Sam, but it was other way round — he reminded her of herself near Sam rather than that. The husband, even when he was a traitor, a cheater, lifted her up brick by brick, gave her strength and confidence, and then the only good thing that was left in her life was Wes. He died too, this damned whirlpool has taken him too. Now Isaac's in, whatever he says. «We're different». Hell to the no. She was snowed under so much, she had to be strong — for her kids, for herself, for 20 clients who relied on her help, for everyone linked with the class action but unfamiliar to her. Fates of so many people were lying on her shoulders, was it so hard for her to help Isaac too? It's out of pure selfishness, just because she doesn't want to be alone, and they amazingly have so much in common, even when he doesn't want to see that. He can't see how she's getting weaker, glaring at the transparent liquid…

… Common. Our addiction, our selfishness, us projecting ourselves on the others, us reflecting in one another. That's how it always happens, unconsciously, and we still reach for the ones who are just like us. I reached out, I burned, I couldn't leave it. I could have, and now I am… why think of me, the most important thing right now is what happens to her. My goose is cooked, I hit the rock bottom, I'm in a mile deep hollow and there is no way out. Is it going to be okay? Not neccesarily, but, at least, she's going to live. Whatever happens, she's going to live. And that's already something…

… Yes, she's going to start a new life today, starting with simples: vodka. She's weak. She could get closer to Isaac and his rock bottom at least for a moment. What for? She doesn't know. Probably so it would be easier to give him a hand and then lead back to light. It's only important that the hatch behind her back doesn't close, but everything else can be solved, even if you fall yourself.

— Aren't you scared to get wasted? — the barmen smirked in his fake handlebars. He must be thinking I'm too old, Annalise concluded, that I'm prohibited to drink for a long time, and I'd better be off and do arthritic exercises. But I'm well-preserved, you can't argue with that, I look great — especially for an alcoholic of my age. This fucking self-love and self-care again, selfishness, Isaac was right. He was right about every damned thing, but about them being different — hell to the no. Here she is, drinking, not for herself, but for him. Looks like she isn't that selfish. What would he say about that? Is it some kind of «projecting», or «making amends», or what are the others therapeutic words coming from his mouth?

She didn't answer, giving a glass to the barmen again. He smirked under breath and went away, swiping the inner sides of a glass. Annalise leaned back on her slight chair and threw her head back, contemplating the ceiling. She didn't know this place, there were football flags and scarfs, and a couple of TV-displays on the walls. She's lucky there's no football today, as it would mean lots of drunk noises bothering her thoughts. Nobody can find her here. The barmen, still looking at her quite abjectly, put a full bottle of vodka and a clean glass in front of her.

— It feels like you're going to stay here for a long time, — he implied, — and I don't want to shuttle. Have a good evening.

Well, if that's the way it goes, it would be stupid to reject. For once, just to prove herself that… or him, in truth, they aren't so different, even if he never knows that. She's going to tell him she got drunk afterwards, and he was wrong about her, but she turned out to be even better than he could imagine. Selfless, falling down right after him, because… Annalise bend the empty glass and put the bottle's neck to it. She may love him. Why does this phrase about them being different make her so mad? It might be her belief in something else — something like them being a mirror reflection of each other, and that's why they get on so well — was a lot more pleasant.

Annalise said she would understand how he would feel if his license was revoked. She's truly supporting, he shouldn't have behaved with her like that.

And the way she's looking at him. Like she's going to burst out with tears all over again, God. She cries during their meetings so often. How much pain is she surpassing? The sooner he excises it like a tumor, the better, the less tears there will be in these mesmerizing eyes.

And she's so scared to talk about Wes. Or is she? Probably she doesn't want to, he didn't want to talk about Stella as well. That's why his guilt hasn't left him after all.

She's pushing herself to defense of her clients and their needs with a sense of fury equal to his when he tries to protect her. Her? Or her sobriety? She would get lost without him, her prisoners would get lost without her.

And she can speak from her heart not lying to his face; Isaac didn't expect any of this. Nor such sincerity, neither admitting her weakness, nor «I need help» phrase. Not from her, as he willingly refused the help. He's confused. He doesn't know what to do and, more importantly — how to calm her down. Is he capable of it after all? Where could he find some words? That's what makes them different, but that's the last thing he thinks about sliding into the black pit headfirst.

Annnalise finishes the second glass, and her head's starting to buzz a little from a familiar taste. It's good when you get estranged — the better to get back. She doesn't let her feelings suppress, she drinks the third and snaps her eyes shut; her body is burning, but she barely cares. She mustn't think, she must focus on these feelings; but, as if it was trying to spite her, it only made the visions more vivid and thoughts louder. She feels completely flabby, she's relaxing, she lets herself drown in the bar's noise and gentle calming music, while white spots are throbbing in front of her eyes. A sax is playing, one-two-three, one-two-three, her head starts slowly swaying in the waltz tempo. One-two-three, the third glass, the third session — out of the timetable, in the evening, right after Jasmine died. Isaac came up into her thoughts by chance, himself, she was ready to go anywhere but a bar. And who else — a person who knows better than anyone else how she must be feeling? She's got no one by her side right now.

— Let's speak frankly, — a barmen's voice interfered in her thoughts, — you've got some problems.

— Don't happy people come here?

— They do, but, usually, with a buffoonery and dancing elephants, — the kid smirked stupidly again, — and shambles are so big, like a fucking Bollywood was here. And you, lady, have shambles in your brain, I can tell it by your face, however attractive, and elephants seem to step onto your kisser.

— Rude.

— Just a note, — he shrugged, — I'm ready to listen if you're willing to talk. You can't imagine how much shit I have to listen here.

«Look at him, he's flirting!», Annalise suddenly thought. The boy must have decided that her silence meant she's embarrassed, and went ahead a little softer:

— See, only the ones who have nowhere to go come here alone. You don't look like a homeless and you have money on vodka, so…

— My psychotherapist wanted to kill himself, — Annalise interjected, pouring the fourth glass and raising him. — I wouldn't recommend getting any closer to me. I'm a jinx.

— Oh, so here's your grief? — he pursued. — Don't worry, my life's got an insurance. My family will gain a fortune when I kick the bucket, so it's not a big deal.

— Really? What's stopping me from breaking this bottle against your head?

— Nothing, but the fact that you won't spend a drink so close to your heart so carelessly.

— I mean, when it's finished.

— You won't have enough consciousness and accuracy, — the boy threw, when someone called him from another side of the counter, and he rushed over there — to serve a new client. «Thanks God», Annalise thought, «it seemed that he would never leave me alone. I thought he considered me old, but not a single proof. That's good».

The bottle wasn't enough for the sixth shot, but Annalise poured it anyway and started glaring at a shelf in front of her for some reason, not seeing anything. Sax was still playing, and a gentle low baritone. How nice. Baritone appeared to be singing about love, about how wonderful it is, when someone holds your hand. «I knew Isaac was single. No girlfriend, although he tried lying to me that time… How was I to know? A man like him can never be single. They shouldn't be… Or, what's more explainable, single men never care about anyone that much? It's controversial, and you have nothing to compare with. How does he treat other people? Wasn't he so alone, nothing of it would ever happen. He would never care about me that much if his heart was taken by someone else. What a pity». She drained the shot, and a noise was ringing out in her ears for a couple of seconds, silencing everything around. That had to be the remains of her mind that went off. But then, there was nothing left — nothing, but warmth, dizziness and the same all words about the happiness of romance, folded hands, rain, warmth, cuddles, other shit arousing your blood… «No, it would be different, if he had someone».

You say you can go ahead on your own, but then you're in your car, barely breathing, your fingers shiver, groping relentlessly working heart through you shirt. Just a little bit more, and it seems it will stop. If only you could grip your throat, so that oxygen doesn't come in, so you would die so simply and forget everything, never recall anything. Isaac would do so in a heartbeat — but he wasn't even strong enough to raise his hand. He leaned his head and saw headlights with his side vision, so he closed his eyes. The sound of tires passing by drew a vivid picture: him, being run over on a desert road… his stomach twirled, like all the entrails were crashed. Isaac felt like he was about to spit his intestines out. Your body's rebelling, it can't accept that kind of a treat. That's good. That means a proper heart stop was under way. If only a truck ran him over once again. All the problems would be solved in the blink of an eye.

One more take, probably? Yes-yes-yes, definitely, there must be some bag with a crashed pill at the bottom of the pocket. Isaac doesn't feel good any more, pleasant feelings are gone, leaving nothing, but intoxication. A killer one — yes, it has to be a killer to cross his empty life once and for all, life where you achieved nothing, apart from a stable addiction — the only thing that's real and alive inside of you, and the one that should define your future.

She might be able to survive this even without him and she never needed his help anyway, but what's for him… he's just a lump of self-loathing for every mistake that was done and never fixed. You're the one to blame for Stella's death, seriously, who else could it be? Annalise is completely fine without you, she never needed you. That's a lie; she did, she said it herself, nobody made her. Does it matter now, I spoiled everything and got myself in a mile deep hollow, from which I can never get out, and I blocked all the ways out. It's macabre down here, it's freezingly cold and bats are serenading — if they are able to sing in the first place. You could believe anything — your sobriety, bats, even your own car's interior smells like waste waters. You can't get out of this anyway. Can you hear rats running?

If only she could crash a bottle, get rid of her in the sight and think of nothing more, not to remember and not to know that somewhere, deep in the canalization, there is a salvation, fleeting it is but real, and that you can get to it right after hitting the rock bottom… The price isn't that high, especially when you know somebody in the bottom; there is someone who deserves to be saved. Annalise finishes bottle up a bottleneck. Not a drip. That's grievous, but it only means it's time to go. Go, tottering around the night streets, leaning over walls and even, when the good Lord looks away, sit on a bench with an empty bottle in hand, fall asleep… let kidneys catch cold. Get to a hospital or wake up in a sober-up next to a judging Nate's face. No, she definitely can't take it. This haze is thanks to Isaac, but not to Nate.

Isaac is looking at an empty pack on his palm, and, even if everything starts to blur and topsy-turve in front of his eyes, he sees there's no heroin left. What a pity. It means death is on its way. For instance he's amused by his own will and such a desperate endeavor to release the world from himself, he starts to laugh but bends in coughing and choking. He glances aside — windows neatly shut, there's no air here. Good. Try to take it just a little bit longer. He did everything he could to stop the pain. He'd like to know, how long will he be unconscious? When will he be found? Oh, not, he wouldn't like to. He wants these feelings to go away, he wants himself, this giant whirlpool, twinkling black hole, evanescent in nothing not to drag dear people down. There's not very much time left — it's his last minutes of life at the rock bottom. It's gloomy and wet here, he rarely hears some rats and drips of… water. Or vodka. Isaac might have thought about it, recalled Annalise, understood everything, heard heels clattering against the water — that would be them, not rats' paws — but he lumbered onto the chairs unconscious. Nothing mattered to him anymore.

They put him on morphine. It's a fine replacement to heroin, put aside the fact it's an opioid, and his organism rejects to take it. He's kept alive on an artificial kidney, and, all in all, his organism fails the fight, but death doesn't come round for some reason. People who think that only a person with a hope and a good health can survive drug overdose, lie, as well as about decadence being the first reason to lead you to the end. It's okay — if he gets released, he can try one more time. It's still gloomy at the rock bottom, not a single sun beam, and there's nothing but a heroin pack under between your fingers… or is this a shabby sheet? A familiar feeling, this is…

— Isaac? — rang out from the dark. This voice seems to be even lighter than the air; it's soft, tender like a smell of spring flowers, but nippy like an afterlife. No, this is unfamiliar feeling: he has never heard this voice before. — Are you here too?

— Where is here?

— I don't know that either, — the voice answered. It wasn't getting close, but Isaac still couldn't figure out where it was coming from. — In your dreams, perhaps. Have you been here before?

— No, — Isaac felt as if a breeze blew round his ears.

— Yet you're not alone.

Something touched his hand. Something soft. Another hand. Thin fingers. Female. Ah, this… Isaac knew where he had heard that voice before.

— Annalise? You here too?

— I have never left, — she answered. — You know that, don't you? Believing in your sobriety is like believing in a dream.

— That's not about you. You're the bravest person I know.

— Perhaps, — she squeezed his hand tightly. — It would do for both of us.

— Mind sharing? — he asked, not really hoping for a positive answer.

— Only if you ask, — she said with a kind smile in her voice. Isaac couldn't restrain himself: he smiled into the emptiness, and then the hand let him go, and he, stifflegged, made a step, reached both of his hands out and… fell into an abyss, falling onto his own bed in his hospital room. Morphine, damn it.

He wanted to stretch out to his bedsite table with drinking water, but suddenly noticed he wasn't alone in the room. Someone's vague silhouette was sitting by his bed, holding his hand and stroking it with a thumb. The touch was cold if not freezing, as if the person was just out from the street.

— I must have woken you up. Sorry, I just wanted to check up on you.

Isaac lifted his eyes at Annalise and saw tears sparkling in a streetlamp light. There was no illumination in the room, as if it was long after midnight already. He glanced at the clock, but couldn't realize where the hands pointed.

— Is it night already? — he asked weakly.

— Yes.

— And why are you here?

— I… nothing. I just wanted to see you, that's all. I'm used to coming to you when I'm upset, and the hospital walls shouldn't deter me.

— And then they just let you in?

— I had to be quite persuasive, — she smiled with guilt. — Don't worry, I've handled accusations worse than disorderly conduct.

No, something was clearly wrong here. Isaac blinked multiple times to scuttle the illusion, but it wasn't working — Annalise stood where she was.

— You came to me in my dream, didn't you?

— Why so?

— I'm morphined. The things you see under drugs, especially at time like this!

Annalise lifted her lose hand and put the cold palm against his forehead. A cold chill went down his spine.

— Well?

— What?

— Am I real or not? Do you feel me?

— I don't know. Phantom pains perhaps, phantom feelings.

— Then close your eyes and I will disappear.

— But if I don't… I don't… — Isaac wanted to ask Annalise not to disappear, but his tongue refused to put sounds into words.

— Just close your eyes, Isaac. Nothing bad can happen. Don't you believe me?

— I do.

— Then do as I say.

So he closed. He didn't know how long he should hold them shut and just hoped to fall asleep, but the curiosity for what was happening outside a dream still kept him wide awake. Isaac was lying so for a couple of seconds until he felt something downright soft and elusive touching his cheek, as if a butterfly was flying by and scraped his face with its wings. Before he knew what it was, Annalise pushed her lips against his — he knew that for sure, as he almost felt their taste not so long ago, fleetingly even, he couldn't even remember it when everything finished… but, this time, it was slightly different: instead of a sweet taste of a kiss he felt spirit packing a punch on his head. Everything became so obvious that Isaac couldn't restrain himself from sighing when Annalise lifted her head.

— So, you relapsed.

— You only guessing that now? — she laughed, sidelining him and lying beside. He moved without a huge enthusiasm, but now their hips were touching, and…

— But why?

— You said we were different, those were your words. So, I decided to prove you otherwise.

Only the stars were lacking from the ceiling. It could resemble a scene from some romantic movie: the only thing left was to deliver a sophisticated speech about life and death and end up on a promise to never leave one another to forget those words in five minutes after the titles. It's not a movie regrettably, and his health is still so weak; what a pity he can't promise her eternal love and to be with her forever and after. He couldn't also promise not to relapse in the coming years. Isaac sighed, looking over at Annalise — he could only see the contours of her face in the dark, and he, suddenly even for himself, realized how much he loved her, and how much he would like lay by her side gazing at a ceiling with blinking light strips and no stars. Even if it wasn't love, Isaac knew he would never forget that night, if he survives; and their second kiss, as weird as the first one — too.

— Why do my words matter? They change nothing.

— Nothing? Why are you here then, in a hospital, and me, being completely alone somewhere out there, on the streets, just because we're different. This isn't the way it works, Isaac. You once said, if you remember, that I would have to tell you everything because you're my therapist and… my work depended on you back then, but that's water under the bridge.

— I wasn't very nice to you then. Was unfair, — Isaac noted, — and apologize for that.

— Don't. Anything that happened between us before this bottom, doesn't matter. What matters is that if you are falling into an abyss, I'm falling right after you. That can break the fall, after all.

«Great, Annalise», Isaac thought, «that was hell of a great speech. The most eager onlookers, or those who are late for a bus, or a train, can leave cinema, because you just unveiled the climax».

— So what's next?

— Next? — Annalise rose from the bed, shaking her coat off something invisible, and smiled guiltily again. — Next you get out of here, and we ascend from this bottom together. Deal?

«Why to ascend when you can see stars from here?» Isaac thought, but said nothing and nodded briefly. For a couple of seconds Annalise kept silence, gazing at him, but then she inclined and kissed him gently on the forehead, smoothing his hair and glancing into his eyes. She seemed to be so caring, so tender, so loving — he could never imagine her like that. Is her gaze truly glowing, or is it a streetlamp light playing in her dark eyes?

Annalise left nothing but a crumpled pillow, with a faint alcohol odor and pleasant memories. Was it her really, or was he seeing things? Well, it didn't matter, as watching stars all alone, even through an open cover hatch, is freezing and disgustingly lonely… it's warmer when she's around. How will he feel on the outside? Therefore he truly needs to get out from here. At least for her. He has to not reject the hospital food, take pills steadily, not grumble about morphine… and do nothing with himself, of course. To live.

Annalise was walking down the night street, but it wasn't cold a bit. Was it a warm coat or vodka, or… yeah, that's highly likely. Or did she lean to another body while lying on the very bottom, and the warmth was born faster and easier? Somewhere up high a distant and, perhaps, an awfully cold star twinkled at her, and Annalise knew for sure: Isaac will get out, and they will be fine.