Hey ppls, I own nutin, and...er...Michael's HOT:)

I'm waiting for my body to go numb.To take away the pain that drove me to do what I've done. I don't want to die, but somehow I know that I've gone too far. I injected too much.I don't care, even though I should. All I want is to feel nothing.

But instead, I feel cold.

A cold that bites through my skin, seeping into my bones. I intended to create a sense of apathy for myself, but as the freezing pain escalates, I know I've only created a sense of misery.I've only made it hurt more.

Regret grips me, and I feel myself falling from my sitting position on the couch. My head swims, my body shakes, and I know this night will not end well. My eyes blur, but the cold keeps me from falling asleep. By now the pain is too much to bear, and I stare at the empty bottle of morphine as I choke into a fit of tears. I want to turn back time, and stop myself from bringing the drug home to begin with.

And despite the scrambling of my thoughts as I lay in a daze, I know what else I would have done.

I would have kissed him. I would have told him that despite feeling betrayed, I was proud of what he was doing for his brother.

More than anything, I want to go back, and tell Michael how much I cared for him. How I wished things could have been different. How I wanted to leave everything behind and just run away…from work ,from life, from loneliness, and give it all up to be with him.

Even my tears feel cold as they stream down my face. I try to reach for the phone, but I can't bring myself to move. I feel trapped in slow motion, and my body refuses to respond to me.

The cold is beyond painful now, it's agonizing, coupled with the remorse that seems to be squeezing the life out of my heart. It literally hurts--I almost wonder if I'm having a heart attack.

I feel sick to my stomach, but can't gather the energy to lean over the couch and gag. I simply lie there, staring, crying, waiting and praying for the pain to end.Praying for the numb feeling that I know will be better than this. Praying for death.

If death will stop the agony, I'll gladly pray for it. But death won't come. Relief won't present itself.

I shiver and try to scream, bringing forth a whimper instead.

My eyes clench shut, and I think I'm going insane.

And then I feel it.

Warmth.

On my hand, sending a tingling sensation up my arm and into my stomach. I open my eyes. And see him.

Michael.

I know I'm delusional. I know Michael was barely even out of the prison by now, much less kneeling in front of me in the middle of my living room. I know these to be obvious facts.

But I still see him. And I still feel his warmth.

He reaches forward and wraps himself around me, cloaking me from the pain, protecting me from the cold.

Destroying it.

He was always warm, I realize. I'd noticed it several times before, when my hands fell lightly on his arms to administer his shot. His skin was always radiating with heat, as if he had more blood pumping through his body than most human beings.

I still can't move, despite the dissipating cold. Michael looms over me while I lay helpless on the couch, his body pressed against mine, his hands rubbing my back in comforting silence.

It's a lulling feeling. One I want to hold onto forever.

But I can't.

The pain gone, my body finally loses any feeling at all. My vision grows darker as I stare up at his serious but beautiful face. I can sleep now. Michael has brought the relief that allows me to let go.

I wonder if I'm going to die. It seems a strong possibility. But even if I did, it would be the most peaceful death I could hope for.

Dying in the arms of Michael Scofield. My lips raise in the slightest of smiles.

I know he's not there. I know that I'm hallucinating as my mind and body fight to stay alive.

He's not there.

But I feel his warmth.

He was always warm.