A/N: This story chronicles Stan's experiences during chapters 8 and 9 of Swarm & Handle, after Kyle ditches Stan in Pittsburgh and goes back to Chicago, arriving on Friday, September 26, 1913. In the meantime, Stan, Kenny, and Christophe have stayed in Pittsburgh for a few days in case Kyle comes back, and when they determine he isn't going to, they all go back to Chicago themselves, arriving on Monday, September 29, 1913. The first day of this story is two days later, Wednesday, October 1, 1913.

I really want to thank the brilliant SekritOMG for her help, support, encouragement and enthusiasm for this story along the way, from when it was just a crazy idea about hobo orgies until it spiraled into the miserable monster it is today. She also did an amazing job beta reading an early draft, for which I'm very indebted. Thanks so much, dude.

NOTE: The descriptions of suicidal thoughts in this story are pretty explicit. The upcoming suicide attempt is serious; Stan is very determined to die. The instance of intended (but not actualized) self-injury is also pretty macabre. Finally, there is also drug and alcohol use/abuse.

It was loud as hell in Gus' lunch room, and I was hungover to boot, sitting here on the verge of death when Hack said, "Hey, why don't you go to the library today? Or the Hobo College? I know how much you like that educational stuff."

"I don't."

"Yeah you do," he said with a mouthful of toast. Mole was sitting next to him, eating his waffle by picking off little pieces and rolling them into balls.

I just stared at them, repulsed.

"Awright, fine. Do whatever you want," Hack said, rolling his eyes. "As for us, we're gonna be seein' how the market is here."

Squinting at him, I said, "You better not mean what I think you mean."

"What else would I mean?"

Lowering my voice, I said, "How is it you got a never-ending supply of that shit?"

"Uhh, 'cuz I keep buyin' more?"

"You gotta be kiddin' me."

"A hundred sixty dollar stake don't lie, Swarm."

Jesus. His insistence to pay my board suddenly made sense.

"Regardless," I said, whispering, "you can't do that sorta thing here in Chi. You know what they did to the Levee. They're comin' down hard on that stuff here, and I ain't gonna have you gettin' pinched and incriminatin' me in the process. Or even just you gettin' pinched! What the hell am I supposed to do if you get thrown in the big house, huh?"

"Wow," he said, "has it really gotten that bad here?"

"Yes!"

He crumpled his brow, the wiry yellow hairs knitting together. "I don't know how we'd get pinched if we kept quiet about it though."

"Word gettin' around. Somebody sellin' you out," I said. "That's how."

He finally sighed and said, "Oh, Swarm. You ride me like a rattler."

"I'm just bein' reasonable," I muttered.

He frowned.

"What, you think I'm crazy too?" I spat.

"No, no!" he said quickly, waving his hand. "Definitely think it's reasonable advice! Reasonable advice from a reasonable kid!" Then he said, "Only problem is I got a bunch left."

"Throw it away then."

"What!" His voice was piercing, even amidst the racket of the lunchroom. "I can't just throw it away! That'd be like pourin' whiskey down the drain!"

"Fine, then take it or something – I don't care. Just don't sell it." Then, kinder, I said, "Please, Hack."

He sighed with his whole mouth and said, "It's a lot."

"It's not worth it. It's really not."

"Oh, no, I meant for me and Mole to do all our own."

"Oh."

"I don't wanna turn into no snowbird."

This was getting stupid again. "Then don't let that happen."

"Well, I s'pose I do got a good handle on my usage."

Hearing that made me want to die.

Summer was over. Flat and exhausted, the lake spread out before me. It was only me on the beach. I had two shots of whiskey in me, and they wouldn't last: I had the afternoon to contend with, and then every hour of every day for the rest of my life.

It was over.

I didn't have it in me to go on. Everybody always left me one way or another, whether they died or just stopped loving me. I still had Hack, and I'd always be grateful to him, but he had tried to leave me once too.

Only when I thought of my mother did I start crying. I could hear her voice in my head saying, "You're such a good boy, Stanley." And I could hear one of the last things she said to me before she died: "Wherever you go, whatever you do, always remember how much I love you." I did remember, and that was why it hurt so much.

It was dark when I woke up, the lake splashing through my haze like a bizarre symphony. The sky was cloudy: no stars, no moon. I didn't remember falling asleep and was lucky I hadn't been arrested. I shook the sand off me and realized my hat was gone. It must have blown away, since I hadn't been robbed – I still had my seventy dollars and cigarettes on me, thank God.

I was sober and starving and so far from the main stem. There was the train or the trolley, but I wasn't in the mood for stares. I needed new clothes. Thinking of that reminded me of how Kyle came back wearing all new clothes. Why was he yelling at me? Why was he hitting me? What did I do to upset him so much? These were questions I used to ask myself a lot.

It was a long way back to West Madison Street, the journey ever broken by dips in alleyways whenever I saw a town clown. When I finally made it, I got dinner at Peter's Place, then went to the saloon next door and bought a bottle of whiskey. I drank some of it there before getting irritated by the noise and leaving. Back at our hotel, I knocked on the door of Hack and Mole's room. No one answered, but I could hear noises coming from inside, so I tried the doorknob. The shock of what I saw next sobered me right up: Mole was bent over the cot, and some guy was fucking him from behind. They stared back at me, just as shocked. Their shirts were drenched in sweat, and the room smelled of it.

"Would you shut the fuckin' door?!" Mole hissed.

"Sorry," I muttered, entering the room and closing the door behind me.

"The fuck, Swarm?" Mole spat, scrambling to his feet and pulling his pants up. "Get the fuck outta here!"

The other guy – who was a little taller than me but far more built – put his hand on Mole's shoulder and said, "Hey, is this the guy you were tellin' me about?"

"No, it's not!" Mole said, but then he looked at his right hand and in a different voice said, "Yes, it is!" Then, he covered his face with his hands and groaned extremely loud. It was the nuttiest thing I'd ever seen him do.

"That's perfect then," the guy said to Mole.

"What is?" I asked. "Oh, uh, you know," the guy stammered, suddenly all keyed up. "Surely you must know? I mean, he told me you were."

"He told you I was what?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.

"An invert," Mole said quickly, answering for him. He looked at his hand again, his face contorting.

"And that you always take the male role," the other guy added.

I wasn't drunk enough to not be embarrassed by that. I looked at Mole, who stared back at me like a threatened animal. He was panting, and his face was wet with sweat.

The other guy rattled on: "That's what he said, at least, back at the saloon. Or that's what he told me, at least, although I s'pose it's possi—"

"Are you two on fucking coke?" I asked.

"Well," said the guy with a sniff, "I s'pose so."

"It's a yes or no question."

"Yes, Swarm, we're on fucking coke!" Mole growled.

"Give me some."

If somebody had told a week ago that I'd be sniffing coke and fucking a single-testicled Dutch trombo named Old Fuzzy while said 'bo sucked Mole's cock, I wouldn't have believed him. Then I would've told him to get lost and gone back to doing whatever it is I used to do, probably listening to Kyle bitching about something.

But here we were, and this was all there was now, just me slamming my dick into this guy over and over while my brain ran wild on cocaine. I was going in and out of his ass with the drivel of an imbecile – I wanted to go deeper, to make myself worse, but his skin would meet mine like a dead end. So I would pull out and try again, endlessly repeating myself, my cock growing furious for it. It felt good, and apparently it did for him too, which made me angry. Throughout all this, there was a voice in my head egging me on, telling me to seal the deal and come inside him. The heat and horror of it all flayed me – I wanted this.

I came inside him and left.

Mole would do anything – all you had to do was tell him: suck me off, bend over, suck him off, touch yourself, move, stop that, get on your knees, lick it up. It was day two, and I was fucking him into the cot while Old Fuzzy stood there watching.

"Who do you wish you were right now, Fuzzy, me or him?" I asked him.

He stopped touching himself. "What?"

"I bet you wish you were him right now, don't you?"

"Oh! Well, ah, either would be fine."

I looked at him. Fuzzy was… ugh.

By now, Mole was making little grunting noises, which was about the extent of the noise he made unless he was coming. I reached around and grabbed his balls, and he let out a choked yelp of surprise.

"I knew all along," I said to him.

He tried looking over his shoulder but didn't otherwise respond. I could just see his hateful expression in my head.

Fuzzy asked, "What did you know?"

"Nothing," I growled, croaking the words out.

Fuzzy recoiled. "Oh. Alright."

Shortly thereafter, he began talking, incessantly, about an Irishman he'd had sex with, saying how surprised he'd been to find out that his pubic hair was red too. This was so horrible that I let him keep talking about it.

"They were as red as the hairs on his head, if you can believe that. I'd never seen anything like it – it was really somethin'," Fuzzy prattled on. "I shoulda asked him if I coulda had one. Hmm, I s'pose that'd be a little strange though, askin' somebody for a pube, eh? Yeah, on second thought, it's a good thing I didn't. That woulda prolly blown my chances if I ever run into him again. And I hope I do – those were a fun coupla days there."

"Tell me more," I ordered him.

"Well… they were red, as red as the hairs on his head. About the shade of a carrot. But shinier than a carrot, a'course, 'cuz it was hair. Well, I s'pose his pubes weren't all that shiny, but still prolly shinier than a carrot. And, well… Hmm. I dunno what else there is to say about them."

I was getting close. "Just keep talking about them!"

"W-well, they were curly and red, and all around his cock, you know, as they tend to be. They were the color of a carrot, and he was an Irishman, and uh, they were as red as the hairs on his head!"

My eyes were wet as I came, thinking about those pubes.

I was such a fool, such a goddamn fool. In the end, my love didn't matter, not one bit: it was disposable, as I myself was disposable. And how easily Kyle had disposed of me. How easily everyone could. Alone in my room now, I rolled over and pressed my face into the cot, wishing with all my heart to feel his hand on the back of my neck and hear him asking me what was wrong.

Oh, so much.

So, so much.

My cousin Jacob lived in town. He was three years older than me, the only boy of three girls. I used to really admire him. Every once in a while, he would take me on walks and tell me all kinds of things: about working on the canal, old Indian legends, how he was going to beat it out of Montana someday. It made me feel special that someone older was paying attention to me and being nice to me.

The last time I saw Jacob was during the summer after seventh grade, before my mom got sick but after Sparky died. It was a cool, bland day in July or August, probably a Sunday after church. We were walking along the trail when Jacob told me he'd begun sleeping with a girl a few weeks back.

"You know what that means, right?" he asked me.

"Of course I do," I said, and I did – I was thirteen and wasn't stupid.

"You ever done anything with a girl?"

"No."

"Not even kissed one?"

I really hated that he was asking me this. "Well of course I've kissed one," I lied.

"Who?"

"I don't think she would like it much if I told you."

Jacob was quiet for a moment. Then in a lower voice, he said, "It feels really good. But you gotta be careful not to finish inside her. That's how you make babies, you know."

"I know that," I said defensively.

"Well, alright, but my point is it's tough havin' to stop and pull out when it feels so good. You just wanna keep going," he said. "I've had a couple of close calls. You can't let her catch on, though. You gotta make it seem like you're in control."

As much as what he was saying repulsed me, I was also intrigued. "Does it really feel that much better than your hand?"

"Oh, God, yeah. A thousand times better. Better than I coulda ever imagined. It's tight and wet and hot and wraps around you just like a glove."

This was beginning to seriously disturb me, but I ignored the feeling and asked him, "But what if you mess up and get her pregnant?"

"Then I guess I'd have to marry her," he said, adding, "I wouldn't mind that though. She's rather pretty, and I do like her."

I gaped at him. I always thought he was so smart, but this sounded so stupid. "Why don't you just wait until after marriage like you're supposed to?"

"Oh, Stan," he said, looking at me and shaking his head. "Another year or two and it'll be the only thing you can think about. You'll be dying for the chance to try it, and if you're lucky enough to get a girl to agree, you'll be in bed with her before you can say Jack Robinson."

Everything he was telling me was so bizarre, almost frightening. My stomach felt like someone had dumped poison into it. Part of me wished he'd never said any of this to me, but another part of me, just as strong, was glad he did, because I wanted to know about him sexually. I desperately wanted to know about how he touched himself, and I wanted to know about him having sex, but I guess before that point, I hadn't fully understood what that meant. As it turned out, for Jacob it meant having sex with a girl, because Jacob was normal.

I was filled with disappointment in both myself and him. I didn't understand how he could do that to a girl when he wasn't married to her and she might get pregnant. It didn't seem right, and I couldn't believe that Jacob, who I'd always thought was so smart, was doing such a stupid thing.

My situation was worse, though. See, by that point, I had spent a lot of time masturbating to the thought of him taking me out to the woods and touching me. That was and still is my biggest secret, and I've never told anyone, not even Kyle. I think I got that idea in my head because Jacob was the one to tell me about masturbation. He even explained to me how to do it. And while I never actually expected him to touch me like that, I knew then that he never would, and I felt so ashamed for how disappointed I was. I wanted to believe Jacob was right, that I would eventually be normal and have a wife who I wanted to have sex with. Maybe that was just part of growing up. I was only thirteen, after all.

But three years later, I was still masturbating to unnatural ideas. It felt like I was digging a deeper and deeper hole for myself, and I went back and forth between apathy and distress. Mostly, I tried not to think about it, but then I would see an attractive man and think about him kissing me, or God forbid, what he looked like naked. And as much as I really, really liked thinking about those things, I couldn't help wondering if I was preventing myself from being normal one day. I didn't necessarily want to be normal, since I knew with being on the run I'd never settle down and have a wife; but I also didn't want to be abnormal, because by then I'd learned about jockers, and I didn't want anything to do with them. I also really wanted to love somebody one day, and while I didn't expect that to happen, either, I was pretty certain it would never happen with another boy.

So I thought that if there was some way to make myself normal, I owed it to myself and the natural harmony of things to give it an honest attempt. If it didn't work, then it didn't work, but at least I could say I tried. That was why I let Hack convince me to go to a brothel in the Levee two years ago, just before we were about to beat Chi for the summer. He was always nagging me about it back then, saying I was sixteen and ought to lose my virginity already. At first, I thought Craig (who I'd only just met) would be coming along with us, and I didn't want to be the odd man out, so that was another reason why I agreed.

It was springtime but still cold out at night, and we were wearing what was left of our overcoats as we headed down to the South Side. I had some greasy chicken a glass of cheap vodka in me, and I was beginning to feel a little sick as I listened to Hack blather on about breasts and fucking, telling me how great it was going to be. I told myself it was just nerves.

"Should I tell her I'm a virgin?" I asked Hack.

"Hmm. You know, you might as well. She'll prolly know anyway."

"Oh, God, really?"

"If ya go in there all keyed up about it, yeah!" he said before flinging his arm over my shoulder. "Look, 'bo, you gotta relax, a'ight? Alls you gotta do is go in there, stick your dick in her, and enjoy. An imbecile could do it. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure they do."

By now I couldn't lie to myself – I was thoroughly disgusted. For the millionth time, I told myself that this disgust was probably the correct response to my own sexual personality. My thinking was that having sex with a woman might flip a switch in my brain and make me normal, but as I imagined myself actually going through with it, I got so upset that I had to keep swallowing to make sure I didn't vomit.

When we actually got to the place, I felt about a thousand times worse. God, the Levee was awful. Hack took me to a thin, run-down building, and I just stared at the façade in horror, listening to all the weird noises coming out of it.

Hack was already on the porch.

"What're you doing?" he said to me. "C'mon."

I couldn't keep it down – I ran to the side of the house and threw up everything in my stomach. It was horrible, but as I was suffering through it, I was so relieved that I didn't have to go in there anymore.

"Jesus, Swarm!" Hack exclaimed, crouching down beside me while I continued to vomit. I pushed him away. He was too near; it was too disgusting. But when he put his arm on my shoulders, I didn't protest.

Once I was done throwing up, Hack said, "Do you feel better?"

I told him yes, but that I needed to get some water and brush my teeth.

On the way back to the main stem, Hack asked me in a cautious voice, "Did you not want to go?"

"No, I did. Or I thought I did," I said. "I don't know. I'm tired."

Hack said, "Sorry if I pressured you into it," and I told him not to be, because he hadn't. Maybe he sort of did though; maybe I never would have gone on my own volition. I didn't know. It didn't matter now, anyway. By now, Hack knew that I was indeed sexually abnormal – I'd spent the summer having unnatural intercourse right under his nose, more or less. And yet he'd never said a word to me about it, unlike how I was always harping on him about whorehouses.

That was how I knew he really loved me.

Early the next morning, Hack burst into my room.

"Rise 'n shine, Swarmy!" he bleated. "It's noon o'clock!"

I was about to yell at him, but then he shoved a roll and a cup of java in my face.

"Oh… Thank you," I said, feeling bad now.

"No problem," he said. "I came to check on you."

Suddenly, I was afraid he might have found out about what was going on in Mole's room every night, even though I'd made him promise not to tell.

"Well. Here I am," I said, tentatively.

"You been doin' alright?"

"I s'pose."

His eyes veered towards the empty bottles on the floor. "Yeah? You sure about that?"

"Well, no," I admitted, "but there's nothin' I can do about it."

"Eh."

"What?"

He twisted his lips. "You can always talk to me, y'know."

"I already told you everything."

"I meant more like how you feel about it."

"I feel awful about it."

He put his hand on my head and began touching my hair so gently that it made me feel even more broken. "Everything's gonna be alright."

I didn't say anything to that. I didn't want to argue.

"Anyways, I came to tell ya somethin' else too." He sounded hesitant, and I got scared it was something bad.

"What?"

"I'm gonna head down to Winchester to visit my folks and my sister's grave. I won't be gone long – a week at most," he said. "Can you promise me you won't drink yourself to death in the meantime?"

The bread went sour in my mouth.

He didn't want me to go with him.

Eventually I mumbled, "Okay."

He put his arm around me and said, "I'll be back before you know it."

I desperately wanted to go with him. I felt so ashamed, so ridiculous – I hadn't even seen him in three days, and a week was only four more days than that. But I had never been away from him for that long, and the thought of it terrified me. The thing was, though, if I were to ask, he'd almost certainly let me come, and then I'd feel awful regardless. All he wanted was visit to his family alone, and as much as that upset me, I had no right to keep that from him – Hack had done so much for me over the years, and this was the least I could do for him.

Before he left, he hugged me and told me he'd bring me back a souvenir. It was a joke. I laughed.

As soon as he was gone, I started crying.

I wanted to go home. I wanted to be eight years old again, my mom kissing me on the forehead in the morning before I left for school. I wanted to go to my aunt and uncle's house after church on Sundays, and help my mom pick apples in the fall, and run through the fields with my dog in the summer. I wanted my mom not to have gotten sick. I wanted not to have killed somebody.

It hurt so bad, how much I wanted these things. But there was no home for me to return to; there was only my dad drunk on the porch while the orchard rotted, if he was even still alive. I was so stupid to have thought that Kyle was the light at the end of the tunnel. So, so stupid.

The Divine Comedy is one of Kyle's favorite books. I've tried to read it before, but I've never been able to – I'm just not that into poetry. Besides, he's talked about it so much I already know all about it.

I remember when he told me about Seventh Circle, where the violent are housed. It was on some summer night somewhere, maybe in one of the Dakotas. We'd just come back from dinner and were curled up in the hay in the barn. I remember being so comfortable, just lying there in the hay with my arm around him after a long day in the fields, drunk and worn-out, only to be rendered wide awake by the stuff he started saying.

"So, Seventh Circle is really big. Maybe the biggest. It has three rings for three types of violence. There's violence against others, violence against self, and violence against God, Nature, and Art," he was telling me as excitedly as ever. "The first ring, for violence against others, is where murderers and tyrants go, basically anyone who's hurt other people physically. So, for example, Dante places Alexander the Great here. Let me remind you that intent is crucial, however. Anyway, this is where the broiling river of blood, Phlegethon is. The contrapasso here is that since these people have spilled so much blood in their lives, now they get to be punished in blood, literally. And what's interesting about this is that each shade is submerged in the river according to his guilt. Oh! And they also have centaurs there with bows and arrows to make sure nobody gets out, heh."

My throat felt tight, but I managed to say, "Gruesome."

"I know, right? God, the rivers in hell are so interesting, and their point of origin is absolutely fascinating," he said. "But let me get to that in a minute so I don't mess up the chronology here."

"Alright."

"Okay, so, the second ring of Seventh Circle is the Wood of the Suicides, which, as you can imagine, is for people who have committed suicide, i.e. violence against themselves. Here, the shades have been transformed into these grotesque, gray trees that are plucked and prodded by harpies for all eternity. And they actually bleed too, even though they're trees. Tree-shade-people, I suppose you could call them."

My eyes were wide open now, staring into the deep dimness of the barn. The glow of a lantern a few feet away barely illuminated anything. I felt like I'd been caught, like Kyle had read my mind and seen all my bloody imaginings. I was horrified. He went on about this terrible forest, and in my mind, I could see it as clearly as I'd visualized it hundreds of times, some darker than others.

I didn't know where it was. Maybe Canada somewhere. But it could've been any woods anywhere, so long as it was deep enough. And I'm talking deep, deep within the woods, not just a few miles, and sure as hell not by any trail. Parts of the woods where only animals go. Parts where maybe no human has ever stepped foot.

I'd buy a gun and catch out, rambling on 'til I reached some little lone siding somewhere, where I'd get off and head into the woods. It would be the middle of summer, and the nightbugs would be chirping, their little yellow lights whirring about the land as I ventured towards my final destination. These details could be shockingly clear to me.

The woods would be dark, but I would have a lantern to guide my way. I'd have supplies too, because I'd have to survive a few days so I could get as deep into the woods as I saw fit. If I came across a bear or a mountain lion, I hoped I wouldn't be too afraid to shoot. That was the real sick thing about all of this – I might have been on my way to die, but I'd be a selfish bastard 'til the end of it, not wanting to be mauled to death by the workings of fate or electrocuted by the hand of justice. The latter is what should've happened, but everything that would have led up to that had only become more terrifying as the years went by. And if I was damned anyway, I might as well let God do with me what he saw fit.

I was a coward. I knew I was. But in this thought I had, I was always determined, sure of myself and what I was going to do. I didn't know if it was a version of myself that would ever exist, but I could see him doing all these things so clearly that it didn't seem so impossible. That me would finally find the perfect spot to sit down, right at the base of the perfect tree. I would be exhausted in every sense of the word. It would be very dark, but I'd be able to see the shadowy outlines of this little space I'd claimed, my final resting spot. The birds wouldn't be singing; they would have already gone to sleep, and so the only sounds would be the nondescript rustling of forest critters running through the brush.

I would think for a while, or maybe not. If I did, I'd go over my whole life, each year starting from as far back as I could remember, thinking of both the good and bad things: all the Christmases and birthdays, all the times I'd been happy with my family, with Hack, with Kyle: swimming in blue holes in summer, laughing and singing at jungles, loving somebody else with the deepest depths of my heart. The bad would go hand in hand with the good though: there was my dad storming into my room and yelling at me for not making dinner, for crying all the time; the horror and heartache when Kyle didn't come back, the agony of losing the best thing that ever happened to me; and then there was the bloody pit of it all, that poor railroad bull I'd shot dead on the tracks. I'd taken a life. I'd taken somebody else's husband and father. And that was unforgivable no matter what way you looked at it.

It seemed appropriate then that I was taking my own life the same way. That was what I thought, at least, but maybe it was just sick; I didn't know. I'm sure that by that point I wouldn't care one way or another.

At last, it would be time to dig the pistol out of my bindle, at which point I'd hold it for a while and think some more about the man whose name I didn't even know. I knew I'd never grasp the pain I'd caused him and everybody who loved him. It would be like my mom dying but so much worse, because somebody would have caused her to die, an actual human being who had made a choice to end her life, not giving a shit about who she was or anything about her. Pain like that had to be intolerable, something that ate you up inside like nothing else. I deserved to be punished for it. I didn't want any mercy.

Soon, my hand would slip into the trigger, and it would be time. I'd probably still be delaying it, spineless bastard that I am. Just sitting there in the darkness of the woods with the barrel pointed square against my temple, chastising myself for my delay. Once I finally bolstered the nerve, it would happen really fast: a deafening bang would shatter the quiet of the forest, and then I'd topple over onto my side, dead within seconds, the blood leaking from the wound only creepingly due to gravity.

Over my life, even before I left home, I'd thought about killing myself. There were times where it was just a sweeping random thought, like, "I wonder if I'd die if I jumped from here." Other times, it was a dark plague that consumed me, bludgeoning my consciousness with virulence that was both mentally and physically exhausting. And then there were stretches of time where I didn't think about suicide at all. It hadn't entered my brain much at all last winter and not once over the summer, with the sole exception of that night in that barn.

Carefully, I asked Kyle, "But what if you kill somebody and commit suicide? Where do you go then?"

"That's for Minos to figure out," he said matter-of-factly.

"So he'd send you to one or the other?"

"I think so, yes," he said. "But if you're going to be so technical, you might as well ask me how it is that Dante and Virgil are going on such a long journey without stopping for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The answer is basically irrelevant. It's fiction, Swarm."

That didn't make me feel any better. Fuck, nothing could. As I looked out to the lake now, I thought of the Old Man of Crete and how his tears flowed into Hell, all the world's suffering born in water. The water of the lake, assaulted by the wind, lapped upon the shore like gray paint. With all the misery that went on in the world, all the anguish and blood, I couldn't comprehend why the lake couldn't rally itself into a storm of energy and swallow up that which should no longer exist. It was too hard to let the woods take me, too much work. Everything was so much effort.

By now I knew this was going to be a part of me forever. I just wondered when I'd reach the end of the line.

There was nothing to do. Of course, there were a million things to do – I could throw myself to the employment sharks or even the real sharks, that is, if I ever went and did the sailor thing. But I knew the most I was going to do was go to Peter's Place to grab some food later and that I was going to hate every fucking minute of it, just like I hated ever fucking minute of right now, being here in this little room with my head in my hands and my back to the wall.

I couldn't even elaborate how much I wanted to die. I wanted it so much it hurt, like something black and wicked clawing at my chest and keeping me from fully absorbing anything. Hack wasn't here, Kyle hated me, my mom was dead, my dad was a piece of shit. I felt each and every one of those things in my bones, all of them broken in hundreds of places. My skull was a fucking jigsaw puzzle, endlessly fractured around the awareness that I had taken a life, that I'd fled the law, that I was a criminal, a hick, an idiot, a crazy person.

I didn't just want to die: I deserved to die. An eye for an eye. I was already half-blind anyway.

Although… I really wasn't, was I?

I didn't even lock the door behind me. I just got up and left, barely picking my feet up off the floor as I trudged down the steps. Out on the street, it was painfully bright out, even though it had to be later in the day. It was windy too, which annoyed me as I walked down the block and crossed the street, keeping my one eye ever peeled for town clowns, be they in uniform or disguise.

When I got there, I suddenly didn't want to go in. I just stood there staring through the glass at the shit inside, a big sign hanging from the ceiling that said "We make keys, quick and easy!", saws and hammers hanging on the walls. There was a guy inside, a normal person in a suit who was talking to the man who worked there. I only went in when I realized I was pushing it with the length of time I'd been standing out here, and when I did, a fucking bell went off announcing my presence. The employee made eye contact with me, which was like rubbing salt in the wound.

Hanging my head, I went down the left aisle until I found where all the sharp things were, the razors, knives, and scissors. My original plan had been to go for a knife, and I was still thinking that was what I was going to go with, but there was also a huge pair of gardening sheers here that looked really satisfying. Actually, all this stuff looked really satisfying, like a buffet. For the first time in weeks, I felt a little bit excited about something.

I touched the shiny silver blades of the sheers with two fingers, closing my eyes and letting out a sigh as I thought about using them. No, they weren't what I was looking for. I moved onto the knives. There were a few different kinds here, a pocket knife, hunting knife, utility knife, general kind of knife. The pocket knife probably would've been the least conspicuous, but I didn't feel it would do the job well. It just didn't seem sharp enough. So, I was just about to look at the hunting knife when I heard the customer say he was going to try another hardware store, and so I knew the guy who worked here was going to be coming over to me in about two seconds asking me if I needed help.

Those few seconds where I could feel him approaching but had to pretend like I hadn't noticed were awful, and then I also had the belated realization that I hadn't showered in God knows how long, which made everything so much worse.

"Anything I can help you with there?" the man asked me with a smile.

I glanced at him before hesitantly taking the regular old knife off the shelf and mumbling, "I, um. I think I'm just gonna get this. I guess."

His brow crinkled uncertainly, a kind of pitying glimmer in his brown eyes.

"Alright," he said. "You need anything else today?"

"No, I think… that's it."

He was obviously a nice person, which put me at ease a little. At the register, I made sure to mention that I was glad I could finally finish my art project in time for my friend's birthday, that way he wouldn't think I was some crazy bum itching to get into a knife fight or something.

"Oh, what are you making him?" he asked me.

"A little wooden bear," I lied, and I knew he believed me, which made me feel bad. I always felt bad when I lied.

"That sounds like a great gift," he commented, smiling and sounding so sincere it made me feel even worse. "I'm sure your friend will love it."

I thanked him, mumbling out the words as I stared at the bag instead of him.

Getting out of that place was a fucking blessing.

As I crossed back over to the other side of the street, I was thinking I really ought to go to the druggist too, as much as I didn't want to. And God, did I ever not want to. I knew I had to though, so I trudged myself over there and spent even more money on gauze, bandages, and tape. Why not, right? If I ran out of money, I could just jump off that bridge and hit the I.C. head-on. And anyway, this was better than ruining my jacket.

With my purchases in hand, I headed straight back to the hotel, eager to finish off the bottle of dehorn that was waiting for me under the cot. Shit, that was why I should've locked the door, I realized just before I got there. It was still there though, thank God. This time, I made sure to lock the door.

Going back over to the cot, I dumped everything out on top of it, concentrating mostly on the shine of the knife's blade. The point curved a little, which I guessed would help, maybe. I took my eye patch off and set it on the cot with everything else. As my vision adjusted, I continued staring at the knife, which I then picked up with my left hand and studied beneath the light of the single bulb. Pushing the other stuff aside, I sat on the cot in the usual position, back to the wall, and absently unscrewed the bottle, allayed by the intense scent of its contents. Pretty soon, I was warm and drunk again, and the knife was even nicer-looking. I felt really glad I made this decision. I just wondered if I had the nerve to do it.

It was obviously going to hurt. I told myself I wanted that though. I pushed the pad of my thumb into the point, though not hard enough to draw blood. In my mind, I could see the red blood of the bull staining his uniform, and something in my mind told me this was the least I could do for him, for his family. Still, I hesitated, just holding the thing in my hand and staring at it. Because I was too soft; I had no guts, right? It enraged me now, thinking back on all the fucking times I'd heard that, and I gripped the handle of the knife tighter.

I took a deep breath to try to calm down a little, then very genteelly placed the blade at the corner of my eye. My thinking was to drive the blade into my socket a bit then tilt it in a way that would allow me to pop my eyeball out. The more I thought about the physical motion of doing that, the more I felt that I had to do it. In my mind, I could see myself doing it very clearly, my eyeball popping out as clean as an ice cube from a tray. It would be like going to confession – the whole process, from waiting in line to being in the booth with the priest, would be an intolerable fucking ordeal, but I knew I'd feel so much better once I was down there in the pew in front of the tabernacle saying my eighteen Hail Mary's. Here, this was going to be my penance. Some of it, at least.

So I pressed a little harder, licking my lips. What the hell did I even say at confession back then? All I could remember was waiting in line with the other kids and agonizing over it, trying to remember that prayer I was supposed to say: "My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against you…"

And I was sorry. I really, really was.

The knock that came on the door all of the sudden was like thunder, and I actually gasped, so alarmed that I almost thought I'd popped my eye out. Panicking, I realized I'd actually dropped the knife on the floor. When I reached up to touch my eye, it was still in there. I wasn't sure if the breath I let out was one of relief of not.

The person was still knocking.

"Hold your fucking horses!" I shouted.

Great, now I had to hide all this shit. Still shaking, I grabbed the knife off the floor and tossed it into a single bag along with the first aid stuff, then threw it all under the cot. Next, I slung my eye patch back on, gritting my teeth as I got up to answer the door.

When I saw him standing there, looking attractive and clean but nevertheless dopey as ever, I couldn't even say I was surprised. No one else could have interrupted something so important.

"Yes?" I asked Old Fuzzy, squinting at him. He was wearing a different, nicer shirt. That made me extra annoyed.

"Um," he said, just looking at me and frowning.

"What do you want, Fuzzy?"

"Oh! Uh, I just came by to see, if, uh, you felt like getting something to eat? Maybe?"

Here was the thing – I was hungry. But I didn't want to go eat with him, and I didn't like that he was asking me to, because now I had to be an asshole and say no. I was already an asshole to him in so many ways, treating him like a jocker a punk, so I didn't appreciate being set up like this.

"Why are you asking me this?" I asked.

He furrowed his brow. "Whaddya mean?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose and bit my lower lip. "I'm not hungry," I managed to say.

"Oh," he said. "Well. Alrighty then."

He left on his own accord – I didn't have the shut the door on his face.

The sigh I let out as I sat back down was definitely one of relief, but it was cut short once I realized the knife was now diseased from having been on the dirty floor. Just what I needed, another fucking reminder that the world was rigged against me. It was so terrible that all I could do was shake my head and let out a small sound of disbelief. I crawled back onto the cot and immediately went back to drinking. As I got more and more drunk, I watched the sun begin to set over the main stem, feeling both better and worse. The tune of a song washed through my mind, and the lyrics, taken to heart over the years, moved alongside the sleepy ebb-and-flow of the music:

Do not think 'bout tomorrow
Let tomorrow come and go.
Tonight you're in a nice warm boxcar
Safe from all that wind and snow.

But there was no music, and there was no shoulder for me to cry on.