There was no reprieve from the stinging punishment of self-inflicted guilt. No second chance to redeem you from the sins that sent you plundering into the very depths of that guilt. Nothing that could save you from being your own worst enemy or harshest critic, however, you prefer to phrase it. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, or so he's told. He doesn't know if his intentions were good or not, he had arrived at his own personal hell before he really had a chance to examine his intentions. And his hell bled guilt; gushing and thick with everything he had gotten wrong. Every mistake he had ever made. Every time he had never felt as if he was good enough.

It burned bridges and turned memories of things gone wrong into slate gray ashes of regret, sparking orange with the fire of what once was but never will be again. He can't rebuild those bridges, ignite the last lingering spark and start over. Life doesn't work like that. It's unfortunate because when he's sweeping up the ashes of his own regret, he can think of everything he should have done differently. He can think of what he should have said but never did.

What good were words to him now?

What good was anything to him now?

She is gone. Has been for a couple of days now and has no plans of returning. Not that he can blame her. He wouldn't come back either, if their positions were reversed. That doesn't stop him from turning into a wreckless, haphazard vigilante who seemed to be on a suicide mission. That doesn't stop him from being angry and snapping at anyone who dare say a word to him about her. That doesn't stop him from speeding by her old apartment, even though he knows she's not there.

Nothing stops him now that she's gone. She was the only thing that kept him on the ground; kept him from actually killing hisself on a new mission. She reined in that wreckless part of his personality that just wanted to get a mission done regardless of the consequences, to both his physical and mental health. Her sharpness and her defiance against his every attempt to sway her in his direction of morality were both things he missed. But more than that, he missed the tenderness in her voice when he returned with an injury and the gentleness in her touch when she was the only one available to treat his injuries.

He missed her.

Not, of course, that he would ever admit such a thing, because he is male and admitting that he misses her would call his masculinity into question and weaken his defenses. And he can't afford that right now. His defenses, carefully constructed but still fragile, protected him from the vulnerability of forming close relationships with people he could possibly lose. Although, she's already gone, so what does that matter anymore? Why should he care about that?

What difference does it make?

For him, it made a lot of difference. It meant the difference between finding that respite from guilt or letting it eat him alive. Then again, perhaps it already had. Perhaps, what he is now, is just a ghost; a film of smoke, floating around transparent and empty. Perhaps, his self-condemnation had already made a hearty meal out of him. And maybe, just maybe, through the film of smoke, in the thick blood of his own guilt, he could find himself again. Free himself from the heavy chains and the keyless locks of self-reproach. This time, he could be the magician, not to make her reappear but to find himself in the illusion of what had been his life.

He could be without her.

Dear God. I listen to 'Semi-Automatic' by the Boxer Rebellion too much. So this - whatever it is - happened after I found the lyrics on my hard-drive, decided to listen to the song and write a Human Target on top of that. I should only be allowed to do one of those things at a time because this is what happens if I do all three. This dark, depressing thing. I'm not even going to classify this as a story. I actually think Chance's guilt might be my fictional soul-mate because this is the second or third story I've written about him feeling guilty. I can't help it. I love the angsty-Chance thing so much. I think I need psychological help in some form because subconsciously, I seem to be a very dark person. And anyway, my muse decided to take advantage of my exhaustion so this was probably a bad idea but I'm doing it anyway. Leave me some love, Dolls!

Love you,

RobertDowneyJrLove

P.S. I'm going to go coax Chance out of that dark, angst-riddled corner I put him in and try to write something happier after I've gotten some sleep.