Author's Note: I think I might possibly have to much time on my hands...but I'm sure there's someone who's not complaining. ;) This really is my first fill story to be written in a first person point of view, although for time to the time, that might change to third, but I wanted to try something different and I think I can get Sands feelings in better. Also, I know there's mistakes about certain grammer words, I meant it that way

Disclaimer: Don't own Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, he belongs to his respected owners. Don't own Eric Cameron, he belongs to his respected owner, Scarlett Burns, I just occassionally borrow him for my twisted little reasons.

This is dedicated to anyone who's been in Sands...green and red belled christmas socks(which is a place I've been.)

I'm a sinner. Pure and simple. Or do you need me to space it out for you a bit? Okay, how 'bout this then?

I...(this by the way is a noun)...AM(An adverb!)...A(that other ad-thingy...I think)...SINNER(Verb.)

S.I.N.N.E.R

Is that simple enough for you? Hope so. Let me continue. I'm not the type to pray every day.

I'm not the type to ask God why.

I never stayed in Sunday School... I was to busy out back, gamblin' or smokin'. Maybe even tokin'.

I sure ain't the type to read the bible. Hell, I used the fucking thing as a coster, door stop, fly swatter, just about anything practical I can think of to use it for.

I've never felt guilty about lynin'. After a few years, it became a second nature. Then my job.

I never stopped the pills. I mean fuck that! I had to start popin' just to get through the day with those bunch of fuckers.

I wasn't one to speak to family.

I didn't call friends.

Hell, I wasn't even present at my father's funeral. After all, I still had a HUGE fucking hangover to nurse over. Proceeded to do the whole alcohol binge not but twenty minutes after clearing first base with the great hangover gods.

So when that bright light was shining down on me in that over sterile environment, and my wrists where stinging something awful with that overly, gotta scratch it, feeling but if your nails or indeed the shinny little pocket knife I used to scratch them with the first time, makes contact with their current state, you're gonna bleed all over the overly waxed non descript white tiles with all those little grey specks in them, that gives me a fucking migraine every time I see them, cause they remind me of ink blots that failed to make the cut to the Phsyc's office, the janitor's gonna be all over your ass with that broom of his, cause it took HOURS to polish those textured little fucks to that high gloss shine, and I don't feel like having that broom stuck up my ass, so they can rush me over to next ER room to remove it, while groups of giggling 14 year old Japanese girls stand out in the hall snappin' pictures with their Fuji cameras and are on their Nokia cell phones to their friends, telling the world about how this poor fuck bled all over the slippery little bastards that are SUPPOSED to be floor and got to walk around after wards with bristles of the fuckin' broom out my ass, actin' like a duck tail.

I was forced to let out a hollow laugh as I heard some one to my left(who I believe I know, but I can't be certain at this moment) mutter sadly under their breath, "Two pills too many."

Hey! I personally thought those fuckin' Diazepams rocked my lovely little belled socks... Bloody fuckin' hell! I'm still wearing those belled red and green christmas socks! I can see the green of the toes from where I'm laying. WAIT! My feet!

Whoa..that was close... feet are still attached. For a moment there, I thought... I chuckle softly to myself, oblivious to anything around me.

Until the ugliest face I've ever seen appears over mine. A scaly hand grabs my forehead, jerks my head around. Ooo I catch sight of some people I know. And those fucking giggly girls are gone finally. Then I'm blinded again. I give a cry of rage and pain, flailing a moment. Then I hear this stale voice. "I think he'll live."

Oh, now THERE is a shame. I'm feelin' a bit depressed over that one. Unless of course, this is actually hell. Although, if it is, then some one must REALLY hate me, cause it looks as if my room mates are Sammy Iokie and Eric Cameron.

"Jeff, WHAT were you thinking!" Sammy asks, looking down at me.

I shut my eyes for a moment, cletching my fists. And reply rather slowly, tensely. It's suddenly very hard to put words together, let alone get them out of my mouth. "I...was thinking...how...nice it...would be...not...to...see your...face." I get the prefered response, of Sammy backing off and looking at Eric.

At that moment, the doctor decides to interrupt. "Well you could have killed yourself, Officer."

I roll my eyes, although it seems like it takes twenty mintues just to get them to rotate, and mutter. "That...was...the...idea..."

Then Eric had to speak up. "It was stupid, Jeff." I turn my head and glare daggers at him, gritting my teeth.

"Well, I think we can fix that problem." The doctor cuts in again. "We're sending you up stairs to the seventh floor and checking you into the psychiatric unit. There's silence in the room, all I could hear was the ticking of a clock. Everyone was standing around blinking, except for me of course... who was laying on the gurney blinking. Then I moaned out loud, shutting my eyes.

"Aww...shit..."