Disclaimer…I own nothing. The prayer is the Lord's Prayer.

Author's Note…Here I go again, writing sad 'fics with a religious undertone…If you read 'Sinful', I think this story will be more in-character than not, but I hope it's not that necessary. When I wrote this, I didn't have 'Sinful' in mind.

our Father, who art in Heaven…

A clear droplet of liquid, like a stray rosary bead, snaked its way down Chase's face, and he could not tell whether it was water, dripping from the sponge that tenderly dabbed his forehead; sweat, from the thousand shots of adrenaline; or tears, from himself.

'Chase?' a woman--Cameron, he guessed--said gently. 'Are you ok?'

He did not think so, but he felt himself nodding, so he must be. Cameron frowned and stepped back when Chase suddenly grabbed the small, wet cotton wad from her hand and threw it toward the small trash bin.

He missed.

'It'll be fine,' Cameron assured him, although she had no way of knowing this. 'He just wanted drugs. You were the first doctor he saw.'

Chase got up and started to pace the length of the small exam room.

'It'll never happen again.'

He glanced up at her, and he could feel how cold his eyes are because they chilled his entire body. 'You don't know that,' he said.

…hallowed be thy name.

He could still feel it. The cylinder barrel of the gun was cold and harsh against the creases in his forehead. There was something sticking out from it; he didn't know what because guns were not things he was familiar with. He does not get mixed up with people who own guns. They're Bad People, and they're going straight to Hell. Chase knows he is going there too, but he has always been just fine on his own, and he is not going to Hell to make friends. but it hurt and it was sharp and, like a bacteria, permeated through his skin.

It made him bleed, and when his blood splattered against the cool tiled floor, he could have sworn that it formed the wickedness of 666.

It made Chase wonder who is the Beast; the desperate druggie, who only wants a way to feel alive, or himself, who has been dead for years.

thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.

He could still see it, too.

Not the gun. The clip-show of his life, played behind his glazed eyes in grainy black-and-white. There was his father walking out; his mother, passed out on the couch in a drunken stupor; Chase himself crying in the bathroom.

He was disgusted.

give us this day our daily bread.

Chase walked carefully over to the small mirror, to examine the cut. He was dimly aware of Cameron watching with worried eyes, but he was too absorbed with himself to care.

There is a round outline of a stain there, and suddenly he wants to know where the gun has been. It is an insignificant query, and when he finds out, it will just be one more thing out of his control, but still; it is knowledge to be gained.

But, like his mother told him, after she thought his father was having an affair: "The fact is, once you learn the truth, you'll wish you had been satisfied enough with the lie." Then she giggled drunkenly. 'Isn't that a truth you wished you never heard? Isn't it?'

She was right; the simple truth and the pure truth always made him feel perplexed and dirty.

forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

As the pressure above his brow mounted, and his hands refused to move towards his pocket, where a bottle of pills were, Chase took guesses as to what the actual trip to Hell would be like. Would he simply close his eyes, and be there? Would he feel a great falling sensation, and suddenly notice a bruise, charily close to his heart? Would the shining bullet weigh him over until gravity grasped him, and didn't let go until he was in the antechamber of Hell?

Chase knew what it would be like if he went to Heaven: He would simply evaporate there. First his bones would grow light and less dense, then his arteries and veins would empty out, and finally, his skin would simply vanish, like a life.

But he couldn't redeem himself, he was definitely going to Hell, and the only thing worth hypothesizing about was whether or not it would hurt.

And if it were to hurt, better to get the pain over with sooner rather than later, right?

Right?

and lead us not into temptation…

Hours later, Chase caresses a small, silver firearm like a lifeline. It leaves a red indent under his fingers, and he wishes that he could palm-read. But what would it be worth now? He knows how it is going to end.

Chase takes a deep breath and inserts five shells into the cylinder, although he'll only need one. It's insuarance, he tells himself. It's just insuarance.

But no matter how many times he repeats the mantra, he is not convinced.

…but deliver us from evil.

Chases raises one quaking arm, his muscles flexing involuntarily. He presses the mini-revolver to his forehead, and it feels different than when the druggie did the same.

What have I ever done for this world, he asks himself for the six-hundred and sixty-sixth time that day. The question has been reverberating in his mind ever since Cameron sobbed to him that she was so glad he didn't die. Yesterday, Chase would have thought that proclamation would have given him the will to live, but today he knows better.

My only regret, Chase decides indifferently, is that the druggie didn't do it for me.

The last thing he sees before he pulls the trigger is the towels he rolled up against the door, so no one will hear the shot. So no one will know he left.

amen.