It had all started when your bff Dick had showed up at your door, looking miserable and cried in your arms. You had offered him to stay and he had agreed, but then, a few minutes later, he had gotten up and said he had something to do, or to check, you don't remember exactly his words. You remember painfully that, before leaving, he had checked himself in the mirror next to the entrance door, be instead of, as usual, grinning at himself, he had pursed his lips and uttered that he couldn't look worse. Which was kinda true. He could have. But he had never, of what you can recall.

And he had come back the day after, looking a little better and rested, so you, Logan Echolls, had assumed he had found another place to stay. But he moved in anyway, despite the fact he often spent the night outside, he leaved officially here with you. And even if he didn't sleep here most of the nights, he slept here by day.

So you didn't mind, since your friend seemed to be better, and you could enjoy the company of each other again.

¤

I had all started when you started your year at Hearst, you had heard through Veronica that Dick was back and a mess. And it was indeed a wretch that showed up at your door that night. You had opened the door, expecting to see Veronica or Wallace hiring you for a late night take out. Instead, she'd found herself staring back in Dick's deep blue pools.

He looked so lost and so young all of a sudden, that though you didn't really like him, you'd felt your hand rise and touch his cheek. The contact burning both of you because the pain was still so vivid. And he had fallen into your arms, and you had welcomed it, felt good. He'd kicked the door shut and leaned against it, just holding you. Just that.

And he'd spent the night, it was unexpected to say the least, that you had both found comfort in each other. But he also brought you warmth by holding you against him. And when he'd left the first time, you'd realized that you hadn't exchanged a single word. But when he had appeared again the evening after that, you'd had talked. A little, and every time a little more.

And when he'd left the second time he'd hold your face and put a long kiss on your forehead. It was something like a mutual 'thank you'.

And though you knew it was wrong, it had kept going. And going.

¤

It had all started at his funerals. You had heard someone say that he was a monster, and had punched him. Because you couldn't bear that. Funerals are for those who love. Not for vultures. If someone despised your blood lying dismembered in that coffin, he had nothing to do here.

And you'd seen her. Later you'd heard what he had done to all those people in detail. To her. And felt so bad that you had been mean to her. To him. To them.

And when she'd welcomed you that night, or maybe just let you in, you'd felt the tiny spark of hope bringing you back on the good path. Or just turning your around on your way to hell for your back to face the worst end.

Every time you feel her inside your embrace, you feel a little better, a little less worthless. When you share memories with her you know she's the only one to understand. And it feels right, though you know it's wrong, to be with her, almost every night, in her room, talking or cuddling the other to sleep.

Because you both never slept that well when the other one wasn't around.

¤

It had all started at a party. The last one party you ever attended before being a complete outcast. You'd been drugged, and the fact that it was accidentally didn't excuse it. You were raped. That was unforgivable.

And after that, a friend with who you grew closer with time started dating the guy, who of course you didn't know to be guilty at the time. And when he'd jumped off a roof months later, you found out the monster he was. You though a part of you had died when he blew up the plan you thought at the time your dad was in.

And it hit you like a bullet when you realized that he'd left his girlfriend all alone in her hotel room, without clothes. And a second bullet hit you when you reached the parking lot, and found Dick Casablancas, sat, catatonic, on the ground, like a vision of Duncan branded on your memory, surrounded by paramedics. The sight was awful. There was Mac, wrapped in a towel, freezing and crying, there was him, dumb, and there was the car, behind them, on which the monster had plastered, taking with him the nice shy boy. Only one of his hands was showing. Bloody, motionless, dead hand.

So when after the beginning of the new school year at Hearst, your friend Mac had started to look better and smile again, you hadn't mind not knowing why. You assumed that she would tell you when ready. And it had made you a better person because you'd tried to do it with the others too.

¤

It had all started in a little league team. You had been tortured. You don't ever wanna remember what that monster did to you. And you feel so bad that hiding it, separating, dividing yourself on two parts to push away the pain had turned you into the same monster.

When you jumped, subconsciously you knew you were making the good decision. At some level it was.

But you hurt people. But to suppress the hidden madness, growing in you like a hissing snake, you had to suppress the boy everyone knew. Because the link between them couldn't be severed. As much as you hoped it could.

When you witnessed the pain you'd left behind you felt horrible. You were full now, you were complete. The evil in you had been washed. But you couldn't do anything for them. Or, you could, but nothing much. Keep them from the worth, but couldn't help them on the way to solace.

You'd kept the hand of your brother to slid the razor on that wrist, though a scar remained there, and you knew he cherished it as a memory of you.

You'd kept Mac from drinking that cup and sleep with that guy. Not because you where jealous, because it would have destroyed her.

So when you saw the two people you cared about find each other, help each other heal, you were happy. You were soon surprised, too, at how many beautiful memories they had of you.