AN: Tag for Mayhem on a Cross, I don't own Bones. Please review.

"You don't know anything about Hell."

"And you do?"

I didn't even have to hold myself back to keep from telling this little Emo messed up white-bread middle class washed up punk what I know of Hell. It wasn't worth telling him that he has no claim whatsoever on this subject no matter how satisfying it would be to watch him cringe in horror at the things that I've seen, done, and felt.

I should have answered with something snarky like: "Yeah I've been there you little punk." Or something along those lines, but now the time has passed as Pinworm is now locked up and Bones and me are now quietly drinking the vile taste of the interrogation room away.

"Your delusional cozy reality doesn't even come close."

Hmmm let me think on that, last I checked while I was definitely delusional at some points in my life my reality hasn't exactly been filled with cozy moments. In fact quite the opposite; it was the lack of happiness that made me delusional at times because I always remember that my fantasies were happy ones to help me escape from a lousy reality.

I remember the happy moments of growing up mainly because they're so few and far between; the rest was a mixture of overhanging fear and pain. Of course these moments are probably not the sort that other people remember from their childhood.

I remember the first time I hit back when he hit me and my brother. I was only six but I remember it like it was yesterday. He'd come home again smelling of cheap rotgut and started yelling about how me and my brother had made a mess in the living room and hadn't picked up our toys. He slapped me first and Jared second. Before he could hit us again I'd made a fist and swung at him catching him just below his knee. I felt so proud of myself because for the next week he'd only hit me and ignored mom and Jared. I still remember how good those bruises felt because I remember how much my mom would cry when he bruised her; I did what I could to keep her from hurting.

I remember coming home from school when I was 17 and saw him passed out snoring like a buzz saw on the floor. I couldn't help but notice that Jared had a broken arm and how blood was trickling down from his mouth. I remember how heavy the knife was in my hand as I stood over that helpless unconscious form. I can still feel the hate that I felt at that moment coursing through me and urging me to punish him for everything that he did. I remember how Granddad walked through the door suddenly and how he saw me just standing over dad like that knife in hand.

I remember coming back from the recruiter and telling him and mom how I signed up. When he railed at me for being a screw up I hit him… and hit him… and hit him… that was my happiest moment inside the place that I was raised.

Of course when I enlisted I thought I'd escaped Hell and I did for a little while. Basic, AIT, all the Army schools were some of the most enjoyable times in my life. Even freezing my ass off while starving in the mountains of Georgia and keeping awake my dropping little dollops of Tabasco sauce in my eyes I enjoyed myself. I guess it's what you're used to.

Then I left the schools and got deployed. If combat isn't Hell then you can at least see it from there. Being tired, hungry, and frightened all the time. Watching guys I signed up with break down and cry in the middle of the night, hearing their terrified screams while they slept. Nothing can prepare you for the first time you see a dead body; mine was a little girl who had been blown up by a grenade in Panama. I can still see her face, pristine in angelic beauty, her brown eyes and dark hair over a chocolaty skin. I can still see where her belly was; a red gory mess of shredded skin and pulped organs, her little blue dress was ruined.

The first time I killed was at least me knocking on Hell's door. My squad was taking fire from a ramshackle tin hut and I was on the team who had to go in and clear it. I can still feel the weight of the grenade in my hand as I twisted and pulled the pin away; the spoon bounced off the wall of the hut making a noise. It was such a loud noise…

I tossed the flash bang inside and rushed in. We didn't have any training for this sort of thing, not back then at least. I remember her flailing about with a pistol in hand. She was shooting wildly, blindly. I still think that I could have tackled her and neutralized her that way. I shot her twice in the chest, her blood was so red but her eyes were so blue. Her eyes kept staring at me as we bagged her.

I was so relieved to be chosen as a sniper I thought that way I'd never have to kill a person like that again. I'd never have to smell them as their life pumped out of their veins and onto the floor. Never again I'd have to watch them stare at me with those accusing eyes.

Every shot I took another piece of me died. I remember all my kills. My first one as a sniper was an old man. He looked so much like my grandfather. I can still remember how his mouth moved as my shot punched through his lungs. He had been exhorting his followers to another atrocity only to have his lungs fill up with blood. I stared at him through my scope until he bled out; his eyes stared right back at me.

My last kill as a soldier was the worst. I suppose it was a bit of a payback to the guys who had captured and tortured me. I can still smell the stench of my own shit covered body as I lay there a broken man. I could hear the sound of gunfire; I had no idea it was a rescue team. I had believed that my country had abandoned me to the clutches of these evil men and women.

A little boy ran into my cell carrying a knife screaming curses at me. He lunged at me thinking that I'd die quickly. I moved faster than he or I could believe; my body screaming in pain as I put pressure on broken bones and bleeding skin. I remember being thankful that they didn't do to me what they did to some of the other captives there. Rape isn't a crime that is reserved for women alone. I grabbed his face and slammed him down into the rock. I kept slamming him down until I looked down and realized that his skull was pulped and that my hands were covered in brains. I looked up just in time to see an American uniform before I passed out. Well I was unconscious at least but I kept seeing my brain and blood covered hands.

When I got out I was a drunken deadbeat drifter gambling my life away; it's not exactly hell but it wasn't heaven either.

When I finally cleaned myself up and became a cop I got to witness all the horrors that we try to keep covered up. For every victim you save you take on some of their pain. I took on so much pain… so much pain.

They say that man must suffer injustice or else he would never know justice; I suppose they have a point. I know that God and the Saints are trying to repay me for my time in Hell because I get to spend so much time in the company of an Angel. I know that I will never forget Hell because it would mean that I'd never know when I was in Heaven; I look to my side and see a beautiful sheen of white skin, azure eyes, and luscious brown hair.

She looks so beautiful in the soft dark light of this bar, she's still lost in her own thoughts. Probably should just let her keep thinking them without disturbing her, afterall if she's busy thinking then she can't catch me staring at her.

I might have been through Hell but now I know that I'm close to being in Heaven.