Tom awoke the next morning to a headache and a sore body, and with absolutely no recollection of what happened the previous night. All he could remember was a bottle of Jack Daniels, horrible nightmares, and... there was something else, some presence he'd felt all night, and couldn't shake. He thought back to last night, trying to piece memories together like an awkward puzzle, but it was difficult for him to remember.

Sitting up in bed, Tom looked around the room, as if the pieces of his memory were nonchalantly lying around. And then, his eyes fell upon the beauty that was Clay Miller, sitting awkwardly in one of those cheap, plastic-lined hotel chairs. His memory went in to overdrive, and he remembered it clearly, he could remember first seeing Clay, sharing beers and stories with him, and somehow ending up in a hotel room in the middle of the night. After that, though, everything was a blur, like always, and a tattered heap of broken dreams, and vivid nightmares that Tom thought were real.

Tom swung his legs over the side of the bed, noticing that he was in different clothes than last night. Last night he had been wearing a pair of dark jeans that fit snuggly and a t-shirt, and now he was dressed in a pair of baggy jeans and a tank top. He shook his head, and reached his hand out, gripping Clay's shoulder and giving it a hard tug.

Clay awoke, grumbling incoherently and groaning as his joints popped, which Tom could hear perfectly, and the noises sent him back to his dreams. He heard the bones pop, crack, and could feel them snap against the cold steel. Wincing, Tom shook his head once, to the left, and his eyes settled on Clay once more.

This was when he saw Clay, really saw him without the haze of alcohol clouding his judgment. His eyes worked their way down Clay's features, stopping every now and then to stare at Clay's eyes, or lips, before he found himself avoiding looking at him all together. Tom couldn't understand his feelings-the urges he had now- and he felt himself being oddly pulled, in a sense, to Clay.

"What time is it?" Clay asked and Tom's shoulders shrugged, automatically, as he turned his wrist over, looking at his watch.

"Nine in the morning." He heard Clay groan, and snapped his head up, seeing the young man stand up. Tom took a second to look at Clay-really look at him, sober, and awake- and he shuddered, thinking about Clay's large frame hovering above him...

"Want to go get breakfast?" Clay's voice cut through Tom's fantasies, and he raised his eyebrows, in a lazy fashion, and fixed his eyes on Clay's.

"Sure, just give me time to shower, okay?" Clay nodded and turned to walk away, giving Tom time to look at him from behind. Tom had to admit Clay was one of the best looking guys he had ever seen - hell, even one of the sexiest, but he would never openly say that. Instead, he watched the door shut behind Clay, and sat there a moment longer, his headache slowly subsiding, and his pains turning into dull, aching throbs.

He pushed himself off the bed, a small yelping noise emerging from his throat the second he was standing; his legs feeling as if they were covered in bruises. Impossible, Tom thought as he shuffled, slow, and sluggish, to the bathroom door. Pushing the door open felt like an impossible task, and Tom's muscles protested every movement he made, frustrating him.

In minutes, he had the door opened; his clothes were stripped off and laying, haphazardly, along the bathroom floor. Tom stood naked in front of the mirror, mouth gaping open as he stared at his own body - bruises covered his thighs, sides, and chest, and he had numerous cuts along his skin. He touched the cuts and bruises with gentle fingertips; skin gliding against skin, causing him to wince at the pain. Dumbfounded, Tom shook his head and turned to the shower, turning the hot water on before stepping under the scalding waterfall.

It took a while for Tom to notice the skin-burning water falling against his cuts, and the sudden intake of steam into his lungs. When he finally did, he doubled over, coughing loudly, and feeling his chest spasm from the spell. After he calmed down, after what seemed like forever, Tom stood under the shower head; letting the hot water roll over his head, and down his chest, running his hands along his wet skin.

As he touched his slick skin, Tom tried to figure out why he was covered in bruises, and cuts, absentmindedly tracing them, almost lovingly, proudly, as water droplets ran along his chest. The branches tore his t-shirt as he walked along the woods. Tom's eyes widened as he felt over one of his cuts, a particularly large one on his bicep, and remembered exactly how he had gotten it.

He'd been in the woods, some time last night, running.. to.. or from something? He wasn't quite sure, but he guessed he had fallen a lot, and ran into a lot of tree branches. That wasn't typical, but not exactly unheard of - Tom had be quite clumsy when he was a child, until he had learned the mines, and gotten more balance.

As he pondered, over millions of thoughts running through his head, the water started running cold, chilling Tom instantly. He snapped the water off, cursing loudly at it, as he stumbled out of the shower, almost falling against the sink.

"Jesus fucking Christ, god damnit.." Tom's obscenities continued to spill from his mouth as he wrapped a large towel around his waist and walked out of the bathroom. Standing in the doorway, Tom looked around the room, until his eyes fell on his bag, and he walked towards it. He heard the gravel crunch under his boots, growing louder and the louder...

Tom dropped to his knees onto the carpeted floor, his hands moving to either side of his head, gripping his hair tightly. He was muttering 'no,' over and over again, whispering it to himself until the thoughts, the memories, vanished completely. His hands fell to his sides, onto the floor, as he sat back against his heels, staring ahead of him, and at the wall.

"What am I?" Tom's voice was quiet, a harsh and broken whisper, as he stared at the faded pattern of the wallpaper. He sat like that for minutes, just staring ahead, and wondering what he really was; wanting to know why he was having vivid dreams about killing someone, and ripping their heart out.

Tears fell from his eyes, rolling hot down his cheeks as he slammed his fist against the ground - cursing everything. His eyes shut and he choked back angry sobs, sobs of frustration, confusion, and Tom slammed his fist into the foot board of the bed. He was angry with himself, his memories, and his mind for fucking with him. Was he really a killer? Or did he just fantasize about the kill - the whole process of going about doing it?

Tom opened his mouth to scream, but a knock on the door stopped him cold, and he snapped his mouth shut. Shuffling to his feet, Tom wiped the back of his hands over his eyes, wiping away any trace of tears from them. Once satisfied that whoever was behind the door wouldn't notice that he was actually crying, he opened the door slowly, his eyes falling on Clay.

Clay's eyes widened when he looked at Tom, seeing the scars, cuts, both fresh and healing, and bruises that were just now starting to form. He hadn't noticed the small gasp escape his throat, until Tom's own eyes matched his own, and looked down at the mess on his skin.

It took everything inside of Clay to keep from lifting his hands to touch the bruises, outline them gently with his fingertips. It took even more for him not to turn around and run, run like hell, away from this god forsaken town, and the man standing in front of him. I can't do that, Clay thought, his eyes lingering on each bruise, scanning each cut individually, wondering how such a gorgeous man could be so scarred, so messed up.

"I think I had one too many accidents last night," Tom's voice was soft, an undertone, as he lifted his own hand to re-traced the bruises on his torso, thankful that Clay couldn't see his thighs. Then it hit him that he was standing there, with the door open, in front of this beautiful man... in his towel. Tom's cheeks flushed as he turned and walked into the room, feeling Clay's footsteps following him, even on the cushioned floor.

"I'll be a minute." Tom's words came out too fast, and he stumbled over them, his cheeks growing hotter. Can I just get one thing right? Tom thought to himself as he snatched his bag off the floor and made his way to the bathroom, without a single word to Clay.

Once the door was shut, Clay chuckled softly to himself, until he remembered the way Tom had looked - the bruises, the cuts, and the strange way Tom had just walked off, with no further explination, or words. Clay just shrugged, shuffling his feet on the carpet as he waited for Tom to get into clothes, his mind jumping from one thought to another - first from Tom's bruised body, to the thought of what was... No, Clay couldn't think like that, wouldn't let himself think that way, not now - not ever.

So, he patiently waited, for what seemed like forever, flipping through the stack of boring, un-interesting magazines that he knew no one ever leafed through. As he read pointless articles about weed-eating, mowing your lawn, and how to keep pesky animals out of your yard, Clay listened to a line of words coming from the bathroom, his head snapping up toward the door.

"Tom?" Clay's voice was soft, cautious, as he tossed the magazine on top of the bed and walked toward the door, hearing the muttering grow louder, into what sounded like screaming. Clay was to the door in two easy strides, twisting the doorknob roughly and shoving the heavy door open, just in time to see Tom hunched on the floor, hands over his head.

"Tom.." Clay said, his voice louder than before, and panicked, as he fell to his knees in front of Tom. Clay's fingers worked at trying to pry Tom's hands away from his hair, and he grunted in frustration, his fingernails digging into Tom's skin.

"No, god, no! I didn't do it, I'm so sorry!" Tom screamed, louder than before, as he began rocking back and forth, his head thrashing from side to side. He was having those thoughts again, but this time they wouldn't stop, like before. Tom saw the girl Clay had shown him a picture of-Whitney, he couldn't get her name out of his head- and he saw her lying, bloody and on the floor of the mines' control room. There was a gaping, hollow hole in her chest, and the way she lay there, splayed out on the floor like that, was like some kind of fucked up, morbid art to him. Tom could remember the way she'd screamed, begged for him to let her go; that she wouldn't tell anyone, and that she needed to get back home...

Tom's breath caught in his throat when he remembered what else she had said; a name, it was so simple and small, that Tom had barely remembered it after he was finished. Clay, she had screamed out, and Tom's eyes snapped open, his head lifting up, and his gaze landing on Clay's. He was trembling, hands shaking as he removed them from his head, unlocking his fingers from his hair.

"Clay." The word came out in a broken, breathless whisper, and Tom scattered back against the bathroom floor, his back hitting the bathtub. He felt Clay's eyes piercing his own, his gaze burning on to Tom's, as he lay there; staring at the brother of the girl he had murdered. I murdered someone.. The thought seemed strange at first, and Tom shook his head violently, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his shins, chin rested on his knees.

Clay sat back, watching Tom with wide eyes, and a confused expression; his eyebrows knit together. He watched Tom shake, and he reached out, his fingertips barely brushing over Tom's skin, causing him to scream loudly.

"It's okay, Tom," Clay whispered, his voice low, lower than usual, as he moved closer to Tom, their skin almost touching. "Just.." Clay breathed in deeply, lifting his hand to brush his fingers through Tom's hair, not thinking for a second that it was wrong, and he shouldn't be doing it. All he could think about was this man-this stranger-was hurt, and Clay knew he had to help him, even though he didn't know how.

"Just tell me what's wrong, please.." Clay couldn't believe he was pleading with a complete stranger, on the dirty floor of a hotel in, basically, the middle of nowhere. But, here he was, kneeling on the floor, his fingers in another man's hair, trying to calm him down the best he could. Clay slipped his fingers out of Tom's hair and onto his back, his fingertips roughly pressing against his tense muscles.

"Have you ever done anything bad..." Tom whispered against the fabric of his jeans, his voice slightly muffled as he pressed his face against the denim more. He felt Clay's fingertips hesitate on his back, and for a second, he was upset, and that turned to gratefulness. He wanted Clay to stop touching him, wanted the man to run out of the room, and never come back. Hell, he wanted Clay to kill him in cold blood, just like he-thought he- did to his sister.

"Yeah, I have," Clay finally whispered, breaking the awkward silence that hung between Tom and himself, his fingers working Tom's shoulder again. He could feel Tom trembling under his fingertips, and he could also feel him shudder. "Why?" The question was soft, and Clay scooted closer to Tom, without realizing it.

"I just.." Tom breathed out, pulling his face away from his knees so he could look at Clay, but he avoided the young man's eyes. He was afraid if he met Clay's gaze, that he would break down and tell him what he had done - or at least what his thoughts were telling him he had done.

"I've done bad things, Clay." Tom cleared his throat and rubbed the heel of his hand against his eyes, wiping away tears, tears that Tom hadn't shed in a while. "Really.. really bad things.." The images popped in his head - Whitney sprawled out on the floor, her dark brown hair a mess, but somehow, beautifully fanned out around her head, and her chest ripped wide open.

"Like what?" Clay asked, shifting to sit next to Tom beside the bathtub, his hand tracing down the curve of Tom's spine. He felt Tom shudder under his touch and he swallowed hard, cupping Tom's jaw with his free hand, pulling his gaze to his own.

"What have you done that is so bad, that you're in here freaking out?" Clay chuckled, trying to lighten the mood, but didn't see it affecting Tom in anyway. Shutting his mouth, Clay quickly wiped the smirk off his face and slipped his hands away from Tom's body, before folding them on his lap.

"Bad things, to people who didn't.. They didn't deserve it, Clay.." Tom's voice broke, and he felt a sob creeping it's way up his throat. He choked it back, shut his eyes as tightly as possible and smirked, in the harshest way possible. "You should get away from me, if you know what's good for you.." Tom chuckled, harshly, and blinked his eyes open, peering at Clay through his eyelashes, the same wicked grin on his lips.

Clay shook his head, his jaw set and his lips pressed into a hard, thin line. "No, I won't." The statement shocked Tom and his forehead furrowed, before he started laughing, shaking his head.

"Nice joke, Clay," he laughed out, before calming down and adding, "but no, really.. Leave. Get so fucking far away from this town, and never look back. Forget you met me, forget this town, forget everything - even Whitney.." He saw the look in Clay's eyes when he mentioned her name, saw the way Clay winced, and saw his expression change.

"You.." Clay started, looking down as he swallowed hard, picking at his jeans as he blinked his eyes, rapidly, trying to keep tears from falling.

"Saying she's dead? Yes, Clay," Tom's voice was soft, sympathetic, "that's exactly what I'm saying. She's been gone for weeks.. and no one in this town has seen her..." Tom watched as Clay lifted his head, his eyes brimming with tears, and he felt his heart sink. He was usually apathetic to every, and all, human emotion, but that moment was an exception - the only one Tom would ever let himself have.

His hand was outstretched, ready to brush away Clay's tears, when he felt Clay's fist collide with his jaw, sending him back against the bathroom floor. Tom was on his back, his jaw already throbbing from the pain, groaning loudly and rubbing his cheek, when Clay crawled on top of him; his fists coming down like hail, each time harder than the other.

"You son of a"-punch -"bitch!" Clay was yelling at Tom, while his fists were colliding with his jaw, over and over again, making blood pool in his mouth. He tried telling Clay to stop, but he decided against it, figuring that if it made Clay feel better to beat the shit out of him, he would let him. And, if Clay didn't stop, and Tom died, that'd be good - no more mysterious murders in, or around, the mines.. No more nightmares, just death.

Tom shut his eyes, waiting for all the punches he deserved, but they never came. Blinking his eyes open, Tom looked at Clay, and saw tears running down his face, fist in mid-air, about to come down. Tom's eyes were pleading for Clay to just punch him, kill him, if need-be, just get it over with.

"I'm.. you.. I'm sorry, fuck." Clay muttered, scrambling to his feet and running out of the bathroom door. Tom turned over slowly and tried calling after Clay; opening his mouth and trying to scream Clay's name, yell for him to come back.

But nothing came out, and his words were muffled by the gargling noises the blood in his mouth made. Tom shoved himself up, and to his feet, swaying slightly as he stood up; his eyes looking out into the room.