Why I am thinking about this - standing in the shower and wondering why this God damn city water takes so long to get warm - I don't know. I'm twenty-five. My life is over. Over at twenty-five, having already experienced both the most incredible, brilliant success and the most pathetic failure. I have fifty or so years left in my life, to do what? Nothing. Plod through the rest of this mind-numbing degree, get a job, make money, spend the rest of my days sitting around at home and reading outdated novels in order to pretend I have some sort of rich inner life. There is nothing left. The kicker is, no one is even going to know about it. No 60 Minutes, no books, no Time magazine, no adoring cult of young scientists following in my footsteps, lavishing my name with praise and referring to me as the Dr. Wright. Nope, nothing. Nothing but a few scars, which, by the way, I'm going to have to make up excuses for eventually, and a lot of pity. Pity? Never wanted it, not by a long shot. But I'm not sure what the hell I want right now. I think I just want to crawl back into bed like a scorned dog with Rachel, not caring that the only reason's she's here is also, again, out of pity.

I woke up this morning and nearly had a heart attack. Practically fell right out of bed. Ever woken up to realize you're not alone? I honestly don't even remember her getting into bed with me. So, like I said, jumped a mile and nearly fell flat on my ass out of bed, like someone had dumped a box of snakes into my lap. She didn't wake up. I actually pathetically tried to crawl, slither, whatever the most wretched word I can think of, back in as quietly as I could. And I'm only a few tenuous strands of temper away from beating my head into this disgustingly-colored tile because of what I did next. I was still half-asleep, half frightened, and completely confused, and before I knew it I was right next to her again. I'd never been so scared in my entire fucking life. And I don't get scared. Ever. I couldn't move my eyes. Her face was right next to mine. Beauty and the god damn Beast, how about that.

And then, to utterly compound my idiocy, I tried to talk, to tell her something. Not that she would have heard. And even if she had, it wouldn't have mattered, because words didn't come out. What came out was a noise, halfway in between a sigh and a...yeah. A whine. Christ. A whine, one even more pathetic than Champ could ever have made, no matter how many bones in his scrawny back were broken. A whine. A puppy whine.

At that point, my brain finally lurched back into gear and I hightailed it to the bathroom, and proceeded to throw up whatever bile was in my stomach. Giant, mutated butterflies clawing away in my stomach, some sort of sick joke on the feeling you get when you're ten years old and the girl you like, instead of sticking her tongue out at you and scowling like a pigtailed thundercloud, actually smiles. Actually, I still feel like throwing up. Congratulations Rachel, you've not only completely screwed up my head, you've now completely screwed up my body as well. Guess you have everything now, don't you? And you pretend you don't see a God damned thing. What do I have to do, walk across the room with the words tattooed across my nose?

But yeah, that's right, I keep forgetting - you don't have to remind me. I'm the asshole. Every class needs one. The rich, smart asshole. Not nice enough, not nearly handsome or suave enough, just an incredibly uptight guy with a Napoleon complex - nothing important enough to drag your attention away from yourself., You're just looking for another daddy. A sweet ole guy, with a brain the size of a squirrel's , who will "yes, dear" and "no, dear" and '"I love you dear" you, and tell you how wonderful and beautiful you are every second of the day. Whereas me, well - I'd tell you hell no if I felt like it, I'd say yes, you do look fat in that dress, I'd never openly say that you're any smarter than I am and would never, ever admit to being completely under your thumb, but I can guarantee you those idiots couldn't hold a candle, Rachel, couldn't even hold a goddam match, to what I feel, the twisting, wrenching feeling in my gut every time I see you, or even hear your voice for that matter.

You don't even know, you can't even fucking imagine, the horror that I felt when I knew I couldn't bring you back, and you were just lying there on the gurney like some raggedy, lifeless piece of trash, somehow still heart-stoppingly...bad pun...excuse me...beautiful even under the maddening whine of the machines.. If you hadn't come back, believe me, that entire bottle of potassium would be in my arm and a bullet straight through my head, and there wouldn't have been a damn thing Joe, Dave, or Steckle could have done, even all together, to stop me.

Intensity scares you, doesn't it?

I scare you, don't I?

"NELSON!"

"What?" Nelson muttered loudly his throat even more scratchy than usual from the long sleep. He whipped around in the shower, nearly slipping.

"I only have one bathroom, you've been in there for thirty minutes!" Rachel's infuriated shout sounded over the patter of the running water.

Nelson growled and pressed his forehead against the tile. His body was shrieking for nicotine, or something, right now, and he felt like if he moved he would just lose it and scream at her.

"Nelson?' Rachel's voice came again, softer.

"WHAT?!?!" He lost it and his voice rose to an outraged roar.

"Nelson, its been an hour and a half...are you okay?"

What?

"It's been what?"

"An hour and a half."

"You said thirty minutes."

"Nelson? That was an hour ago. Answer me, are you all right?"

Oh no. You've got to be kidding me Don't think about it. Blacking out. Losing some small chunks of time. Normal, normal , normal when your brain has been under stress or injury.

"Alright, keep your shirt on."

Normal, it's all right. Calm down. But he wasn't so sure. Unless Rachel was pulling his leg, sixty minutes had just disappeared. Like they hadn't even been there. Sixty minutes in three seconds. He turned the shower off with a quick flick of the wrist. As if to prove to her he could get out of the shower as slowly or a quickly as he pleased, he shook the water from his hair like a dog and threw a towel around his waist, not bothering to dry himself off. Barging out of the bathroom and not bothering to stop and look, he ran smack into Rachel. Boom. And stop. She had been coming down the narrow hallway to the bathroom as soon as she had heard the handle turn, eyes down, not looking where she was going.

Well.

The polite thing would have been to exchange excuse me's, and continue on, but they both froze like a pair of deer in the headlights of a roaring Mack truck. It was as if they were afraid to even twitch a muscle, for fear that something even worse might happen if they did.

Seconds ticked by. One.

Two.

Three.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

His chest was still flush with hers, and the water on his skin was slowly seeping onto her shirt, spreading like a colorless bloodstain.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

And then, something in Nelson snapped. The careful, intricate machinery of the switches of the emotional side of his brain, most of which had remained for almost his entire life in the 'off' position - for so long that no one, not even he, was even sure that they still worked - all short-circuited simultaneously. He didn't even have to move his head or his arms that far. Rachel yelped in surprise he suddenly pressed his mouth against hers, hard, and his hands grasped her sides with just enough force to convey an almost fervent concentration, but also with barely, just barely, enough care to prevent fear from rising in her throat. But the roar of electricity in Nelson head, the loudest sound he had ever heard, was cut short as he felt her nails dig into the skin of his hands, forcing him to release her. As he leaned his head back, gasping in a short breath as his lips left hers, he felt a stinging crack on the tender part of his cheek. Rachel backed away, her hand still raised from the slap, her forehead screwed up in a combination of confusion and anger. Her brown eyes burned almost amber, forcing him to take another step back. She opened her mouth, only slightly, and her voice was almost inaudible. But as each word fell, he felt like she was slapping him again with each syllable. "Don't...ever...touch me again. Ever."

Suddenly, Nelson realized how foolish he must look - half-naked, dripping wet, with a reddening cheek and an expression of bewilderment. The emotional switchboard rebooted, like a computer coming back from shutdown, and the switched all returned to default - OFF. The blue in his eyes darkened as he slitted them, returning her furious gaze, as if to say, you think I'm going to say I'm sorry?

Well I'm not. I'm not sorry. Not one miniscule bit. You've had my balls on a chain for the past three years and now it's coming back to bite you in the ass. I'm not sorry.

"If you ever -" Rachel began, her voice getting louder and picking up speed. But Nelson interrupted her harshly.

"Don't even start. You deserved it."

"Excuse me?! Deserved what? That? Your pitiful seduction attempt?" Her eyes went as wide as saucers and her dark eyebrows knitted together above them. In a swift, fluid movement, she hurled the towel she was carrying at him. "I'm sick and tired of this! Fine, I don't give a crap about your feelings anymore, Nelson. You want to know why you could never, never, ever have even the most remotely miniscule chance with me? Do you?"

"Enlighten me, please."

"Because you're cold. There is nothing, nothing under that skin. Everyone falls into two categories with you - useful and useless, and you don't care about either of them. You use the useful to your own advantage, and ignore everyone else. You're so incredibly full of yourself , its disgusting. No one means anything to you except to further your own career, goals, wants, needs, whatever, but it's still all about you. You couldn't sacrifice one single thing for another person. You couldn't handle being in a relationship, because you couldn't bear to tear yourself away from yourself for a single second. You couldn't love me, you couldn't take care of me, you couldn't dance with me to some stupid country song at a bar because I've had to much to drink, you couldn't drive out in the rain to pick me up because my car broke down at four in the morning coming back from the graveyard shift, you couldn't come with me to my father's grave every June and hold me when I started to cry, or anything like that. You're nothing to me." Rachel ran out of breath, having been talking so furiously that she hadn't even bothered to pause.

The silence that followed was so heavy it seemed to bear down on both of their shoulders.

"You don't know that."

It was soft. Very soft, almost inaudible, the scratchy tone almost completely gone, and at least a few pitches higher. And hurt.

"I don't know what?"

There was another long pause and Nelson seemed to shake off a bit of his surprise, and slowly began to walk past her.

"Nelson - "

She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder as he passed. He didn't stop, or shake it off, he just kept walking, like he hadn't even noticed.

"NELSON!"

"WHAT??"

He slipped on the tile this time, barely managing to keep upright by grabbing the silver bar on the side of the shower. Over the mirror, the lightbulbs flickered simultaneously, causing stars to sparkle in front of his eyes for a minute. Shower? What shower? He was out of the shower. And what the hell was up with the lights?

"I only have one bathroom, you've been in there for thirty minutes!"

He blinked slowly. The water was running in his eyes and he moved his head out of the stream, shaking his hair away from his eyes. I'm back in the shower. Still in the shower? Like Alice being dropped down the rabbit hole, he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. The water had gone from hot to only lukewarm. His skin felt tingly and he was slightly dizzy, as if the heat had caused him to sweat out all the moisture in his body. He regained his footing slowly, trying to process what had just happened. Breathe, just breathe for a minute. But his lungs wouldn't obey. As his mind raced, they worked to the point of hyperventilation, until he felt like he would pass out. Shakily he turned the water off and tried to keep breathing in the steamy, humid air of the bathroom. Nothing had happened. Or had any of it happened? His breath refused to slacken its pace and he had to hold himself against the wall with the bar again. But his grip was too weak. There was a vague sensation of falling, like going down in a elevator too fast, and he thought he heard the dull cracking sound of his head hitting the side of the tub. And then everything dissolved into a hot, humid darkness.