Ok, so first things first: This chapter contains quite a bit of self-loathing here, and implies use of self-harm, and some pretty dark thoughts; and after reading Unsaid Things, I felt very uncomfortable writing this, seriously, but I promise nothing too bad will happen. If you're uncomfortable reading this kind of stuff, don't read.

There, you have been warned.

Don't own McFly.

Danny

I woke up with one hell of a hang over. Dougs' birthday party was great. I stumbled down the stairs, nursing my head and went over to the kitchen where the most beautiful woman in the world was making breakfast.

"Good morning sweetheart, how's your head?" she greeted me.

"It hurts." I mumbled.

She laughed at me and hugged me, "There are some pain killers in the cupboard, you'll need 'em."

I nodded and pulled out of the hug and went to get them.

"Dan... have you noticed something... different, about Dougie these days?" she asked me slowly, careful with her words. I frowned. Truth is, I had. I just didn't want to admit it to myself. I knew Dougie would tell me if there was something wrong... but I was beginning to doubt that.

"Yeah... he's just probably finding it weird... y'know. All of this." I shrugged, not believing myself. She sighed.

"Yeah, I guess so. Now come on, breakfast is served." she smiled, but my mind wasn't thinking of my girlfriend's excellent cooking. It was on my troubled best friend. I frowned, and made a mental note to visit him later. I didn't want him to suffer on his own, and I wished he'd tell me what was bothering him, as there obviously was something.

Dougie

I knelt by my bed. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and took out a black case from beneath it. I sat on the floor, cross-legged and stared at it. It was delivered to me by one of The Racketeer's goons a few weeks after I opened the letter. It's contents made my stomach churn. My heart beat heavily as I clicked it open. I closed my eyes and opened them again to see the silver pistol.

I panicked.

I quickly shut the case and shoved it under my bed again, scrambled to my feet and ran backwards to the other side of my bedroom and leant against the wall, breathing heavily. I was sweating, but my skin was cold. I ran my hands through my hair, trying to calm my breathing, trying to will my heart not to burst out of my chest. I slid down the wall to the floor, and my head fell into my hands.

It wasn't fair.

I peeked through my fingers and looked at the bed. Under it, hidden from view was a killing machine. One that I had to use. I was supposed to end someone's life. I nearly killed John Dale before. I mean, I've beaten the guy to a pulp, and used a knife against him and everything; but all those times, I was mainly on the defensive. To actually go and consciously murder the guy... that was completely different. And I felt sick even thinking about it.

"Doug?!"

Shit. I shot to my feet and scrambled to the mirror. Crap, I looked awful. I went to the bathroom and locked the door.

"I'm in the bathroom! I'll be two minutes, Dan!" I shouted back.

I took a shaky breath and opened the cold water tap and splashed some on the water on my face. I leant heavily on the counter, trying to calm my erratic breathing. I looked up at the mirror, and I didn't see myself in the reflection. I saw a pale faced guy, with recently dyed dark hair, a lip ring and bags under his eyes, from sleep depravation.

My new image was just a reflection of how I felt. I wasn't recognisable to myself. I wasn't myself. I sighed and dried my face. I was also much thinner, my appetite was completely lost. I took one more glance at myself and ventured out, putting on a false smile that my face had grown so accustomed to putting on recently.

"Hey, dude." I grinned at Danny who was sat in my kitchen, flicking through a copy of Kerrang! magazine.

"A'ight mate?" Danny looked up from the magazine.

"Yeah, fine." I lied, "Where's Gem, thought you two were stuck to each other now?" I smirked.

I think I deserve an Oscar for the amount of acting I've done in the past year.

Danny glared playfully at me, "She's at work." he then looked back down at his magazine.

"So I'm your second choice of people to hang out with? What happened to 'bros before hoes'?" I pretended to be shocked.

"Shut up!" Danny rolled his eyes at me. He then closed the magazine and sighed, "Doug... are you really alright? You seem a bit off lately."

Damn, he's getting suspicious.

"Dude, I'm fine." I shrugged it off.

"Ok... but you know you can tell me anything, right? You're my best friend, you can trust me." Danny said sincerely.

"I know, Dan, and if there was anything wrong, you know you'd be the first to know about it." I lied. Again. But it seemed to work, because Danny let it go.

"Ok. Let's play some XBox then!"

And that's what we did all day, with some junk and some booze. Your average eighteen year old's day. Although, I was hardly your average eighteen year old.

After Danny left, I sat on the sofa, stared into space, for what felt like hours. I was an empty shell of what I used to be. I was happy once, as a child, and then again when I moved away from Crackstreet. But now, my demons came back to haunt me. I stared at my wrists, and traced old scars, four year old scars from when I went too far, hit the lowest point I ever had in my life. Was I going lower?

I mentally shook my head. I wasn't weak anymore. I wouldn't deal with this like that. I was strong. I was going to pull through.

I was going to do this.

The next few weeks went by. I grew more and more anxious. I needed to sort my head out. I was getting unnecessarily paranoid and nervous. I was letting myself get back into a hole I thought I left. I was confident I left.

The scariest part was:

I didn't have much desire to get out.

I mean, if you think about it... If I didn't exist, no one had to die. The whole issue would be solved, and everyone would be happy. It's the perfect solution. The Racketeer wouldn't have to kill Shawna and her son, and I wouldn't have to kill John Dale. It's simple really. Plus, what use was I really. I was meaningless, easily replaceable.

So that evening when I got home I walked to my bathroom, and pulled up my sleeve again, and stared at the old scars. I nearly left the earth back then... how much easier would it be if I had? I glanced at my razor and took a deep breath.

Please don't hate me, I feel awful enough as it is :(