The dreams were bad sometimes, bad enough that he would wake up in cold sweats, his breathing distorted from the hell in his mind. Visions swarmed through his subconsious, visions that made him numb for hours on end, visions that raged forever inside of him without a moment's peace. These were the nights that he was dead, these were the nights that nothing he had seen, no matter how horrible, could compare to the evil sirens in the night, calling, begging him to surrendor to what would feel so good. But he couldn't do it, he wouldn't do it, because what they were asking was too much. They were asking for a hell far worse than the one he was in right now. And no matter how beautiful the voices, he always heard a much more beautiful, stronger one telling him to hold fast, for they were trying to lead him to a devestation so radical that nothing compared to it, not even death. They were asking him to forget.
The first night should have been the hardest. When he woke up, he half expected to find her in his arms. But instead, he found that his wishes were his worst enemy, because now, his wishes weren't going to come true. At that moment, however, there was no real realization. He listned to the man in front of him drone on about what had happened, catching only a few words.
"...not our fault...I know you loved her, son...must go on...it won't help...believe me, I know."
After listning to the whole lecture, he just looked up slowly at the man and blinked. He simply just blinked, and the man came into focus. Panic spread through every limb of his body.
No...no, focus was not good. Focus was not what he needed. Focus was his enemy, it was real, and this wasn't. If this was real his life would have ended. If this was real, he wouldn't be at his home, if this was real than he would be feeling something, and he wasn't. This wasn't real.
His reality blurred. There were no real faces, just blurs and words. This was good, he could handle blurs, he could even handle the words, because words could be in dreams, couldn't they? He faintly remembered hearing words in his dreams before. Yes, words were in dreams, he could remember that much. It was safe to remember dreams. He remembered something else about dreams too. Dreams with a dance, and a woman, and a love. It was hard to see it, to see her clearly, but that was okay with him, he didn't want to see her. But he did want to hear her.
"Dance with me."
"I'm not asking you to walk, I'm asking you to dance."
"Don't let go. Promise."
"There's something I have to tell you."
"I should have told you a long time ago..."


The scream split the air. It wasn't her scream, he knew that much, for she hadn't had the chance to scream, not in his dream. He awoke to see the familiar face of his friend staring at him with concern. He said something unclear and stayed awhile, but when he realized that now wasn't the time for company, he excused himself, and said something about checking in after. Moments later, nothing was there but silence. And he realized that the scream had been his.

He woke up to the sound of children playing in the street. They were laughing giddily, and he wondered to himself when he had fallen asleep again. He didn't remember any more dreams, and for that, he was grateful. He was not grateful, however, for the children. Normaly he loved kids, but right now, their happiness brought him back to her childhood; what she had told him about it, the pictures he had seen. The laughter made him feel sick again, and he mustered up enough strength to walk over and shut the window. It fell with a clang, and silence followed. Dead silence, he was happy for that too.

He turned around, he was going back to bed, but he then realized that he was in his living room. He had been sleeping on the couch. The fog in his mind ignored the question of how and why he was in his present location, and that was okay. The fog kept questions out that he didn't want answered.

Walking to the kitchen, he stumbled.

"Damn it," he muttered to himself; the first coherent words he had used in days. Shaking his head, he reached down to pick up the black nuisense. As he did such, he caught a scent that sent shivers trickling down his spine. For the first time since that fateful night, feeling returned to his body. Memories swept and swirled around him in a cascade of fire, alternately burning and freezing his already chared emotions. Faces and words crept into his conciousness, people and places that he had been trying so desperatly hard to make dissapear. He had thought that if he remained numb, that it could not touch him. The fire inside proved otherwise.

In his hand was her jacket.

He had not let himself cry. He had not let what had happened be real in his mind. He had not let her name steal upon him. Not until now. But with the evidance so clear in front of him, her name came.

And for the first time since Max had died in his arms on that night, Logan Cale cried.