A/N:  I was real tempted to add a fluffy, semi-happy ending to this, but in all reality, I like it the way it is.  I'll be straightforward…there is no ending.  It leaves things open for speculation.  It's basically about there being a lack of closure…and that's why there is none for this part.  Not all stories have a happy ending, yet some do.  However, this second part was begging to be written, and I eventually decided that a journal entry was the way to go.  What better way to get Mills' real thoughts out than for him to write it down?  Again, sorry about all the cussing; comes with the territory, you know.  And Mills doesn't belong to me.  Such a shame.

            (From Mills' POV)

            Alright, here I am writing in this stupid diary or journal or whatever the hell it is.  I actually write in it at least twice a week or more depending on what's going on in this fucked-up head of mine.  I just like to give the doctors a bunch of hell because it makes me feel like my old asshole self.  Maybe they realize that…who knows. 

            Well, why am I writing today?  Let's see…I guess I just want to write a bunch of shit that Somerset and me were talking about the other day. Okay, so it was about two weeks ago.  I've been thinking about what he said to me, about this world 'having a hold on you' and all that shit.  That was his reason for not committing suicide. 

You know, maybe I'm a naïve idiot but I never would have imagined Somerset ever contemplating suicide.  That man has more balls than someone who swims in a tank with starving, big-ass sharks.  Of course, someone who does that isn't going to have much left by the time the sharks get done with him.  Somerset, he's done with the sharks, and he still came out in tact. 

I'd never tell him, but I always looked up to him because of that fact.  Much more now than back then because I really was a naïve idiot and I had no fucking clue how dangerous the sharks really were.  I jumped right in and got my head fucking chomped off.  Lucky me.

Well anyway, back to what he said the other day.  Now, I don't claim to be a fucking psychologist, but I've been thinking about it and I've decided it's not the world that has a hold on us.  I'm not real sure why I think that.  Maybe it's because this world doesn't give a shit about any of us.  This world could care less if children go hungry, or if some fucking cocksucker goes around killing a whole bunch of people just to preach a sermon, or if that same fucking cocksucker takes away everything…everything that I cherished in this goddamn world.

This world doesn't give a rat's ass.  So why the hell would it have a hold on us, if only to keep us here to enjoy the misery?

We're the ones that hold on to the world.  Like I asked Somerset, why didn't I kill myself at the same time I shot that fucking bastard?  I seriously think that it was because somewhere deep inside this fucked-up head of mine, I had some reason to live.  I had a hold of something…something worth living for.  Don't ask me what the hell it is, because I have no fucking clue.  But my point is that this world gave up on me a long time ago, just like my wonderful, loving parents.  Fuck them, and fuck this world, anyway. 

            The worst thing about this is I still feel like there should be some sort of closure.  It wasn't enough to blow that thing's brain out; I want to make him feel what I still feel when I think of Tracy.  I want him to feel like his insides have turned inside out.  I want him to feel like if he sees her face one more time in his mind, he'll finally take that last step off the bridge of sanity and plummet into total darkness forever.  I want him to stay in that darkness, tormented by nightmares and bloody visions.  I want to torture him, myself.  I want to rip his heart out and make him eat it.  I want to cut off all his limbs and beat him to death with them.  

            But I can't, because I already killed him.  It's not my problem anymore.  And I don't know what I can do to get closure.  Maybe I'm just restless from sitting in here all the time with nothing to do but watch the other insane freaks walk around in their own little worlds.

            Which reminds me…I've sort of made a friend in here.  A sharp, foul-mouthed girl whose name I don't know yet, because she won't tell me.  She actually won't tell me much more than 'fuck you' and 'shut up, dickhead,' but for some odd reason she she's started to smile when she says it.  This makes me laugh.  Hey, I'm insane, too, so what difference does it make?  It's nice to laugh about something even if it is stupid.

            She finally opened up one day, though, and she told me that she killed her husband.  I haven't asked why, but I don't need to.  Her eyes got real dark and she hugged her stomach so tight I thought she was in pain.  Hell, I was in pain just looking at her.  So I figure I don't need to ask anymore questions to set her off, like some nurse did the other day.  That was a fucking interesting sight, believe me.  This chick did some damage, and not just to the nurse, but to the chair she'd been sitting in, too. 

Anyway, she never asked me why I was in here.  But we also play cards.  Gives us something to do.  You'd be surprised how many of the freaks in here can still remember how to play a game of poker.  She makes fun of the crazy freaks in here, too, including me and including herself.  Hell, they probably make fun of us.  We're all crazy so we all can make fun of each other, dammit.

            Well anyway back to the previous subject about having things to live for and all that shit.  I'm not even going to say that it's the little things that are worth living for.  If I wanted to live for the little things I would've become a janitor or some shit like that with no career in it at all.  I want to believe that deep down I knew what I was getting into when I decided to become a detective, but I really don't think I did.  Do I regret it?  Yes and no.  I regret what happened to Tracy.  There are a million 'if-only' scenarios that have run through my brain, and none of them are any good because it's all fucking over now. 

            But I don't regret my decision to become a detective.  If I get out of here before I'm old and decrepit, I've been thinking about going back.  I have no fucking clue if they'd take me back, but it's worth a shot. 

            So maybe that's what I'm living for.  Who the fuck knows?

            Good god this has been a fucked-up journal entry.  I really hope to God that no one reads these things.  Surely these assholes in the white coats don't give a fuck what we write about…they just want to stick to their fucking procedures, and if we behave like good little psychopaths, we'll get out just  in time for more of us to be admitted.

            Anyway, I still can't believe that Somerset still comes in here to see me.  I annoyed the hell out of him when I was on the job; it's a wonder he didn't grab the gun and blow my fucking head off, too.  Actually, he never would have done that.  He's not a trigger-happy lunatic like I was, anyway.  Man, I tell you, I was itching to blow something away, too.  I never would've admitted it to anybody, but I just wanted to pull that fucking trigger and feel the vibration in my hands.  I wanted to hear that loud BANG, and I really didn't care whether I was shooting at something or not.  I was a trigger-happy lunatic, and I think Somerset knew it.  He knew I'd pull that trigger that day.  I could see it in his eyes.  It wasn't just because of that, though…it was because he knew I didn't care about the consequences.  He could see that, too.  He could see murder in my eyes.  The murder of all those people; the murder of my beautiful, sweet Tracy; and most important of all, the murder of that motherfucker whose voice I keep hearing over and over again in my head.  He just wouldn't fucking shut up!  I wanted to shut him up for good.  I wanted to shut that motherfucker up so bad that his grandma would feel it. 

            But that's over now.  He's gone.  That's what they keep telling me, anyway.  But I know he'll be in my head forever…that awful, horrible, calm voice whispering to me, telling me how good Tracy was.  How delicious.  How sweet she sounded, pleading for her life, and for…for…the baby…

            Shit, now I'm crying again.  Getting fucking tear stains all over the damn paper…shit.  I've been crying like a fucking leaky faucet lately.  Why can't I just stop?  Why won't it stop? 

            Make it stop, please.

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