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January 16th 1901.

My silent awkward body saunters up the stairs. I hear the mumbles and soft taunting jokes. I listen both with my ears and my heart. I am slowly defeated by whispers. Talking when they think no one is listening, laughing when they think no one can get hurt. It's haunting how wrong they are, and how hollow they will feel when they find out. I sweat out of apprehension. I cry out of smashed hopes. Hopes of them caring, loving and knowing me. I try to speak, try to laugh, but all I hear is their laughter and all the tease directed at me. I am lost. I want to get to know them, want them to know me. But I am having trouble decided who I am. No. I know perfectly well who I am. I am the cumbersome boy they are forced to put up with. My existence will remain superfluous until I prove it to be otherwise. I am outstretched and desperate for approval. I will say and do anything. If only they would listen. If only they would care. If they cared the whispers would stop and it would be their turn to hear.

I have always wanted to sing, but I never did because they would never hear it. Maybe I always wanted to dance, but was afraid to do it alone, because no one would ever watch. Or maybe I was shunned into my shell of self- consciousness because they did watch, and instead of support and applause mockery was the result. My insecurity insuring that my locked away emotions will never surface. Gone are the reasons I used to look forward to living. Gone are my connections and relations that kept my happiness overflowing. And Gone is the person I used to be, lost he is and drowned he should be. They let him die, watched him do so and offered no hand to his aid. I watched him shrink away each day but I tried not to rescue him. If they wanted him gone then so did I. Because I would do anything, if only they approved.

I refrain from displaying any emotion, for fear they won't like me, won't fear me anymore. What does their fear get me? Hardly even their respect. I want to belong, be one of them, but I can't. I am isolated and a burden. I did this to myself. The old me slipped away, died among them. Maybe when I thought they were laughing at me, they were laughing with me? And maybe I ended up destroying myself. But no matter how, it happened and now I have to cope. I wear an icy gaze upon my face, and never give a second chance. I'm tough, mean and hard. But I am the weakest person I know and that is why it has come to this. That is why the knife is dangling in my hand, waiting for me to put it to use. It lingers on my fingers taunting me with its sharp edge and unknown future. I already dead inside, why not make it complete?

I would do it, I really would. If I weren't such a damn coward, if I wasn't so afraid. I can't do anything right. I can't even put myself out of my own misery. When did I break down? When did I become this weak shell of a man? When did it all begin? Why am I asking when I have always known the answer? It was the night she died on the bridge, the night she died by Kelly's blade.

Oh my love, I lost you both in one night. You and Kelly, The only two people I have ever loved, and that is why I am so weak. That is why I am so cold. I have no heat left to live for. I have no love left to keep me strong.

A/N: there goes a one shot deal about Spot's inner conflict. I'm not sure what to do with this piece it just came to me. So review, suggest, comment. (