So sorry for the delay. I just know you were all *dying* to read the next chapter. Don't worry...we're getting into some big stuff. I'm just considering how I want to end this story (not that it's nearing the end) the long way I had planned or to make a totally different fic. Anyway, here it is, folks! By the way, if you find the level of angst in this chapter a bit...much...please don't mention it in a review or flame me for it; as I am already well aware it of it. I have chronic insomnia and it is currently 3.40 in the morning. I have school in two hours.! Joy! Like I said; mega angst. Possibly very...weird...angst...so if you don't like it then fuck off. I'm not in the mood. --;

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Chapter 10 - Worst Enemy

The hours passed from early evening to late night in practically no time at all. Frodo remained inside the whole time. He could care less about the more-than-likely rumours that were going to be all over Hobbiton in the morning, or about who was to clean up the great mess that was left outside. He would let it rest till later. Right now only one thing plagued his mind. He wondered why the only person he seemed to have left in the world would leave him.

"Dear Bilbo," he sighed, "...if only you could be here. Maybe I wouldn't feel so alone again."

He figited constantly, his eyes flitting and shifting to places all about the kitchen; the room where he had himself currently positioned. There was not much to really see. Crumbs scattered carelessly on the sturdy breakfast table, a half eaten cheese-wheel, and the last bottle of Bilbo's Old Winyards that was perhaps one-seventh empty. He sighed; his pale features scanning the room for something more interesting to gaze at. They scanned the room once more, this time stopping on the bottle of Old Winyards. He looked at it thoughtfully for a moment.

"I'd better not," he thought. "I don't take to it well..."

"Does it matter, Frodo?" There it was again. That person...that voice. Why could it not go and leave him? But this time it seemed...different. As if it sounded like it knew how to make everything better. How to make everything okay again. ...How to make him -happy- again. "Well? Does it? Has anything mattered to you? Hmm...have -you- ever mattered to -anybody-?"

"I...I don't..." he stammered; at a loss for words. He pondered what he was saying (or what seemed to be him) and stopped for a minute. Who did care about him? His parents, yes, but due to years of believing it had been his own fault they were growing further and further away from the beautiful memories they had been in his mind into something he didn't want to think about, something that would forever haunted him.

"You don't...know? Of course you don't. But I do." Frodo looked over again at the wine bottle. "What could it hurt?" he persisted in a somewhat rashionate tone. "You're not a child, Frodo Baggins. It's not as though you can't take a little more than usual."

Frodo considered this. After all, he wasn't a child. As a matter of fact, he had just come-of-age that very day. He made his way to the wine bottle slowly; before he stopped himself. "It probably wouldn't be very wise to do this. I should probably get some rest." He begged himself, but he was weak, so weak. He felt he had no control in his life anymore. Like everything was spiraling downward right when he started to think that it would get better.

"Rest?" his more dominant half replied. "What good can rest do? You'll only wake to find yourself here again. You need to realize, Frodo, that it's as good as over for you. You have no one left; just as no one has left themselves to you. Nobody cares. They've all abandoned you, have they not?"

Once again, he took this to heart. "Maybe you're right..." he said very slowly; almost as if reluctance and logic still held onto him by a thread. "Maybe they didn't want me around. Maybe that's why they died. Maybe...maybe it really was me." Silent tears pricked his eyes, but did not fall. He felt a sting at his heart; yet it did not pierce.

His other half softened; Frodo's behavior much to his own liking. "Why not? I suppose it doesn't matter." He reached out, still not sure of his alcohol capacity and used both of his pale hands to pull the cork off of the bottle. It slipped with a ipop/i and hit the wall, falling harmlessly to the floor. He took the bottle from the countertop and went back the the table, sitting down. After a few moments of staring at it, he grasped it by the neck and pressed the tangy tasting rim of the bottle to his lips and took a sip. He swallowed it with an expression that most would probably find amusing. But soon a shadow of a smile was over him.

"See? Not so bad, was it?" Indeed it wasn't. Or atleast it didn't seem so. He took another sip. Or swig, rather. Each longer than the last. Of course he would stop at intervals of time to let it sit, but would start right up again. And even though he was taking in rather large quantities of the wine in at a time, he made sure he didn't go too fast. He didn't want this beautiful euphoria to end so suddenly. He wanted it to last. Hopefully it would last him out; but then again he could only -hope- to be so lucky.

An hour, perhaps two, had passed when Frodo realized he had nothing of the wine left. "O dear," he said with a huge grin on his face. "I think we need to turn the boat around, captain!" He laughed, sulking back in his chair. "Nah nah, surely there must be more around here..." he said, referring to the wine.

Still clinging desperately to the neck of the empty bottle, Frodo stood up; only to fall flat down on his face again with a ithud/i! He laughed, and crawled to the wall and slinking up to his feet. He only managed a stagger however, as he leaned against the wall for support. Struggling to the counter where he had found the original bottle, he leaned himself upon it; trying to catch his breath. For he had found himself gasping and struggling for air. It wasn't incredibly difficult to breath, but it was something that he had to concentrate to do (which wasn't easy, I assure you). A soft laugh escaped his lips, as he let the bottle fall from his hand. It left an echoing shatter as it hit the floor. As soon as he had laughed, the tears that had built up inside him were let loose. They streamed down his cheek in silence, leaving a clear direction of water flow on his already sweat-ridden face; only noise emitted from him was a soft whisper, voice shaky with drunkeness. "I broke her, I broke her...how could I..."

The Dominant smirked, but even -his- voice was full of drunken anger. "Of course you did! You knew it all along. They never wanted you. Needed you. You're only here because of an accident; just as an accident took there lives! Or was it an accident, Frodo? Maybe it was -you-!"

"No," he whispered, "they loved me. They loved me.."

"That's what you want to belie--" he was cut off by himself.

"NO!" Fury rang in him as he looked for something to let out his anger. Too much. He couldn't bear to hear this. Hear his worst fears being told by none other than himself. He looked up at the small semi-circular window above the kitchen sink. It was open, allowing the soft night air to come in. Lined along the sill were three small gardening pots; beautiful and clean on the outside, but laden with filth and dirt on the inside. Exactly what Frodo perceived himself as. With one hand clutching the counter's edge to keep balance, the other hand shot rapidly to one of the small clay pots. With no thought to what he was doing he threw it quickly against the nearest wall, letting dirt and sharp pieces that once held the foundations of life fall to the floor. Buried amidst them was a small, white seed.

Silence. Too much. He sank to his hands and knees and let the quiet sobs wrack him. Soon he looked up; and crawled over to the opposite end of the room, where the mess lay. He propped himself against the wall, amidst the rubble of dirt and sharp pottery and such, and unbottoned his shirt. Hot. So hot... He could hardly breath. His face was red, and his curly brown locks were plastered to his brow and the back of his neck. Tears still came freely as his eyes met the mess. "I broke her...broke her..." he sobbed, slamming his fist to the ground. He stood up on his knees, and gingerly picked up a clay shard covered in dirt. "I broke her..." he whispered again, eyes clenched shut. He dug the piece deep into his left side. He let more tears come down. Too drunk to catch himself, he quickly pulled his hand over, the shard cutting deeply into his middle; making a large gash. It felt so good...yet hurt so bad. That's exactly what he felt he deserved. Gasping, he fell onto his side, arm flung over his head, and blood flowing freely from his stomach.

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A/N: X) cliffhanger...