The perfect white circles sit in your hand, denting your skin. It's started again, you can tell it's happening, people say the first slip is slow and gentle, you don't know when its upon you, it's a lie, how can you not tell when your addicted? The only thing is, how do you stop it? You can't go back to AA, the probing questions, the feelings of guilt, you don't need it. And you can hardly go and see your old sponsor, she wouldn't understand, not any more, and well, admitting it to her means admitting it to yourself doesn't it? And your not quiet ready to do that yet. You wish she was here, that she would just know, like she always used to. That's your fault as well.

So, until your strong enough, you sit here, suffering pain far too deep to be cured by narcotics. But you're worried-what if you don't get strong enough? You know, all too well, you cant save yourself from this, and what then? You'll end up like one of the homeless people you treat here? You smirk, full of hatred, as you recall that time you linked Abby with Stan, mentally and verbally, told her she needs to stop it before she ends up like him; but she was in control-she told you she could stop drinking when she wants to, and somewhere deep inside you knew she could. But you can't can you?

And those dreams have started again, well, the memories. The ones that used to haunt you every night after the first death. Her crumpled face, the pain, the sheer exhaustion. How pathetic you were, you didn't move, let her bleed to death. You should have shouted or done something. But the pain was too much, you couldn't breath let alone call for help. But this time, this time you could have done something about it, you could have protected Kem at least, but you were weak again. And as you read that letter, you knew you should have gone to Africa to be with her, but its too late now, everything's too late.

You watch as your Abby attempts to comfort a mourning mother, and you recall all the things you say to relatives and friends day after day, year after year, "I'm so sorry", "It will get better". But it cant ever can it? You know that now. You cant ever move on past death, something will always bring you back to it. There's always some sort of scar. You absent mindedly let your fingers creep up the first scar, the wound. And you wonder where the next one will be, its only right that it should be bigger, covering more of your life, he was your son after all. You look at the sonogram picture again, the black and white dots, as real as Jason will ever be. And you make your slow assent to the roof.