Many thanks to all those who have taken the time to read my story, and a special thank you to those who have reviewed. Writers live for feedback!

A couple of notes for this section…Jason is a real person. He's been an inspiration to many, including myself. Also, this section contains some strong language. I really don't like using the curses that I've included, but I wanted to make Daniel's position clear. I hope I don't offend.

I've been thinking about Jason. Jason and his leg.

A friend back in college. Always ready to have some fun. I was usually too busy to go out on the town with him, but when I did I had a great time.

One day Jason was in an accident. Lost his leg.

It was rough for awhile. He went through some depression. He'd been pretty athletic; a wrestler.

Then he got his prosthetic leg. Changed everything. After a time he could walk without a limp. He even had a set of legs; one for walking and one for running. He began coaching wrestling. And he had fun.

I went with him a few times. We'd be sitting at a table in a restaurant and he'd turn his leg backward. The looks he got from waitresses and other patrons were priceless. He'd just sit back and act like nothing was wrong.

Last I heard, Jason got married and had a little girl.

He's living a normal life.

Like I'm going to have to do.

I don't know if I've got what it takes. I never got inside Jason's head to see how he got through his ordeal. I just saw the results.

Jason might have gone home and screamed until he couldn't scream anymore. He might have punched holes in walls. But when he joined the world, he was Jason. Not Jason who lost his leg.

Just Jason.

So I'm going to have to become Daniel. Not blind and deaf Daniel.

Just Daniel.

But first I need to scream and punch some holes.

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Old Spice. I can easily smell it. My breath catches; I almost choke. It's General Hammond.

No, no, please not this. I'm losing the fight. Sam, Jack, and Teal'c have been sitting with me for some time, and General Hammond just came in, and God help me I'm about to lose it.

I don't want General Hammond to see me like this. I'm not sure why…maybe I feel like I've failed him somehow or something. I don't know. But the scent of his Old Spice sends me back to the briefing room, back to my former life, back to the commander of our missions, all of which is very far away.

He's next to me. His hand pats my arm. I'm sure he's saying something reassuring. Something that I can't hear.

I'm shaking. My body has started the meltdown and I'm powerless to stop it. I abruptly sit up and feel myself bump against Hammond.

Please go away! Don't watch me! I can't deal with this.

Get out…get out. I think I'm saying it aloud. How can I say this to Hammond? Have I lost everything?

I'm sinking…faster and faster. I swing my arms…hit the tray. It tips over. Falling…falling…

But I hear nothing. The sound must be deafening, but I'm not included in the normalcy of clattering trays and exclamations of surprise.

I want to hear it! I want to see it fall! I can't stand this anymore!

They're trying to calm me…their hands are on me. I won't be calmed. I'm stumbling out of the bed. They're all trying to pull me back but I fight them. I hit someone with my fist.

I'm screaming…I know my mouth is open and my tongue is moving and my lips are forming words even though I hear nothing. Words must be coming out! I haven't lost everything. I know they can hear me. My lips and tongue move and my throat vibrates and I know that I'm screaming at them. My words, silent to my ears, do exist; they must exist, because they must hear me. They must understand. I curse them, hurling at them ugly, horrible words that I never use, trying to hurt them with my tenuous weapon of words.

I pull away from them. Two, maybe three steps before I collide with the next bed. Arms wrap around me. Old Spice and sweat drench my nostrils. Let me go, fucking son of a bitch!

Falling…they hold my arms and legs. I'm on the floor…helpless, at their mercy. I can't see them or hear them but they still control me.

No! They press harder on me, stopping my movements. No, don't hold me so tight! I feel terror at the helplessness. I scream at them. I'm so angry…terrified.

No…no…no…stop. Don't give me a shot. Please, don't give me a shot.

No…no…no…no…

------

No.

I can feel it, but I'm too tired to lift my arm to wipe it away.

Maybe no one's around. I don't feel anyone.

It travels down my cheek and ends up in my pillow. The track it leaves behind is itchy, but I revel in the sensation. I don't have much left.

Another one. Same eye. Wonder what's wrong with the other eye? Follows the same track. Must be some little pool developing on my pillow.

Not much left. My throat is beginning to get tight. I don't believe this. I'm not crying.

Ah, there goes the other eye. About time.

Need a kleenex. I know there's a box somewhere on my tray.

Of course I can't find it. Dammit to hell! I'm so sick of this!

The tray doesn't tip as I hit it, and now my hand hurts. And no kleenex.

It's too much.

I'm so scared. It's so dark and quiet. No…black and silent. Nothing there. I'm really blubbering now. Hope no one's there.

Hope someone is…

Arms around me, pulling me up. I grab onto someone's jacket. Pulling tighter. Don't let go. I'm so scared. Crying so hard I can't breathe. Holding on. Just holding on.

It's Jack. He's holding me with both arms and I can't stop the sobs and he pulls me tighter against him. I clutch at him, desperate. I cry and try to speak, try to tell him how sorry and scared and…and…

I'm terrified, and my only safety is in the man who is holding me as though we are hovering over an abyss. His arms pull me even tighter; I feel his hand on the back of my head. Jack won't let me fall. I huddle into his chest and just give in.

------

He's still sitting with me, his hand resting on mine. I think he knows how much I…want him to be here. He handed me a bunch of tissues. I must've gone through an entire box. I'll be wiping my face with my sheet in a minute.

I'm so embarrassed. I can't believe that I broke down like that. And yet…I think it's okay. Jack didn't run away when I fell apart. He could've let Janet handle my bawlfest. But he didn't. He stayed with me.

I use up the last of the kleenex. I think I've cried myself out. Hope so, anyway.

Now what? How do I let Jack know how much his being here means to me? I think I'm saying thank you. My words must've been close. He squeezes my hand.