Emotideath

Amanda rocked the bassinet and wept. She couldn't stop crying. Honestly, it was getting a bit ridiculous. She'd feed C. J. and cry. She'd bathe C. J. and cry. She'd look in the mirror and cry. She'd glance at the picture of her and Jesse at one of the hospital's many fundraiser dinners and start bawling.

She knew Jesse hated her. He wouldn't let any of them into his room or accept their phone calls. She had given Nurse McGowan a card to give him but, according to the nurse, he never opened it. He didn't throw it out. He didn't tear it to shreds or find a lighter to torch the thing; he merely placed the envelope in a drawer by his bed and turned over to sleep. His apathy pained her more than outrage ever could. At least if he yelled at her, she could say something in return.

Amanda's own words, actions, and stupidity plagued her. She might as well have looked him in the eyes, snaked a hand around him, and stabbed him in the back, then twisted the knife, grinding it against his fragile spine while maintaining eye contact.

Eye contact. Never letting her gaze drift from his blue neediness. He always looked at her so hopefully, so lovingly, so desirous to please. She knew from the minute she met him that Jesse was the type of person who sought approval and acceptance. He wanted friends to love him. She didn't quite know why; he didn't quite seem eager to share that. That was okay, of course. Mark was the only person she trusted with the knowledge of her adoption.

Trust! How would Jesse ever trust them again? How could he ever look at her without veiled suspicion that she'd persecute him once more? She had, in essence, purposefully destroyed an amazing friendship.

Finally, Amanda couldn't take her silent weeping any longer. She raced to her room, fell on her bed, grabbed her pillow, and sobbed loudly into it.

If only she knew how many times Jesse had done the same.

Mark watched Laurel and Hardy absentmindedly. They just couldn't entertain him. Nothing could. Jesse haunted every thought at every moment in every situation and the older doctor couldn't even find solace in television's mind numbing glow.

He had never been so wrong with such terrible consequences. Logic reminded him repeatedly that he, like Amanda and Steve, had been duped, abused, and manipulated. He'd only taken the necessary precautions when he'd called the police and the certification board. He'd have had to do the same with anyone.

But you didn't have to damn him so quickly, Mark told himself. Why had he done that?

Honestly, it seemed crazy to think of someone going to those lengths to enact revenge. But Gilchrist had done a marvelous job and truly possessed the skills to pull off a convincing frame. Mark had just felt so…well, seeing "Jesse" sexually preying on some poor young "patient" had greatly affected him. It pushed just the right buttons to override his logic and make him completely distrustful of Jesse.

Mark finally noticed that static on the television. The VHS had obviously finished and rewound itself some time ago. Mark eased himself off the davenport—pain still lingered in his knees—and ejected the video. He decided to make himself a nice mug of hot cocoa; maybe that would soothe him.

He couldn't talk to Jesse, because the young man wouldn't let them anywhere near him. So Mark had only his imagination to fill in the blanks of what Jess had gone through. The sleepless nights; the tears; the inner thoughts; the days in prison; the loneliness. He'd heard about the strip search and attack in jail; both made him nauseous. Steve recounted arresting Jesse outside the poor man's apartment and Mark felt both horrified by what Jesse had gone through and distraught over the hatred Steve was harboring for himself. Nobody had come through the ordeal unscathed. Everybody hurt. Yet, did their hurt really matter in comparison to Jesse's? Hadn't they caused his hurt?

Mark pulled the hot milk out of the microwave and dumped it down the drain. It wouldn't help.

Nothing would help.

Steve lay on his bed and listened to Stairway to Heaven repeatedly. Its sorrowful recorder sounded empathetic to his internal turmoil. Despite his self-loathing, Steve couldn't help being slightly awed by Zeppelin's musical talents. Stairway and Kashmir almost beat out Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon in his mind, but he couldn't get past Floyd's awesome lyrics, reverb, or the way the entire album seemed to be mapped out to the Wizard of Oz. Then again, it wasn't really fair to compare two of Zeppelin's songs to an entire album by Pink Floyd.

Jesse would have had a few comments to make on Steve's internal debate. If they were still talking and Steve hadn't nailed his former best friend up on a cross.

He couldn't shake the sound of his own voice spewing hateful words at Jesse. He knew those had cost him any chance at redemption. There was no way to take those back. But the real shame came from what he had never said—what he'd thought and felt. The only thing that had kept him from killing Jesse at any point during the ordeal was Steve's own need to abide by the law. He'd imagined so many ways of making Jess pay for all his crimes. Those seething, hate-filled mental movies barely sated Steve's homicidal yearnings.

A breath hitched in his throat. He'd been gleeful when he heard about Jesse's strip search.

And now, he could do nothing to atone for his sins. Jesse wouldn't even acknowledge him. Did that really matter? How could Steve possibly atone for the heinous crime of betrayal? Telling himself that Bruce Gilchrist was responsible provided no mitigation. For crying out loud! He was a detective!

He ought to quit the force.

Finally, Steve turned over and resigned himself to Jesslessness for the nth night in a row, only to wake up in the morning and think of new ways to try and get through to Jesse.

Jesse encountered a problem over the next few days. All the tests turned out fine and both Dr. Robbins and Dr. Marlow marveled at his escape from death. Sadly, he couldn't escape the awful, consuming tiredness. So tired! He slept most of the day and night, though not very well; every few hours he awoke suddenly and then had to struggle back to sleep.

He didn't eat well, either, as the days passed and he moved from a clear liquid diet to solid, bland food. Granted, the hospital food hadn't appealed to him before all of this, but even hunger pains produced no appetite. When cajoled, he swallowed a few bites of oatmeal or yoghurt or soup and drank the little carton of juice. Soon, the doctors promised him, he could go back to regular foods. They said it so excitedly, as though they somehow suffered along with him. It would make no difference, however; he simply wasn't hungry.

And concentration! Forget it. It usually took him a couple seconds to comprehend Dr. Robbins's questions, and then a few more to formulate an answer. Every word Jesse spoke came out in a soft, flat, defeated tone. Yes, defeated. That was a good word for it. It explained why he spent his waking hours mulling over his own loneliness and lack of worth. He thought about death and a means of achieving it several times a day.

Indeed, by the time they put him on normal foods, he exhibited nearly every sign of classic depression.

"I think we need to talk," Dr. Robbins stated a week after his patient had awoken. "You don't eat; you don't smile; you don't talk; you don't anything except sleep, and the nurses have told me it's a light and restless sleep. Now, you're progressing at an excellent rate, but this depression could set you back. I'm worried about you."

Jess heaved his eyes up to meet the doctor. "I'm fine."

"You're not "fine" and we both know that. I would be happy to bring in a psychiatrist who can help you work through the pain you're struggling under. Given the last five weeks, you probably could use a little extra help. Wha'd'you say?"

"I'm fine. I'm just…tired."

Dr. Robbins felt vast amounts of sympathy for his young patient. He wanted to help Jesse work through his pain. "Yes, you're tired; you're always tired. But you're scared, too. Scared and angry and sad and hurting. You've got to confront that, or it will eat you up and destroy you."

Jesse looked down at his blankets and tried to think of an answer. Slowly, his eyes trailed up the man to again meet his gaze. "It already has."

The doctor hid his sigh. "Have you thought about talking to them?"

"Who?"

"The people you won't let come in here. The people who ask me for a report every day. The people who look through the door's window when you're sleeping. Your friends."

"I don't have…friends. Please. I'm tired. Can I go to sleep now?"

Dr. Robbins shrugged. He felt tired, too. "Sure."

One day short of three weeks. A fortnight and six days. A score. Twenty days. Yes, he had been in the hospital for twenty days. He could eat normal foods, although he didn't, despite the lovely treats Dr. Robbins and the nurses brought in. He could move around well and Dr. Robbins promised him that, if he convalesced at home for at least a month, he could leave after the fourth week.

A problem happened on that twentieth day, however, when Dr. Robbins determined to personally take on his patient's severe depression. He decided to help Jesse confront his personal demons by conveniently not being present and making sure that the floor's staff was conveniently not present if, by chance, Steve, Mark, and Amanda were to—conveniently—show up. Thus, when Jesse woke up from yet another nap and unpleasant dream, he found the three of them staring nervously at him.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered, scooting back in the bed, away from them. He discreetly searched around for the button to page the nurse.

"Oh, Jesse," Amanda lamented, torn apart by his thin frame and haunted eyes. She reached out to softly touch his leg and gasped when he jumped back. Shocked by his fear, she brought the offending hand up to cover her mouth.

"Jesse," Mark began, careful not to touch the boy. "Jess…we can't even begin to understand what you're going through. We want you to know we're here for you; we want you to get better both physically and mentally." He smiled as warmly as his trepidatious state would allow. "Let us help you."

Jesse couldn't meet their gaze. His heart pounded heavily in his chest as blood coursed through it faster and faster. He could actually feel the reverberations increase in number. The problem, he realized, wasn't only fear. He didn't only fear Mark, Steve, and Amanda; he…raged against them. Rage! That's what he felt! "Please go," he uttered under his breath, trying to control the feelings.

"We're not gonna go!" Steve scolded. "You need to come to terms with what happened or it'll kill you. We're not leaving you to slowly die."

Jesse's apprehension fell away as his head slowly turned upward to look at Steve. When their eyes locked, the detective felt his own blood suddenly chill a little.

"You won't let me die? You won't let me die? You shot me! You wanted me to die! Don't you remember? I'm the sexual predator who shot your dad. I was just pretending to be your friend. I don't deserve to live. How did it feel when you threw me to the ground and arrested me? How did it feel when you shot me?" he yelled. All three bowed their heads, but Jesse wasn't done. "And you!" He pointed at Amanda, who was crying softly. "You can't talk to me because I might attack you or CJ, remember? And Mark. Didn't you see me hurting Lily Driver? That's what you told the police and the medical board. Why would you even want to associate with me?"

"Jesse—"

"No, dammit, no! None of you believed me. You disowned me. What you really did, though, was prove what I should have known all along: I don't have friends, and the only person I can trust in this whole world is myself. Now unless you plan on shooting me again or taking me back to jail, get out of my room." Nobody moved. "Get out!" he screamed, pointing at the door.

At this point, Dr. Robbins and a few nurses rushed in and bade the stunned visitors to go. Jesse fell back against his bed, utterly drained and horrified at both himself and his former friends.

"Go and get me ten CCs of Diazepam intravenous," Robbins discreetly told a nurse, then sat down beside his patient. "Jesse, are you okay?"

"Fine," he replied weakly. "Can't I just be alone, please?"

"In a minute. Your heart rate and BP are extremely elevated at the moment and I want to make sure this won't adversely affect you too much. You wanna tell me what happened?" he asked as he motioned for the nurse to administer the drug.

"No."

Dr. Robbins closed his eyes as a sigh escaped; for a few minutes, he didn't say anything. "This is all my fault," he finally admitted. "I…told the nurses to let them come in."

"You what?"

"I'm sorry! I thought…I thought it might help you feel better if you could reconcile with them—maybe it would lift your depression. Your body's healing; your mind isn't. You can't see it, Jesse, but there's barely any life left in your eyes."

Jess fought against the encroaching hypnotic. The medically trained part of his brain registered the presence of a drug, but it lulled his awareness. "There isn't any life because…I'm already dead," he mumbled before slipping into sleep.

Dr. Robbins complied and left with all the regret of a caring physician.

"Where are you going?" Dr. Robbins demanded the next day as his most confounding patient pulled on a pair of scrubs. "What—are you planning to go back to work or something?"

"No," Jesse stated flatly. "I'm planning to leave."

"And where are you going to go?"

Jesse spun around to face his doctor, although it caused some minor dizziness that he successfully masked. "I'm going anywhere but here. I'm leaving. Maybe I'll go home; maybe I'll go back to Illinois; maybe I'll go to Timbuktu. As long as it isn't in this room, in this hospital, it's an option."

"How are you gonna get anywhere, hmm?"

"I already called for a taxi."

"Jesse, this is ridiculous! You very nearly died and now you're leaving the hospital AMA. At the very least, you need people to help you during your convalescence at home—that'll take at least another month!"

Dr. Travis headed for the door, but stopped to face Dr. Robbins. "I am leaving. Neither you nor anyone else may disclose this to Mark, Steve, or Amanda. For once, somebody respect my right to privacy."

With those words, he departed for the taxi, which drove him to the bank, where he withdrew a thousand dollars in cash. He then headed for his apartment where he changed and made his plans.

First on the list, he packed a bag with clothes. He had to get out before anyone started pounding down his door. How could he keep from being found for a while? Where could he go? Home-home? Canada? Definitely not Timbuktu. Wasn't there anywhere calm and peaceful nearby that they'd never think of?

Of course! Jay Beck's cabin in Twin Peaks. It was only about an hour away and the man owned a quaint cabin smack in the middle of his 25 parcels. Jay had befriended him when he first started at the hospital, but was currently in Sierra Leone with his wife doing a yearlong mission trip. He wouldn't mind, and it afforded ample privacy in such a peaceful setting. It was a Godsend.

The decision made, Jess got in his car and drove to Wal-Mart, despite having an intense hatred for the store, and bought toiletries and survival basics like peanut butter, bottled water, candles, and matches. He felt fairly certain the cabin wouldn't have electricity, heat, running water, or telephone service. Despite the drawbacks, it sounded like paradise.

Finally, before driving to Twin Peaks, Jess decided to apply a little of the cunning he'd picked up recently. He drove to the train station, bought a ticket to Illinois with his credit card, then left. It wouldn't confuse anyone for very long, but it gave him enough time to get settled in the cabin. Let Steve, Mark, and Amanda be the confused ones for a while.

A/N: I am VERY sorry this has taken me such a long time to update. I hadn't expected it would be so difficult to get down the gang's feelings. Let me know how you feel the story is going and what I can do to improve. Is the cabin too dues-ex-machine-y? Many thanks. –your humble author