Disclaimer: If I owned them, Stacy would still be on the show snogging House's face off. They belong to David Shore and his minions, the cruel geniuses. "I'm So Tired" lyrics belong to The Beatles.
Notes: I'm a young writer with a fragile ego, but I like feedback good or bad. It's like crack Vicodin to me. There is a sequel to this fic that is currently in progress.

The liquid in the glass looks and smells clean; septic and mechanical, but it doesn't make him feel that way. It's Vodka. He's trying to drown his remorse in it so he doesn't do something stupid. If he's inebriated, he won't be able to dial Short Hill's area code, fuck, he won't even be able to find the phone if he gets buzzed enough.

So far, it's not going as planned. He never was a fun, carefree drunk. The vodka was only making him more somber and introspective. Just what he needs; to have 753 885-4177 run through his head more than it already has in the past hour. That's her number. Her cell phone, that's probably sitting on her kitchen table as she makes sweet, sweet love to Mark. Her fingers entangled in Mark's hair as she cries out Mark's name (instead of his) over and over and over. Mark, Mark, Mark, he can hear he her cry Mark's name out. It's a lie she'll scream for the rest of her days. That's okay, his name might be the truth, but he knows how good white lies can feel.

The thick glass cracks against the wall when he hurls it. He's glad it didn't shatter. Squatting down on one leg to clean it up is a bitch. He goes to call her. The phone isn't on the receiver. He heads to the bedroom to find it. He forgets why he's there when he arrives. Maybe the vodka is finally cooperating with his brain. When he spots one of her hairs on his pillow, left there from their night together, he begins to tear the sheets off his bed. He'll forget her if it's the last thing he does.

He wishes he didn't start to hesitate when he caught her scent still lingering on his pillow. He wishes he could've just thrown the bedding down and been rid of her instead of collapsing like a sentimental and defeated old man into the bed and falling asleep imagining it smelled like her because she was next to him.

I'm so tired I don't know what to do
I'm so tired my mind is set on you
I wonder should I call you but I know what you would do

You'd say I'm putting you on
But it's no joke, it's doing me harm
You know I can't sleep, I can't stop my brain
You know it's three weeks, I'm going insane
You know I'd give you everything I've got
for a little peace of mind