This story is stuck. Really stuck. But I have ideas for days. Let's see where this fledgling piece of sequeldom will take us.

Thank you everyone for the reviews. You guys seemed to like Ch1, but... ehh. I'm not happy with it at all.

Chapter 2 / Seasonal Madness

If I have to talk to HIM... If I have to talk to Dr. Barry once more, I'll pull cards no one expects me to pull. He's nothing. Absolutely nothing. All he does is talk. All he does is ask stupid questions that I don't want to answer. He's an idiot. Those plaques and scraps of paper on his wall mean nothing. HE IS NOTHING. Oh, but to ask about Tommy? He crossed the line. He crossed the line and he'll pay severely.

"Sit down, Jude. Let's talk." Jude stared at her shrink contemptuously, taking a seat on the oversized, over stuffed, over used "patients' chair". She's briefly reminded of the soft, pleather sofas of G Major, pushing the nagging thought of walking, no running, from Brice out of her mind before she could hatch a plan. She crosses her arms over her chest

"Talk, then." Her doctor eyes her up and down, nodding his head at some imaginary question.

"How are you? Feeling ok?"

She rolls her eyes and smirks at him venomously, thinking of the ways she could kill him in that moment. She'd get away with it, she thinks. She's "crazy" or so they like to tell her.

"I feel like hell. I don't smoke, but I sure could go for one of Tommy's cigs right now."

The doctor smiled knowingly at the mention of the illusive Tommy, taking a small break from the intent gaze he'd been giving his patient.

"Tommy. You always mention him. Tell me about him."

Jude scoffed at his probing, brining her worn hand to her mouth and gnawing on one of her fingers.

"Naw, I'm good. Thanks."

"Come on! Humor me, Jude."

Jude's jaw clenched against her finger, growling under her breath.

"FINE." She continued chewing. "Ask away; you will anyway."

"How'd you meet?"

"He's my producer. We work together."

"That must be hard – maintaining both a personal and professional relationship."

"Not really. They're about the same thing now that everyone knows."

"Knows?"

He's going to push me. He's going to ask too much. He'll PAY.

"Yeah, about us. You can't be that stupid, can you? I'm 17; he's 23. We had to keep it a secret for a while."

He looked at her slightly puzzled, slightly amused.

"How'd you feel about that?"

She thought over the question for a minute, contemplating whether or not to tell him her true feelings or tell him to fuck off. She settled on a happy medium – denial.

"I didn't feel much of anything. We had our reasons and he knew it would be for the best, so I was cool."

"Do you always go along with what he says?"

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Then how'd you mean it."

"Just that, Tommy looks out for me, you know? If he says something would be best one way, I don't mind agreeing with it. I mean, we fight about it sometimes. Sometimes he thinks he knows everything and that his reasons are always ok, and I know they aren't. But I know he only wants things to be okay for me."

"Do you love him?"

"That's a dumb ass question, Doc."

"Do you?"

"Of course! Why wouldn't I? He's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"Does he," he paused for a second. "Do you think he loves you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"He's said it. He looks out for me. He... just does. I can see it, how he looks at me. I can feel it and hear it and see it and I just know."

He nodded happily at her response; she just glared.

"Have you two been intimate? As in sex?"

"You're a freakish pervert, aren't you? Next, you're going to tell me to get naked and lay on the couch, huh? Too much Freud for you."

"I've hit a nerve, I see."

"No. We haven't done it. Happy?"

"Why would I be happy?"

"You asked, didn't you? And quit with the question reversing thing your doing. It's annoying."

He lifted his hands, conceding from the fight that begged to be begun.

"Fair enough." He looked to be questioning himself as to where to take the interrogation. He took in a slight glimpse of his watch, adjusting the band before continuing. His mindless movements drove her nuts. "Was he the one who found you when you tried to commit suicide?"

Her eyes flashed in rage and horror. She never thought of it. She never went back to that time. That chunk of her history was always blacked out in mail censoring Fascistic ways.

I'll hurt him one day.

"Yes. He found me." She stood from her seat, biting back the verbal abuse she wanted to spew at the pseudo-psychiatrist who dug too deep. "We're done here."

I see this man too much, mostly on group days when he feels I need to open up more. He probes at me, his words hanging like razors from the ceiling. I never see him on Sundays. I think he goes to church. I can't help but laugh at his religiousness. I laugh at his crucifix above his door and the card on his windowsill from whoever sent it with the Virgin Mary on the front of it.

He will die. He will die by my hand and he'll ask me where God is when he needs him. I'll laugh at him, with his blood on my hands, and tell him that I am god.

I hate him. I fucking hate him.

Don't do it, Doc. Don't make me do it. I'm crazy, remember? I'm fucking insane. You like it, don't you? BASTARD.

I've been tonguing my pills. I hide them in my pillowcase. They make me feel dead. I feel my body shriveling up inside of myself when I take them. I'm a small tiny dot inside the mechanical Jude when I take them.

Don't make me quit feeling. I have to feel something, even if it makes me want to die.

See? I'm ok. I'm always going to be good, fuckers.

YOU ARE NOTHING.