Author's Note: I finished this today. Whoopee! Now I'm focussing harder on "Salam." I've got to be honest, I'm glad to be done with this story. In my opinion it's been dragging on for far too long. But I think I've wrapped it up nicely, and it had a good run. There are parts I really enjoyed writing. Anyways... My guess is about three chapters left, not including this one. Enjoy. :o)

The next morning, Greg found himself writhing in his sheets. He had returned home to his own apartment, too scared to have Sara see him like this. The blood pounded in his ears like an incessant waterfall that he was about to go over in a barrel. He always teetered on the edge of sleep but never found it. He stared at the ceiling for hours. Finally, at around two o'clock, he got up, his muscles racing ahead of him and went to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. His hypersensitivity made him jump at the tiniest sound. The window cracking from the wind. The scuttling of a cockroach under the fridge was like nails on a chalk board. The rain drumming on the roof was like a rock star who had taken his drumsticks to Greg's skull. He tried to ignore it and shrug it off, but his pounding head made it impossible.

He ate the sandwich fast before his appetite abandoned him. But he was still hungry. It occurred to him that he hadn't eaten in forty-eight hours and this thought spurred him into action as he raided the fridge, pulling out a week-old pizza and devouring it like he'd never eaten anything so wonderful in his life. Soon, the food in his fridge exhausted, he decided to head back to his room and crash back on his bed. His legs cramped up. They didn't like not moving. They spasmed anxiously, daring him to get up and run a mile. His head was killing him. He figured he was dehydrated. He probably should have grabbed a bottle of water when he was in the kitchen. Well, it was too late for should haves. Too restless to remain on his back for long, he jumped to his feet again and walked to the bathroom, his legs grateful for the exercise, and wondered quietly to himself why he tolerated feeling like this.

Because it was worth feeling like that.

He'd had some terribly crazy dreams the previous day. He did not wish to dwell on them long. Images of blood and Vera and a crying baby left alone in the rain. He filled a glass and chugged the water. He looked in the mirror and grasped the edges of the sink with his hands. What was he doing? Really. He wasn't so sure anymore. All he knew was the person he talked to told him that it would make him better. It would give him energy and focus. It would make him feel alive. It would make him happy again.

It would give him migraines and insomnia. It would make him irritable. His appetite would vary depending on dosage and intake. When the high was over, would make him feel heavy and sluggish. His muscles would betray him and move involuntarily. The come down was a valley that could feel like hell itself. These were the things he hadn't told Greg.

But it was a trade off, Greg realized. To feel so good, you had to have your bad moments. And he didn't need to be happy at that moment. He was all by himself, he was allowed to wallow in his own personal hell. He could take a few more hours of this, before risking another dose. When he needed it. Because that was the only time he used it. When he needed it.

He wasn't stupid.

He looked in the mirror and deep into his bloodshot eyes. He took heavy breaths as the sweat dripped down his face, his arms shaking as they gripped the sink. His legs would spasm every now and then and throb. His hair was a neglected mop on his scalp.

He wasn't stupid. He was just desperate.

Greg wasn't sure when he had finally blacked out but it had apparently happened. When he woke up, he was exhausted. He felt as though he had been asleep for a hundred years and it still wasn't enough. He rolled over and rubbed his temples. He supposed he should get up, take a shower. But he didn't want to move. It was like something chained his limbs the bed. He slowly twisted his aching neck to look at his alarm and his eyes snapped open when he saw it was five o'clock in the morning. He tried to move again, but he felt as though he weighed a thousand pounds. Instead he just stared back up at the ceiling. He had already missed pretty much his whole shift. There was no point in getting out of bed today. He pulled the covers up around him.

Oh how he hated the come down worse than anything else.

"I think this is a good thing for you, Greg."

He hated it when she said that because she always sounded like she knew what was best for him on every issue they discussed.

"Yeah…" Greg muttered. "How's that, exactly?"

Dr. Amy Waterstone smiled broadly at him. "You've been mulling over this for a month now and you've finally made a decision. It shows you're moving forward, putting things behind you." She was a woman in her mid-forties who wore glasses and her prematurely graying blonde hair was pulled in a tight bun at the back of her head. Greg had a theory that she didn't actually need glasses, and purposefully tried to make herself look older than she was in order to appear smart, or wise, or something. He didn't know why he thought this. It might have been her condescending attitude. He wasn't too fond of his psychiatrist. He had been OK with her, until she had forced him off of the Imiprimine. Then he had pretty much decided she was evil.

"I just want her, and any reminder of her, out of my life and far away from me," Greg said, folding his arms. "If her brother wants to raise the kid, then more power to him."

"I understand," Amy said. "And I think that's a good decision."

"I mean… I don't want to think about it anymore," he said. "Can we not talk about it?"

Amy leaned back in her chair and eyed him warily. It reminded Greg of a hawk watching its prey. "OK, what do you want to talk about?"

"Can we talk about Sara?" Greg asked. "Since she saw what Sasha carved into her leg, she's been acting a lot better. Like she'd put it behind her almost. I'm… impressed. And a little… jealous."

"Jealous?" Amy sounded intrigued. "Last week you said you were happy for her."

"I-I am," he said. "But she laughs more than I do these days and she…" He swallowed. He didn't know how to say his next words without coming off as suicidal. "Everything I do, everything around me is so… dark… except for her. I love my job, but I feel like I can't breathe when I'm there, when I'm around my… friends… And it's like, coming home to her is like waking up from a nightmare, and she's there, and she's warm, and she's soft and she…" He sighed. "I want that. I want what she has. I want to know the peace she's found and where she found it. I want her to share her secret with me."

Amy looked very interested in Greg's words. She looked about to say something, but didn't speak for a long time. When she finally did speak, it was with an air of caution to her whispered tone, as though she was doing something illegal. "Greg, I think it would be a good idea if you and Sara scheduled a joint session with me," she said.

Greg cocked an eyebrow. "You mean like couple's therapy? No, we don't need that, didn't you hear me? She's incredible."

"I think it would be valuable if you listened to each other," Amy said. "The things you say to me, and the things she tells me… You need to talk to each other about them. I think it's important that you do."

Greg frowned, curiously. "Why? What does she say about me?" He paled. "She's… She's losing interest, isn't she? I'm not what she wants anymore— I can't give her what she needs, can I? Oh God…"

"No!" Amy said quickly. "No, Greg, it's nothing like that. Look, when you go home today, promise me that you'll speak with her?" Greg shrugged and nodded. "Because I will ask her tomorrow if you talked to her or not, you know." Again, Greg nodded.

"Yes, Doctor," he said.

She frowned at him. "Are you OK? You don't look too good…"

"I'm fine," Greg said quickly and automatically.

"You look a little flustered," Amy said, concernedly.

"It's just hot in here is all."

But Amy was scribbling on a note as she handed it to him. "It's the name of a doctor I work closely with. He'll give you a good deal, I want him to check you out. This is the fourth session you've come to where you've seen agitated and flushed. Have you been sleeping?"

"Like a baby," Greg lied.

"Eh," Amy shrugged, handing him the paper. "See him anyway. Dr. Everett. Believe me, he's a life-saver."

"Well he's a doctor, isn't he?" Greg said with a light laugh.

She smiled. "Always the jokester," she said, shaking her head.

"Yeah," Greg replied. "I guess I am."

Greg didn't speak with Sara when he returned to her place that evening. Though he still had his own apartment, he felt much more comfortable staying with her, in her small and cluttered space. There was something about the way her place smelled that made him feel more at home there than he did at his own apartment. And a few weeks ago, Sara had finally given him his own key, which Greg took as a symbol that she really was learning to live again.

By the time Greg returned, Sara was already fast asleep, preparing for the night's work. Before joining her, Greg first stopped off at the kitchen, pouring a tall glass of water. He fingered the pill bottle in his pocket before he shook his head. He didn't need them. And his hands were clammy enough as it was. He found the note in his pocket with the doctor's name on it and pulled it out, looking at it briefly before tearing it up. He didn't want a doctor telling him what he already knew.

He clenched the glass tightly in his grasp as he lifted it with shaking hands to his lips. He was sick of people telling him that he looked… well… sick. Regardless of how true it was. He was too jittery to sleep so he caught sight of a romance novel on Sara's table top and opened it up.

He had never thought of Sara as the harlequin romance type, but here was the proof. He smiled faintly at the overly cheesy and verbose language of the first page. He read almost half of it before he couldn't stand it any longer. All this talk about muscular cowboys and passionate women was beginning to make him nauseous. He looked at his watch and felt he needed to see Sara. He rose to his feet and head to her bedroom.

Greg shed his clothes and climbed in next to Sara under the covers, spooning her from behind. Feeling her body so close to his almost seemed to quell his shivering restlessness. He took a strand of hair and pushed it behind her ear, breathing in her sweet, comforting scent. He kissed her cheek lightly and her eyelashes fluttered as she exhaled a sigh. She smiled at his touch, but did not stir. Greg swelled with an overwhelming sense of belonging. She was sleeping so peacefully, and he was averse to waking her. He could always talk to her later.

Or now was also good.

"Sara…" he whispered softly, his breath brushing against her cheek. "There are some things that I've been keeping from you. They're things that you need to know." He looked down at her, but her breathing was deep and relaxed as her eyes darted around under her eyelids.

Greg sighed. "I know how much you hate secrets. But I know you keep them from me too. I'm not sure where to start… I guess with Vera Volkova. She… raped me a few months ago. I know, crazy, right? Well anyways… Now she's pregnant and for the longest time, I didn't know what to do. I guess you could say I took the coward's way out. I just refused to deal with it. The kid's going to live with Vera's brother. Catherine tells me he's a good guy…

"That's another thing… Catherine knew about what Vera did. I'm glad you can't say anything, because I know you'd be upset to know that Catherine knew something about me that you didn't know. You gotta believe me, though, Sara, I wanted to tell you, but every time I tried you were smiling and happy, and I was so… embarrassed and… I was scared. You see? You called me brave once. I just wanted to let you know that I'm not."

He hesitated before he continued. Even asleep, it was hard to confront her on this, his scariest secret of all. He bit his lip. "There's one more thing. I… haven't told anyone this. Sometimes, I even deny it to myself. But I'm scared that I… I have a problem. And it's the reason I've been having so much trouble sleeping lately. And to be honest, it's probably what's been the driving force behind our sex life. And eighty percent of my smiles. If it's any consolation, you're the other twenty percent of my smiles. But… I've been taking some amphetamines, just to keep me going. I know, it's stupid, and… I promised myself it would only be for a little while, but these days I feel like I'm drifting away from you and towards something dark and black and I don't much like it."

Greg bit his lip and stroked her hair softly. "You once told me that you didn't feel like you could give me proper thanks for saving your life without saving mine. Well I need you now, angel. I need you to save my life."

He felt Sara shift under his arm and held his breath. The smallest of frowns furrowed her brow as she began to twist in his arms. Her hands clenched at the sheets and she began a low moan. Then, her frown deepened and her eye lids were clenched tightly as she flexed her arms. Her groaning became louder and she began to kick and fight Greg's embrace.

Recognizing the tell-tale signs of one of her nightmares, Greg held fast, pinning her arms to her sides as he tried to calm her down. "Relax, angel, it's just me!" he said loudly.

"No…" she muttered, then screamed loudly as she struggled against him. She twisted around in his arms and began beating his chest with her fists, her yelling growing louder and fiercer.

Greg held her tightly, screaming at her now as he shook her, trying to free her from her personal hell. He stroked her hair harshly, saying her name over and over again until finally her eyes snapped open, laden with terror. She suddenly stopped beating his chest and her eyes welled with tears. Her lip quivered momentarily as her breath slowed. Greg felt her heartbeat running miles ahead of her against his chest.

Suddenly she pushed him away and sat up, swinging her legs over the bed. She rested her elbows on her knees as she ran her hands through her hair. She was breathing heavily. "Jesus Christ, Greg…" she panted.

Concerned, Greg crawled over to her and lightly rubbed her shoulders. "You haven't had a nightmare like that in…" He exhaled, shaking his head as he thought. "Wow, a long time."

Sara's throat constricted and stole her voice, so she simply nodded. She tried to control her breathing.

"I thought… you were past that," Greg said slowly.

Still not trusting her voice, Sara just nodded again. Greg brushed the hair away from her neck and began to slowly knead it. Sara closed his eyes and let out a low sigh. It was as though his fingers were gently untying the knot in her throat. She purred like a cat and tilted her head to the side and Greg took her direction and massaged her neck further.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Sara acted as though she hadn't heard him as she continued to enjoy Greg's massage. He took this as an answer in the negative and continued to try to chase away the tension her nightmares had left behind. Finally, as his hand began to get tired, Sara turned her head and gently kissed a hand of his on her shoulder. He stopped momentarily as she twisted around and softly caressed his lips with her own, her tongue sliding delicately across his lips. Her hands lightly twisted his curls around her fingers. Eventually, she broke the gentle kiss and leaned her forehead against his. Her caress was feathery and soft, like the brush of a dove's wing, and Greg really felt like he was in the presence of some divine and ghostly being who was blessing him with her holy touch.

"Thank you," Sara whispered, her voice dry and hoarse. She coughed, trying to sound more presentable, but Greg laughed and gently stroked her hair.

"Anytime, angel," he muttered, kissing her forehead.

She opened her mouth and hesitated before she spoke again. "How… How can I make it go away, Greg? Make it go away for good. I can't get his stench out of my nostrils, it's like… every time I fix myself a drink to calm my nerves, all I smell is cheap vodka and heavy cologne and I… I've tried so hard to forget it but it always comes back again, like a body you try to bury in a river but it always floats to the surface and even when you tie weights to it, it just always seems to find its way back again." Her eyes sparkled in the dim sunlight that spilled through the cracks in her heavy curtains. Her voice trembled with her next words. "Oh God, I'm so glad you're here. I'm so glad I have you. You're my anchor in this storm-struck nightmare ocean and I… I don't know what I would do, if one day you weren't here to hold me and tell me everything was going to be OK."

She slid her arms around his sides and rested her palms on his back as she leaned her chin on his shoulder, her knees resting on the bed on either side of him. He rocked her back and forth and closed his eyes, reveling in the closeness of her.

"There's a reason I haven't been having nightmares," she explained slowly. Greg continued to rock her, but his eyes were now open. She continued. "Amy gave me a prescription for sleeping pills. But sometimes, even that's not enough. Sometimes, I wake up screaming, and sometimes you're not here. I hate those times more than the nightmares themselves."

Greg nodded slowly. It was now or never.

"Sara, I'm sick," he choked out.

She did not relinquish her hold on him. "I know," she whispered.

He frowned. She couldn't possibly. "I… I'm lost and I don't know what to do."

"I know."

But she didn't. He needed to explain it to her. "I just wish sometimes that I was smart, you know? So I could maybe build a time machine and go back and change things, change everything. So I could swoop in like superman and save the day and ride off on that noble steed into the horizon. There are so many things I want to take back…"

"If you keep looking over your shoulder," Sara said, "you'll miss out on all the beautiful things that are right in front of you." She pulled away and smiled faintly at him. "Things like me."

He couldn't love her more. "I could never miss you, beautiful… But… I just wish…"

But he was missing something. What it was, he couldn't say, but he knew what it wasn't. It wasn't the pain, for that he felt daily. It wasn't the shame, or the guilt, or the bafflement, or the terror. But it wasn't Sara either. He was hyperaware of all those things. It was something else entirely. And in his dreams, when he stared out into that darkness and saw only a reflection of himself swallowed up inside it, he knew then what it was that he had lost. But when he awoke, he had forgotten again, and the struggle to find the answer to a question he hadn't asked began anew. In his dreams, he was afraid of the nothingness, of the empty void of absolute zero. He knew that what he feared most was tumbling into it, that it would slowly consume him and become him, like a virus destroying him from the inside out. The pills, the lies, the secrets, the damage that was wrought by earthly demons and drenched in alcohol was nothing compared to the nothingness.

He thought for so long about the nothingness that it consumed the very room he resided in, slowly creeping its shadowy tentacles over the walls, the ceiling, the carpet, the bed, seizing Sara out of his grasp until all he could do was stare at it, this blackness in his arms, darkness into infinity where there was no light at the end of the tunnel, no hope, no soul, no redemption, just an empty void of black where he was lost and never would be found again because he was dead and rotting, his carcass being eaten by roaches and worms, the blood– Sara's blood, Vera's blood– intermingling and pouring from his veins, his eyes, his mouth, staining his teeth, staining his coffin, staining his life, and– oh how he just wanted to go home— but there was no home, there was nothing, nothing mattered because nothing was alive to begin with, not really, everything was all dead, always, everyone, and it didn't matter if one man stopped walking, breathing, talking, he was just the same as Sasha Volkov, as Ryan Woodward, Greg was just the same as any man, all men were the same in death, for no man escapes the pits of hell, not even Gregory Sanders, good old Greggo, no not even him, they were all tossed together in a heap on the funeral pyre, burning together, rotting together, birds of a feather, flocking together like good ducklings should, following the mother hen, leading them into timeless empty space where the vultures waited– no, nothing waited, because that's what Hell is– an empty void of nothingness.

But before his mind could ramble further into the depths of the void, she reached out a hand, turned on the night light, closed the closet door and brought the little boy out.

"I know."

His mind had been gone for so long he wasn't even sure what she was referring to anymore, what she knew, what she didn't know, but in that moment he felt like she knew everything, like she knew the world, like she knew him, and like she knew the nothingness like it was nothing new. There couldn't be nothing. Because there was Sara. And there would always be Sara. And he needed to be strong. For Sara.

"There's something I've been wanting to tell you for a long time…" he began slowly.

"You know you can always tell me anything." The feeling of her breath on his earlobe sent thrilling tremors through Greg's body.

"I love you so goddamn much," he breathed.

She squeezed her grip tighter around him and just her closeness seemed to chase away the dark. "I know."

He opened his mouth to tell her the truth. He felt invigorated, he felt alive for the first time in months, indeed in almost a year, and he felt encouraged to tell her everything in his cluttered little head. But when he tried, nothing came out, not the truth, not a lie, not even an undeniable affirmation like his declaration of love for her. Absolutely nothing tumbled from his lips and he was shocked.

She saved him, like she always saved him, with whispered words carried on the air between her lips and his ear. "I love you too, Greg."

And they slowly laid back down on the bed and he watched her until she fell asleep again. Greg closed his eyes in an attempt to mimic her. But as usual, sleep was far from him. As he waited for the sun to set, Greg wondered dimly if he had chased it away forever, and if it would ever return again.