Alright, I'm sorry (for the trillionth time) that I haven't updated for a while. I really shouldn't even be updating now because I have to do all of my homework to do for tomorrow because I have aScholastic Bowl meet tomorrow that is going to take forever! So, I have to make this quick.

I apologize for the shortness of the chapter, but I hope to get the next one up soon (even though we all know that isn't going to happen). Oh well.

Oh, and by the way, this is really disappointing. I'm recieving less and less reviews. Is it really that bad that I'm losing everyone's interest? Well, I'll continue because I enjoy writing, but this is starting to get a little discouraging . . . I guess I'll just be all by my lonesome for the rest of my life . . .

Well, here's the chapter. Enjoy (if anyone even reads it).

The Doom Patrol. An interesting name.

He stared at his feet and examined the dust collected on the floor. He didn't feel like talking about it.

Aren't you going to continue?

"Um, yeah . . . I guess," he surrendered. "I . . . uh . . ."

What is the matter?

"Um, nothing," he lied and forced himself to proceed. "Alright, that night that they found me, I expected them to leave me. But that woman ––– she insisted that they couldn't. She said that it wouldn't be right. That it wouldn't be fair. I knew by then that nothing was fair, but she persisted to believe in the good nature of the world, which I know, of course, is non-existent.

Non-existent?

"Yes. The world is harsh and cruel. No matter how hard you search, you will never find any true good in the world. It is always corrupted or surreal. Unauthentic. Fake."

She looked away, and he knew the violet fire of her eyes were burning with desire to prove him wrong. To convince him that there is good in the world.

But he knew the truth. And 'good' was all a lie.

He thus decided to continue. "She convinced Mento to let her take me with them. I was beyond astonished when he finally agreed.

"They took me in and gave me what I needed. Not just food and water, but something much more."

What was it? she asked.

"Love," he replied quietly. He twiddled his fingers and then sighed.

"Love ––– is so complicated. Pure love is never there, but the care is still present. Love is complex, sometimes suppressed, sometimes open, and sometimes ––– lonely."

Lonely?

"Yes," he responded quietly. He didn't elaborate. For a moment, they sat in silence. It wasn't awkward, it was more of an understanding silence, each soaking in the depth of the conversation.

"After my parents died, my search for love began. Sometimes I would grasp it, savoring every moment, then it would slip through my fingers. Every time I lost it, it became harder and harder to recover. Now my heart is empty."

No, she said, it isn't.

"What?" he asked, looking at her.

Emptiness is not within your heart. It is filled to the brim.

"What are you talking about?"

Your heart ––– it is full. Full with regretful love and a vengeful hate. Your cover up these feelings with a false sense of emptiness. You think you are a numb void, when you are in reality discreetly emotional. You are not aware of this?

His brow furrowed, he looked off, thinking about what she had revealed to him. How could this be possible? He still had love within him? Then he shook his head. "No. You're wrong. That's ––– that's just not right. It isn't," he said. "You're wrong," he repeated.

She looked straight ahead. It is the truth if you wish to believe it or not.

"No," he said again. He stood up from the stool and inadvertently knocked it backwards. The stool clattered to the floor, painfully disrupting the deadly silence encasing the room.

"No, no, no! That's not right! I'm dead on the inside! No life, no activity, no feelings, no NOTHING!" he ranted, pacing about the room. "You're wrong, you're wrong, you're WRONG! It can't be possible!" he continued. He couldn't understand why he was so angry.

You are angry, she said, seemingly reading his thoughts, because you became convinced that everything you believed was real. Now that you are being told that this is untrue, you have resorted to your only form of output you have left.

He tried to ignore her. He tried to shut her out. But then her words began taking effect and his anger started to dwindle.

"But it can't be," he said, his voice weakening. "It just can't . . ."

His pacing slowed and he progressively walked back to the counter and picked up the fallen stool. He sat down once more, his face twisted with confusing worry. "I–––" he began, but his voice trailed off.

You have seen it, haven't you? You have seen the truth? He nodded, and she seemed satisfied.

"I didn't think–––" he started. "I just didn't think that a monster like me could ever–––" He broke off once more and began to cry quietly into his arms resting on the counter.

The truth is powerful, she commented. It can be painful.

He then lifted his head, his eyes red from his tears. "You have no idea."

So, review if your reading this. I will seriously appreciate it. Thanks.