Last chapter, yo! Thank you to all who have read this story! I love you all! All of you! Side note: SmileYou'reWICKED, your prediction way back in your review for chapter eight was absolutely right.
I own nothing but the plot line and a few OCs. The Almighty Larson owns the rest.
Connor stared at the white walls of his new room from the doorway. It had been four months since his aunt's funeral and one week since he'd had his first session with Dr. Fletcher. There were a lot of tears and even more mixed emotions during the funeral. Connor didn't cry, as he predicted, but he did feel a tinge of sadness. Anna was his mother's sister and his uncle's wife and they both loved her. He felt bad because they lost someone dear to them, but, at the same time, he was relieved that he no longer had to deal with the abuse.
What really upset him was his session with Dr. Fletcher. He had talked about losing his aunt and all she had put him through. He wasn't sure what happened after Dr. Fletcher asked him about what had happened to him at age twelve. His head throbbed with pain and the next thing he remembered was watching Dr. Fletcher pick himself up off of the floor while two nurses were holding him back.
The boy slowly walked into the room. A few of his books and clothes had been brought in from New York, but the room was mostly bare. He sat down on the bed and looked down at his hands. He didn't know how to process the fact that he had been admitted to a mental hospital.
"You look so sad," he heard his mother say. He looked up as she walked into the room. She sat down next to him and the two sat in silence for a long moment.
"I . . . I attacked Dr. Fletcher," Connor told Carrie. He looked back down at his hands. "I have . . . absolutely no recollection of doing it."
"Then how do you know you did it?"
"He had the session video taped." The boy wrapped his arms around himself. "He diagnosed me with Dissociative Identity Disorder. I read about it before. I think I sort of . . . knew I had it."
"You just didn't want to believe it." Connor looked up at his mother. "That's how I was."
"Do you ever worry about . . . being able to be a part of normal society again?" Carrie took Connor's hand in hers.
"I used to worry about everything. I mostly worried about what people who knew me would think after they found out. I won't lie to you, Connor, it is difficult to adjust to everything at first, but it all gets easier with time."
A nurse then entered the room carrying freshly washed bed sheets. She placed them on the dresser across from the bed before quickly leaving as not to interrupt the conversation. Connor and Carrie sat in silence for a short while.
"Mom?" the boy said.
"Yes?" Carrie replied.
"Who's my dad?" Connor felt his mother stiffen, but pretended not to notice as he awaited her answer. After two minutes, she let go of his hand. She stood up, walked to the window, and stared out at the sky. Connor continued to wait patiently for his mother to respond.
"Because I love you . . . I am not going to talk to you about your father," she said. "At least not yet."
"Why not?" the boy inquired. Carrie turned to him.
"I don't think you're ready to hear about him."
"So, you expect me to wait fifteen years to meet him like I did with you?" Carrie scowled at him. "I don't mean to disrespect you, Mom, but he's my father and I have the right to know who he is."
"Connor, trust me, you do not want to go down this road. Leave it alone."
"I can't. My curious nature won't allow that." Carrie walked back toward the bed. She was still scowling. Connor instinctively looked down at his hands.
"Connor Allen Bennett, you listen to me." Connor kept his attention on his hands as Carrie sat down next to him. She lifted his head and he looked at her. Her scowl was gone. "I know you want to know about your father, but I'm telling you it's not a good time."
"When will a good time be?"
"I'm not sure." Connor shifted on the bed. "I want you to promise me you won't take it upon yourself to find out who he is." The boy was silent. "Connor, I'm only trying to protect you."
"Protect me from what?"
"Promise me." Connor sighed and nodded. "A promise doesn't count unless you say it out loud."
"I promise." Carrie smiled, took hold of Connor's hand, and kissed his forehead.
The bohemians were talking, laughing, and drinking at the loft. Collins' leg and various other wounds had healed and he was able to finish the semester, but his mind wasn't functioning as well as it could. No matter what he did, he was constantly thinking of Anna. There were no charges against him since he shot her to defend himself, but the fact of the matter was that he killed someone. He took the life of another human being. He hadn't meant to, it just happened. Angel could tell there was something wrong with him and she had asked him about it a couple of times. He would tell her he was having a bad day and leave it at that.
Looking around at his friends to make sure they weren't paying him too much attention, Collins slipped his hand into his front pocket. His fingers made contact with the bottles of morphine he had taken from Connor's safe house and the syringe he had stolen from the hospital he was taken to after being reunited with Angel and his friends. The drug was the only thing helping him deal with knowledge that he shot and killed Anna. It kept him sane.
"You okay, Collins?" Roger asked. Collins quickly took his hand out of his pocket and looked to his friend.
"Yeah, man," he replied. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure? You look a little out of it." Collins said nothing and took a sip of his beer. "Hello?"
"I said, I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. You haven't for a while actually. I mean, ever since-"
"I'm fucking fine, Roger!" Collins snapped. "Just drop it!" Everyone looked to him. Angel placed a hand on his leg.
"He was just asking you if you're okay, Collins," Mark pointed out. "Chill out."
"Don't tell me what to do!" Collins got up from his spot on the couch and walked toward the bathroom. Maureen ran and stood in front of him. "Get out of my way."
"What's going on with you?" she asked. Collins just stared at her, so she continued. "We've been friends for years. I've seen you at your best and I've seen you at your worst, but I've never seen you like this."
"Move, Maureen."
"Collins, this isn't you at all. You've been distant, you don't make your usual jokes. What's going on?" Collins looked away from her and his mind drifted to the contents of his pocket. "Talk to me. Talking about it will help and-"
"Shut up," Collins interrupted. His voice wasn't very loud, but it was angry. Everyone stared at him in slight shock. "Is it a fucking crime for me to have a bad day and not want to talk about it?" No one said anything. Collins shoved Maureen out of his way and went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
He ran cold water into the sink and splashed it on his face. After drying his face with the sleeve of his shirt, he looked at himself in the dirty, cracked mirror. He breathed deeply before reaching into his pocket. Placing the syringe on the sink, he stared at the bottles in his hand. One of them was lighter than the other. It was almost empty. He picked the syringe up with his free hand and froze. He couldn't do this in the loft. He'd made it a rule that he wouldn't take the drug at his and Angel's apartment or the loft. He closed his eyes and immediately saw Anna's body falling to the ground. His eyes snapped open and landed on the bottles. He needed the drug. He couldn't deny it.
The bathroom door suddenly swung open. Angel and Roger were standing in the doorway. Collins looked at them as they took notice of the syringe and bottles.
"Collins . . ." Angel said softly. Roger took a step toward Collins and took the bottles out of his hand as the rest of the bohemians gathered behind them.
"Morphine?" Roger said. "You're taking morphine?"
Everyone stared at Collins and waited for an explanation. The professor looked down in shame. He wished he could explain himself, but he couldn't find the words. Slowly, he looked up at Angel. His eyes were pleading for help. As he looked at the rest of his friends, he dropped the syringe. A tear streamed down his cheek. It wasn't long before his head was down and he was sobbing. Angel lifted his head and pulled him into a hug. He laid his head on her shoulder and continued to cry as she gently rubbed his back.
"Don't worry, sweetheart," she whispered to him. "We're going to help you through this."
Review please.
There will be a sequel coming at you soon because I couldn't possibly fit everything into one story. It'll probably be up next weekend. The title will be The Soul's Revenge (I cannot claim the title, it's not mine, I didn't come up with it, and all that jazz). Be on the lookout for that. It will be complete and utter madness, just to give you a fair warning.