I know what you're all probably thinking: "Holy crap! What a long-ass chapter." :) Rest assured, though, this one is the longest. If you feel the need to read some of it now and some later, please do so. It's the most vital chapter in the story.

That being said, you can all clap and throw up graffiti now: Cody's much-awaited moment of truth has finally come! Though I doubt it'll be what some of you may have expected, I sincerely hope it does not disappoint. Cody's battered self-image, as shown via his and George's discussion here, was loosely based off of his feelings at the end of the SLOD episode "Goin' Bananas." I'm sure avid SL fans, such as myself, will notice the similarities.

Furthermore, for my readers who do not live in the United States and who may not know this, a "fed pen"—as will be mentioned in this chapter—is slang for "federal penitentiary." In other words, a federal prison. I don't mean to insult anyone's intelligence; I just wanted to make sure everyone was clear on that so there's no confusion.

I really hope you enjoy this! :)

Disclaimer: I don't own The Suite Life series.

Zack sat quietly in his chair, his hands folded on his lap and the back of his head leaning against the brick wall behind him. He was situated in a corner, next to a work desk where the officer who had arrested him rummaged relentlessly through shuffled papers, files, and post-it stamps in search of his record (which, as the man had sworn, was right there just a second ago). The noise was rather annoying to Zack, but he managed to drown it out. His thoughts were focused on what he had done…and how good he was feeling.

Though his arms hurt from being harshly pulled behind him, his ankle was sore from tripping on his way to the squad car, and his wrists were pink from the handcuffs (which had thankfully been removed upon his arrival at the station), he couldn't deny that he was perfectly content with himself.

Ending up at the police station sure as hell wasn't something he'd wanted, but he considered it a small price to pay in having it out with the people at Fairoaks. He didn't see what he did as wrong, or remotely uncalled-for. It wasn't like he'd killed anyone…although there was a part of him that had desperately wanted to. He'd merely told them off. And they'd asked for it. Their inability to do their jobs properly had almost killed his little brother. He couldn't let something like that stand.

Nobody hurt his Cody. Nobody.

If anyone did, he would set them straight. He'd risk anything in the process—even his own security. And he'd accept the consequences of his actions.

Getting arrested was not exactly a new consequence for Zack. In fact, this was not the first time he'd ended up at the Boston police station. During his adolescence he'd managed to land himself there on two occasions, once for trying to steal money from inside a cash register when he was fourteen, and the other time for drinking underage when he was sixteen. He couldn't say the notion of going to jail was novel to him. Most people who knew him pictured him going there at some point in his future. So this felt natural. Almost like a rebirth of the young, reckless Zack that everyone loved to criticize.

But this is different, a little voice inside of him protested. This is different and you know it.

And the voice was right; this was different. Despite what he felt, he knew this wasn't a revival of his young self. His young self was irresponsible and thoughtless—a schemer, and a prankster. A boy who got himself into trouble by being sneaky and plotting things in the name of a good laugh.

This was precisely the opposite of that. What Zack had done this time had been out of anger—out of want for justice. Out of love. Out of disgust. And out of many other emotions that his young self had hardly ever acted upon.

"Aha!" he heard the officer exclaim at his side. "Here it is." Evidently, he'd buried 'it'—the record—under a mass of other papers and hadn't thought to look through them.

Once it was in his hands, he sat down at his desk and looked it over. It took him a while to read all the fine print, but when he'd finished, he then turned his eyes toward Zack. "Zachary Martin," he said with conviction. "Born—1992; birthplace—Seattle. Arrested twice when you were a minor—once for attempted theft and once for underage drinking."

"That's right," Zack confirmed.

The officer shot him a reproachful frown. "So it seems you're not exactly a newbie to crime, are you Zachary? You've been in here before."

"When I was a kid," Zack stated, nodding.

"True, true." The officer put down the record and folded his hands over top of it, his gaze never leaving Zack. "And yet, here we are for round three. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Zack shrugged. "Does it really matter what I say?"

"Look, son,"—Zack cringed; he always hated how officers had the tendency to call a young boy, or a young man, "son" even though they were of no relation to them—"I hate to say this, but from where I stand, you're a bad guy. I ain't gonna lie to you and say I think you're innocent just so I can gain your trust like you see cops do on all those TV shows. No, I'm gonna be blunt and honest with you—my job demands that I look at you as the bad guy. I know what you did was wrong…and I think you know it too. My question is: why did you do it?"

He tapped his finger on the record. "You see, this—this right here—I can forgive," he continued, obviously referring to Zack's two previous arrests. "I was young once. I stole things, I drank before I legally could…I thought I was cool. I can understand this." He tapped the paper again. "But what you did today—that I can't understand. You attacked people, Zachary."

"Call me Zack. And I didn't attack them, I yelled at them," Zack corrected.

"Yelling at people is still attacking them, Zack. It's harassment. And besides, that's not all you did. You were about to hit a man!"

"I didn't."

"But you were about to. Let's not forget your intentions, Zack. They count."

There was a short pause in which Zack silently reflected on his intentions. Justice had been the biggest thing. A deep, burning desire for justice that had driven him like a mind-controlling entity.

It's kind of ironic how I was prompted by justice, yet in the eyes of the justice "system" I'm a bad guy.

The officer felt the need to carry on, so he did: "You were on the brink, Zack. You were on the brink of losing it. You see, things like this—like what went down today—lead to chain reactions. First it's verbal abuse, then it's hitting, then it's all kinds of violence, and then someone gets killed." His frown intensified and morphed into a condemning glare. "And once someone gets killed, everything's changed. You've changed. You can never redeem yourself."

I don't know about that, officer. I like to think anyone can be redeemed. I take it you believe in justice, and truth, and integrity, and all that other good stuff. What about forgiveness?

"I'd hate to see you changed like that, Zack. But from what I've seen…I gotta say, it's possible. You've reached the first step in the chain reaction."

Not necessarily, officer. I wouldn't think twice about giving some asshole a piece of my mind, or a black eye if I thought he really deserved it…but I'd never kill anyone.

"I'm not trying to scare you, son…"

Yes, I think you are. You're a cop. You cops are well-trained in the art of scare tactics, and you use them whenever you see fit.

"I'm just trying to…help you."

No, you're trying to crucify me. I'm nothing more to you than a tally-mark on your quota—a point given to you for being the "good guy." But in order for you to be the good guy, I have to be the villain.

You know I'm a good guy, officer. But you're sitting here trying to convince both of us that I'm not so you can feel good about yourself for arresting me.

The officer waited for Zack to speak. When Zack said nothing, he urged him: "Well? Do you have anything to say for yourself?" When that, too, was to no avail, he became aggravated. "You know, I could have thrown you in a cell if I wanted to. You're an adult now Zack; that means you don't get off so easily anymore. I coulda said 'to heck with it' and tossed you in with the drug fiends and the drunks…and made you wait there for your dad to come. Is that what you'd have wanted? Cause it sure as hell wouldn't've been any skin off my back. But no, I allowed you to sit here and talk to me; I gave you a chance to explain yourself to me. So why don't you take advantage of that?"

Zack still didn't say anything.

"Damn it, boy! You know you have the right to talk!"

"Yes, I do," Zack shot back all of a sudden. "And I also have the right to remain silent."

After that, they both got quiet.

There was nothing to say. It didn't matter what Zack told this cop; the guy would twist it around anyway. That's what cops did—they twisted your words until they made you look and feel like the biggest dumbass on Earth, with no right to live. And Zack didn't want to feel that way. He was feeling good—proud of himself, even—and nothing was going to bring that feeling down.

He began to think about his father, who he'd gotten a hold of when he was allowed his one phone call, and who promised to be at the station as soon as possible. He thought about how lucky it was that his father's cell phone had been turned on, because otherwise, he'd have been screwed. He'd have wasted his one chance to get in contact with the outside world and would have had to rely on an eventual release…whenever that would be. His first thought had been to call the Tipton and have Mr. Moseby get in touch with his parents. But for some reason, he couldn't remember the hotel's phone number (he hadn't used it since he was a kid, and even back then he only used it once in a while). His dad's cell was the only other number he could think of, so he tried it and hoped—prayed—that he wouldn't get stuck with his voice mail.

Luckily, his dad had answered on the first ring and Zack found himself speeding through a quick rundown of the basics: where he was, why he was there, what he needed now, etc. it was hard because his dad was speaking to him frantically and he could hear his mom crying over the receiver (which gave him a streak of guilt), but nevertheless, he managed to get it all out before the officer ordered him to hang up.

He'd made sure that his last words were "I'm sorry" and "I love you." Then he'd put the phone back and followed the officer over to where he was sitting now.

He tried to picture what his dad would look like when he saw him—tired, worried, angry, older than he really was…

He also deliberated on what his dad would say.

I'll probably get a mouth full.

…

When Kurt finally did show up at the police station, he looked more disillusioned than anything else. Despite his natural tan complexion, he appeared whiter than a ghost. His eyes drooped, his head hung low, and his hands were stuffed firmly into his pockets. As soon as he entered the building, both Zack and his arresting officer spotted him.

And he spotted them.

"Stay here," demanded the officer when Zack instinctually began to stand up.

Though he desperately didn't want to, Zack did as he was told. He sat back down and watched, like an observer, as the cop approached his father and began to talk to him. He wondered what they were saying, but not to the point of trying to eavesdrop. It was probably something along the lines of: "Sir, I'm really sorry but—you know—your son shouldn't be doing things like this. He could find himself in a world of trouble someday." To which the reply would be something like: "I understand perfectly, officer. I apologize for the inconvenience."

Yep, I'm an inconvenience. A bunch of crackpot doctors can effectively sentence by brother to death—that's okay. But if I so much as complain about it, I'm an inconvenience. That sounds about right.

Ain't society just grand?

As Kurt finally made his way over to the corner, Zack caught the last part of the conversation. His dad spoke over his shoulder at the officer, who was now walking off somewhere: "I haven't even seen my other son yet. I was in the waiting room when Zack called me, and for a while, I didn't know whether to leave and come here right away or go in and see my other one first."

Then he was standing over Zack, waiting for him to get up.

"So Cody's okay?" Zack braved a question. He wasn't sure if that was wise, but he couldn't help himself; Cody was the biggest thing on his mind right now.

"He's fine," Kurt answered simply. "Let's go. Your mom's still at the hospital."

Zack got up and followed his father out, maneuvering through the throng of cops and struggling criminals swarming the main room.

Kurt was the first one out the door. As he held it open for Zack, he said, "Oh, and by the way, the cop told me your car was towed from Fairoaks. We'll eventually have to pick it up."

Of course, thought Zack.

When Kurt and Zack were sitting in Kurt's car (or Carey's car, technically) in the station's parking lot, about to make the trip from there to the hospital, Zack started to really wonder if his dad was going to say anything. "Are you going to talk to me?" he asked boldly. "Or is this going to be a silent ride?"

It took a moment for Kurt to answer. "What do you want me to say, Zack?"

"I don't know." Zack shrugged. "I'm sure there's something you'd like to tell me."

The lack of words felt abnormal in this situation. One would think that a father would have plenty to say to his recently-arrested son, and Zack had prepared himself for the worst. While sitting in the station, he'd even rehearsed about twenty or so different things he thought his dad might tell him upon seeing him: "I'm ashamed of you"; "you should be ashamed of yourself"; "I know how you feel, but this isn't the answer"; "you should have known better"; and the ever-famous "back in my day…" routine.

None of them, however, were what he actually said: "Was it worth it?"

At first, Zack was stunned, that having never crossed his mind. Then his mouth curved into a smile and he replied with confidence, "Yeah. It was."

"I guess there's not a whole lot I can say to that," Kurt reasoned. He leaned forward, put the car keys into the ignition, turned them back and fired up the engine. He then placed his hands on the steering wheel.

Zack was relieved. His father was taking this a lot better than he thought he would.

"You know, your mom's still gonna want to know what you did," Kurt added as he started to pull out of his parking space. "Maybe you should go ahead and get your story straight with me…cause when you face her, I highly doubt you'll get a word in edge-wise. You know how your mom is."

Zack decided that was fair enough, so he told him everything—everything from beginning to end, excluding no details: "I went into Fairoaks—well, barged into Fairoaks more like—and demanded to see the guy who sedated Cody. They told me he wasn't there—that he'd been fired and had left already. So then I told them I wanted to see Cody's psychiatrist. They weren't too keen on that either, but when I told them I wouldn't go away until I saw him, the lady at the front desk called him in his office and told him to get down there. He said he was too busy, but then I lost it—I didn't mean to, I was just so pissed. I grabbed the phone out of the lady's hands and started yelling at the guy myself. I told him to 'get his ass down there now or it would get ugly.' He was all like, 'Okay, okay…just don't do anything irrational.' And I said, 'Hurry up!' And then I waited for him; I waited a good ten or so minutes before he came out. I started to get antsy there for a while, but when he came through the door I started asking him all these questions about Cody—about what happened to him when he'd been a patient there and such. I told him about how bad he looked whenever I visited him and asked him why that was. He barely had any answers. He didn't know jack about Cody; Cody didn't tell him shit apparently. Not that I blame him—the guy was a pompous ass." He paused as the next part of his story came to mind. "He said what happened to Cody was Cody's own fault—that if I should be taking my anger out on anybody, it should be him. He called Cody 'egotistical' and 'moronic,' and said that any boy with the nerve he's got is better off dead anyway. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted to kill him. But I couldn't go that far—I don't think I could forgive myself afterward if I did. So instead I was going to hit him; I was going to give him a black eye and then leave. So I grabbed him by the shirt collar, forced him about an inch or two toward me, balled up my fist… and that's when the cop came. He arrested me and, well, that was that."

"I see," said Kurt. "You know, after I came to pick you up, when he and I were talking he told me specifically that Dr. Thompson called him."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He said Dr. Thompson called him right after you yelled at him on the phone. And he also said Dr. Thompson requested him to turn his siren off when he got close enough—that way you wouldn't know a cop was coming. Cops can do that if they feel they need to."

"Huh…then I guess I could have avoided this mess." Zack waited, expecting his dad to blow a gasket at any given moment.

But he didn't. When he spoke again, he was calm and serene: "I'm not going to yell at you because…well, I don't think it'd do much good. What's done is done. But I will say this—don't you ever pull a stunt like this again. Your mom and I were scared shitless before we got your call. I know why you did what you did; believe me, I understand it…and I'm not going to criticize you for it, or preach to you about how unreasonable it was, because I can't say I wouldn't have done the same. But, that aside, I want you to think about what would have happened if they'd decided to be stricter with you at the station—if they'd locked you up and made us pay bail to get you out. We might not have been able to pull that. Bail isn't cheap. You would have had to sit in a cell for a while, alone…unable to see Cody. Think about that."

Strangely enough, Dad, I was thinking about that. But I deemed it worth my decision to set the guilty straight.

"Your brother needs you, Zack. I'm sure you know that. But you can't be there for him if you're in jail."

"I know, you're right," Zack admitted. "It's just…I don't know. I guess my anger got the best of me. I just wish none of this had ever happened. I wish things had never changed."

Kurt briefly turned his eyes away from the road and fixed them on his son. "Things change, son," he intoned, his voice wise and full of experience. "It's life. You just have to accept it and move on."

"Usually I do, but this change is just…different. I can't move on from this, Dad."

"It'll take some time."

"It'll take more than some time."

"Okay, a lot of time."

Zack shook his head defiantly. "It'll take the rest of my life, Dad."

"No…it won't. I know it feels that way, but believe me, it won't. You'll heal eventually. You've just been away from your brother too long. You've been forced to worry about him too much. Once you guys are together again, some of that pain will go away." When he saw that his son was unsure, he tacked on another "It's life, son. And life goes on."

Suddenly, Zack's anger flared. "Since when do you have insight into life, Dad?" he spat. "Since when does a divorced rock star with two kids he never even raised have a fucking clue about life?"

Zack could tell that his words hurt his father, but he didn't take them back. He let them linger in the air between them, like a filthy stench they both wanted to shun. Like an invisible barrier that had always—and would always—separate them, even though they were father and son and had a mutual longing for a bond.

"Okay, fine," Kurt finally said in response. "Maybe you have a valid point. Maybe I don't know the first thing about life." He paused for a long time—so long that Zack actually thought he'd decided to stop talking—before continuing with: "But you can't deny that I know a little something about music."

Zack was shocked. That was the second thing his father had said that had taken him by surprise. "And that's relevant how?" he managed to ask, unable to suppress a tone of incredulity.

"Maybe it's not," Kurt said. "Then again, maybe it is. Maybe music and life have a lot in common."

Zack stared at him in bafflement. "Care to explain that statement?"

"You said you wished things had never changed," Kurt pointed out. "Well, look at it this way: if I had my guitar with me right now and, for whatever reason, wanted to hit just one note, I could do it. I could pluck just one chord over and over again, for a long time, and make a single, unchanging sound. That would be easy. Anyone with fingers could do that. But see, that's not music; that's just noise. Just sound, with no organization."

"What are you getting at?" Zack interrupted.

"It's the change in notes, Zack—the disruption of sound, the shifting from one chord to another—that makes it music. That gives it meaning. And I assume…I believe…that it's the same with life. Without change, you can't live; you can only exist. Just like you can't have music without change—only noise. Each event in life, whether pleasant or not, is like a note…and all these notes come together to make a song—your life."

Zack considered it that way. It wasn't a perfect analogy. Far from it. But it was sure as hell interesting. Still, it didn't make him feel any better. "Some notes shouldn't be played, though," he mentioned. "Some notes shouldn't be played at all."

"That's understandable. But if they weren't, you wouldn't have the same song—the same life. Some songs are not beautiful, but that doesn't mean they're not meaningful. Or necessary."

"So you think this situation we're in is necessary?"

Kurt's hands sqeezed the wheel, his knuckles turning white. "I can't afford to think otherwise, son. If I think otherwise, I won't stay sane."

They were silent again for the rest of the ride.

…

There were phone calls from Fairoaks days after Cody went home—apologies, assurances, inquiries about Cody's health, encouragement for him to come back and "finish therapy" (which was out of the question), and the occasional reminder of Zack's outburst from an irate worker.

Though some of them seemed like they desperately wanted to, none of them tried to force Cody to come back. Not only could they not do that, but they knew better than to mess with a lawsuit…which was, to everyone's dismay, impending.

Cody did go back though. But not under anyone's influence save his own. And not as a patient.

He went back as a visitor.

For George.

…

The days had gone by in a blur for George Tanner. A blur of many things—colors, sounds, tastes, events…feelings. The feelings were the worst. He couldn't control them anymore. They ran him over like speeding cars on a highway and left him there to stagger and fall. He wasn't used to it.

But he wasn't giving up. He already had an assortment of Depakote pills hidden inside his bedrail, and fuck, he wanted to have more.

In a way, his un-medicated self felt free. Liberated. Like a slave who'd secretly started a revolution against his master, or like a prisoner who'd just unlocked his chains. However, he also felt scared (yes, as hard as it was for him to come to terms with, George was scared). He felt insecure, and doubtful. His standoffish demeanor, which usually came naturally to him, had lately become an effort. He could even go so far as to call it a pretense. He constantly had to remind himself to stay cool and not draw suspicion…kind of like a new-time drug dealer who didn't know who he could trust versus who would rat him out.

And his bipolar disorder didn't help matters.

George now lived in a continuous state of mood swings—from a hyperactive euphoria to a desolate sadness. The doctors had terms for these moods: "mania" and "depression."

What they called "mania" George saw as "ascension." He saw it as that because it uplifted him and made him feel like he was walking among clouds. It gave him the sensation of floating on air as though it were a river current, while simultaneously it turned him into a live circuit—electrified and powerful. When he was "manic," he was alive. He was inspired. He loved life and loved the world, and was able to do anything and everything his heart desired.

What was referred to as "depression," he called "the fall." The fall from grace—the descent from bliss. The loss of indestructibility and acceptance of failure. When he was depressed, he was vulnerable. Dead inside. Or, at least, in a coma. He was nothing and no one, and everyone hated him and would be better off without him. He was an abomination of the worst kind. A pesky insect on God's green Earth that needed to be squashed immediately.

Of course, deep down, he knew that's what he was anyway, depressed or not. But when he was manic, he didn't care. When he was depressed, he cared about nothing else.

The medication had significantly lessened the mood-changing. It had given George stability, which is what the doctors said he needed. Stability equaled normalcy. But George didn't really want stability. His disorder was real. It was what made him who he was. Mania and depression, as hard as they were to compensate for, were two halves of his soul. He wasn't George without them. He was a clone.

And he despised the thought of him being a clone. It was better to be black or white than to be gray.

…

George didn't think anything of visiting day. He had nothing to be excited about; it wasn't like he ever got any visitors. Nobody wanted to see him. He'd been totally forgotten by the outside world.

So that next visiting day after Cody left, George was pretty flabbergasted when a nurse came into his room and told him someone was there to see him.

He already knew it was Cody (who else would it be?), but still, he couldn't suppress a feeling of giddiness that erupted inside him at the thought of finally getting to see the visiting room…after nearly three years of being a patient at Fairoaks.

When he walked inside of it, the first thing he did was take at his surroundings and think to himself, So this is what it looks like. It was, by a long-shot, the nicest room he'd ever seen in Fairoaks besides the lobby. The table and chairs situated in the center looked very business-like. How long has it been since I've seen tables and chairs like that?

Sitting in one of the chairs, smiling as though he'd just found a long-lost relative, was Cody.

"Well, whatya know?" George marveled. "My very first visitor. Figures it'd be you."

"Hey George," Cody said in return. Without thinking twice, he walked up to his old roommate and wrapped his arms around him in a tight embrace. George didn't mind. Despite his lack of emotional range, he hugged Cody back (though not as firmly).

Enclosed within his grasp, Cody couldn't help but notice that George felt especially frail. His shoulder blades and spine poked abnormally through his shirt and he seemed to have practically no flesh in between his bones and skin. Cody had never realized just how gaunt he was.

Then again, he had never really touched George much either.

"You're looking well," George commented as his ex-roommate pulled away from him and bent to take a seat.

"Thanks," Cody responded. "I'm feeling much better."

"That's a relief, given what you've been through." George sat down in the chair next to Cody's. "Thank God you're not dead."

"So, I take it you know about what happened to me?"

George nodded, unsurprised. "That's what happens in a place like this, man," he said coolly. "You do something nice for someone and they shoot you up with Thorazine for it. That's the drill. If it wasn't for you, little Miss Jenny woulda been a rape victim…which is pretty fuckin' major if you ask me. But, did you get a 'thank you' for all your bravery and shit? Hell no." He snorted, appalled. "Ungrateful bitches!"

"Not all of them are ungrateful," Cody told him in appeasement. "Jenny herself thanked me."

George seemed momentarily amazed by that, but then maintained his nonchalant look. "That's…nice," he declared. "But still, the nurses here suck. Like the douche who pumped you full o' Thorazine in the first place—I mean, what the fuck was he thinking?"

"How do you know it was a he?" Cody couldn't imagine how he would know that kind of detail. It wasn't like male nurses were plentiful.

"Nurse Richards told me."

Well, that's peculiar. Isn't that breaking the confidentiality rules? "I thought nurses weren't allowed to give out that kind of information."

"They're not." George shrugged. "I'm just invisible. No one cares about me, Codes. Remember?"

Cody thought it odd how George had called him "Codes" the way Zack usually did. He couldn't recall him ever doing so before. Not that it was uncommon to call a boy named Cody "Codes"; it was strange for Cody to hear it from someone he wasn't related to. "Codes" was an intimate name—one used by family members and the closest of friends. But he didn't comment on it.

"Do you know the name of the patient who attacked Jenny?" George asked, looking genuinely curious.

"Willner," Cody admitted. "Jenny called him Mr. Willner." He didn't know if it was right to tell him that, but it didn't matter anyway. The damage was already done by the time he second-guessed himself. And besides, what could George do from knowing? He was either on lock-down or in the presence of staff.

"I know who he is," George remarked. "Jeff Willner—that's his name. He's a sex offender."

Yeah, I kind of figured that out for myself, Cody thought. But he just said, "Oh, really?"

George nodded. "I don't know too much about him, but rumor has it he's from Kentucky. I heard he raped two girls there, got his name in the paper and a shitload o' state troopers on his ass, and then ran. Skipped all the states from there to here, and then got caught trying to rape a ten-year-old."

Cody twisted his face into a contorted look of disgust.

"The only reason he's in here instead of a fed pen is on account o' his being a schizo. Or at least that's what people say."

Cody believed it. He had faith in George's information; George knew people. Word got around easily in Fairoaks—a little too easily.

"He's a prick," George concluded. "That's the bottom line."

Cody just nodded again and took another moment to observe his friend. George seemed especially moody. Not his typically aloof, yet charmingly sarcastic self. Cody didn't know why, but he got the feeling that something was up with him.

Finally, George noticed that Cody was staring at him. "What?" he asked. "What is it?" His tone came across as oddly paranoid. Nothing like the laid-back, apathetic George who would probably have said something like: "Why are you staring at me? You think I'm hot or something?"

What's wrong with you, George? You're not acting like yourself. It's like I hardly know you. Like you're your own alternate ego.

Cody decided not to answer him, but instead to be perfectly honest about his feelings regarding the whole situation. "I'm glad it happened though," he said. Then he realized how rude and inconsiderate that must have sounded and hastened to explain: "I mean, not what happened to Jenny…but what happened to me. That shot of Thorazine was what got me out of this place…even if it did almost kill me in the process. It doesn't matter though. If I'd stayed here, I would have been dead anyway."

He glanced down at the table and bit his lower lip, wondering how George was taking that—fearing that his friend's feelings, despite how deeply buried they may have been, were getting hurt. "I had to get out of here, man," he amended. "One way or another. It was either something like this or confiding in my doctor…which would have been nearly impossible. But eventually I would have done it—I would have done it for the sake of getting out. I know what you said about keeping quiet and letting the man have it, but…I'm sorry, I just wouldn't have been able to take it after a while. I had to get back out into the real world."

Once he'd finished, he bravely pulled his gaze from the table and directed it back at George, who looked—for the first time since he'd known him—ridden with emotions. Emotions he never thought he'd see displayed on George, the most dominant of which was disappointment. Cody could see the disappointment lodge itself in George's eyes, and then expand over his entire face, becoming more and more pronounced as the seconds past until he appeared to be absolutely crestfallen.

Cody wanted to puke. What have I done? He stammered for an apology: "George…buddy…look, man…I'm …I didn't mean…George, I…" But unable to utter a coherent sentence, he soon gave up.

And then, like a brief mid-summer breeze, the sadness vanished from George's face and was replaced by a condescending smirk—a smirk that positively jeered. "The real world?" he mused. "The real world?" He laughed as though he'd just heard a pathetic joke. "Let me tell you something, Cody, the real world is just like in here. You think things are better now that you've rejoined society? In society, people own you. They tell you what to think! They start when you're a child, pumping you full of all these facts you'll never use, and then they make you into who they want you to be. They force you to do things their way—if you don't, you're either crazy or you have an attitude problem; they mold you into somebody, Cody. They make you bust your ass eight hours a day every day…make you do it willingly, thinkin' you'll get something for it in the long run. And you believe them. You totally fucking believe them cause they've made you gullible. You work and you work, and you never complain. And before you know it, you're shriveled up and dying and you have nothing at all. You know why? Because all you worked for went to someone else—to a government who spent it on needless wars and technology you'd never see, to a psychiatrist who's nuttier than his patients, to a cop who commits the crimes he arrests people for. That's crazy, Cody, and that's what people do every damn day! Face it, the whole world's insane. There's nothing special about the people like me!"

Cody breathed out slowly, wanting to keep his encounter with George civil, reminding himself that George had good reason to think ill of society. He understood that George had had it rough—beyond rough, in fact—before coming to Fairoaks. His life in the "real world" had been hell on Earth. "I'm sorry you see it that way," he said amicably. "But…I still think what happened to me, as scary as it was, was for the best. As fucked up as the outside world is, I'd rather be out there than in here. At least I can live my own life." Unlike you, he thought, but he held back from saying that. "I'm sorry if all this is hurting you, George. I never wanted to disappoint you. I just…I guess…" Cody fumbled for the right way to elucidate his position, but didn't find it. "I don't know. I guess, in the long run I'm just torn. I know I'm going to miss you, but I'm also glad to have my freedom back." He shrugged. "I'm just hard to read, man. That's all there is to it."

George gave a patronizing laugh. "Hard to read my ass! You're easy to read, Cody. You haven't told me jack about your life, but it doesn't matter cause I know you anyway. I know all about you."

"Oh yeah?" Cody shot back, testing him. "What kinda person am I?"

George remained unaffected. "You're the kind of person who doesn't know where they fit," he answered simply.

Cody snorted. "That's not saying much. That's practically everybody."

"But you used to think you knew. There was a time when you could have sworn you knew exactly who you were and where you were going in life…but you were wrong."

"How do you know?"

"You were in here, weren't you? I bet you never thought that this was where you'd end up." George gestured toward the white walls surrounding them, which, at that particular moment, looked just as sinister as the inside of one of the asylum's cells. "You wanted to define yourself. You wanted to mold yourself into something of your liking…because you lived in a shadow."

"What in hell are you talking about?" Cody asked bitterly, trying to mask his abrupt feelings of anxiousness.

"Your brother's shadow, Cody," George replied. "That's what I'm talking about. Zack's shadow."

Cody crossed his arms, ready to challenge George in a verbal confrontation if he had to. "Oh, so this is about Zack," he said defensively. "Tell me, George, what do you know about Zack?"

"I don't have to know anything about him to know that he made you feel inferior."

"How do you figure?"

"Come on, Cody! You should be able to tell me that. You're a younger twin, for crying out loud! Your mom didn't even know about you until the day you were born. Zack was expected; you weren't. I bet she had plans for him…expectations. Things she was excited about. But she had none of that for you. She couldn't because she didn't know you existed; she didn't want you. You were an afterthought to her—an extra burden!"

"Hey, why don't you just shut up! Alright?" Cody snapped, infuriated. "Just shut the fuck up! You don't know anything about it!"

"What?" George said shamelessly. "You said you wanted to know what kind of person you are, so I'm telling you." He continued, even though he knew Cody didn't want him to…because he felt Cody needed to hear it. "All your childhood, I bet you were known as 'Zack's little brother' or 'Zack's clone.' You were just something that was added to him. So you differentiated yourself. He was good at sports, so you decided to hit the books. He was lazy, so you busted your ass working hard…just trying to make mama proud. He didn't care to learn anything, so you convinced yourself that you wanted to learn all you possibly could."

"Shut up, George!"

George didn't shut up. He went on defiantly—fiercely: "But, deep down, you didn't want to be that way. You didn't want to become a boring little brainiac; you just felt you had to. What you really wanted was to be more like Zack, but you told yourself that you didn't… because you were determined to be your own person. You're nobody if not your own person, right Cody? You wanted to be 'Cody Martin' instead of 'Zack's little brother.' You wanted it so badly that you turned your whole life into a magnificent fucking lie!"

Cody was shaking his head vigorously but that didn't stop George. Just the opposite—it enticed him. He could see, through Cody's passionate denial, that he was getting somewhere with him...to the place where no one else, least of all his psychiatrist, had ever gone. "And after a while, you started to like it. You got excited about all that knowledge. You had to, or your efforts would have been for nothing. Your life was an illusion, Cody, and you wanted it that way. You wanted it because you hated the truth. You secluded yourself from everything around you because you thought it'd be better that way. You thought you could keep yourself from getting hurt. You wouldn't let yourself get close to anybody."

"That's not true!" Cody finally exploded. "I never wanted to be like Zack, and I did know people! I knew lots of people. I told you about some of them! I made friends, I dated, I—"

"That doesn't mean anything, Cody. Sure, you talked to people, and you went on a date here and there; you even got serious with that one chick you said you met on the boat."

"Bailey," Cody stated. "I loved her. I wanted to marry her once."

"But you didn't really know her, Cody. You stopped knowing people a long time ago. You isolated yourself inside your own private little box and stayed there. You thought you could numb yourself…but you couldn't. Underneath all that sense and reason you jammed into your head, you still felt pathetic. You were weak. And that's what killed you, Cody. That's what made you pick up that gun and try to end it!

Before he could stop it, Cody's seething fury boiled over. "NO, THAT WASN'T IT! IT WAS A GIRL!" he screamed. Then he realized just how loud he was being and lowered his voice a little. "I told you the first day I met you that it was a girl! Her name was Brianna Marston"—Cody couldn't believe he'd actually managed to say her name without feeling the urge to gag—"I dated her and she cheated on me! She dumped me, George! She hurt me and I realized then that life was just not worth living. We're all destined to love someone—or something—and all that does is get us hurt! The heart…it doesn't listen to your brain! It does its own thing. It always will, and that's what's pathetic! Life is pathetic, George! Life is a nasty joke. Everyone's forced to swim in their own pain. I would think that you, of all people, would know that!"

"I do know that, Cody," George remarked, unbothered by Cody's snarky comment. "But that's beside the point. You didn't try to kill yourself over some girl. No, you were dead long before you even considered pulling that trigger. You killed yourself emotionally, over feelings of worthlessness that haunted you since you were a kid. The slut was just the last little push over the edge—the final straw that made you think you couldn't take anymore. But she didn't make you crazy, Cody. You made yourself crazy."

"I'm not crazy!"

"Everyone's crazy. You're no exception. The only difference between you and me is how we got that way…and the fact that if you left this earth, people would miss you. But other than that, we're the same. Rejected by your precious society for the same goddamn reason…thrown in here like castoffs."

Cody didn't reply. He couldn't. There were so many things he wanted to say, but he didn't know which to pick.

A long pause ensued as Cody fumed, his vision clouded by a crimson haze and his heart jack-hammering in his delicate chest like a dangerously overheating motor. "Fuck you, George!" he finally said, his voice oozing with resentment and accusation. "You're one to talk! The only reason you're in here is because you have nowhere else better to go! That's the difference between us, George! You need this place! You need it because it makes you feel important. The only reason you're crawling up my ass now is because you're jealous of me! My mother may not have known about me but she loved me! And Zack loved me too! And I knew that! But that's different from you, George. Nobody loved you! Your mother didn't love you, you're father left you, your sister barely knew you…life outside these walls was shit for you! But in here, you feel like you have a purpose. In here, people take care of you…the way they should have taken care of you from the beginning!" Cody paused and looked hard at George, wondering whether or not to go on. He did: "And if it's not in here, then it's on the streets, back in the gang life. That's your other option! You're either a poor, crazy bastard, or you're a criminal! I still have a shot at life, George. You don't! You said so yourself, you're going to sit in here till you rot; but it's not because of the doctors. It's because of you…because you refuse to let yourself get released. You refuse to talk to people! You said you had no secrets but you and I both know that that's just bullshit. You have secrets just like everyone else does, but you won't reveal them. You won't because, deep down, you want to stay here! This place is a godsend to you!"

Both boys were silent for a long moment, savoring the poison that had become of their friendship.

Then George gave one last snort and told Cody to get the fuck out, and Cody left.

As Cody made his way down the hallway toward the asylum's lobby, he felt tears sting his eyes. He tried as hard as he could to hold them back, but they fell anyway. He was angry. Angrier than he'd ever been in the past—angrier than when he and George were fighting; angrier than when he'd been told that he was being sent to a psychiatric ward; angrier than when he'd found out (God, it seemed like ages ago) that his girlfriend, Brianna Marston, had cheated on him. Angry both at George and himself.

At George for being right about him.

At himself for being right about George.