This has got to be the saddest chapter in the entire story (and I say that with confidence, taking all previous chapters into account). I actually cried a little while writing it, and that's saying something because I rarely cry. I couldn't help it; George is just so real to me. Some of the content in this chapter is absolutely disgusting; I tell you that as a warning.

After reading, you may want to ask why I would write something like this (and I wouldn't blame you if you did); the answer is simple—for the sake of the story, George must be the most tragic character. Through his "secrets," hopefully you'll understand why he was caught in a self-perpetuating cycle, why he was practically emotionless, and why Fairoaks was a "godsend" to him.

On a side note, you guys are in for more about Zack and Bailey. Though I think some of you might be disappointed. Just remember, I endeavor to be realistic.

Question: Should this story be rated M instead of T? I probably should have changed it a long time ago; I just never thought of it until now.

Cody's homecoming was awkward, to say the least. That is, if it could even be called a "homecoming." It felt more like the recurrence of a dream—a beautiful dream, no less, but still a dream. He was taken to the Tipton upon his release from the hospital, and in many ways that spelled victory for him because it meant he was truly out of Fairoaks Asylum, and in a place where he knew he could be himself. A place he'd known throughout most of his life as "home." However, it was also a place that carried more memories than he cared to relive. Memories that clenched his stomach and brought tears to his eyes.

Childhood memories are the worst. Cody instantly learned that once he walked through the hotel doors.

The welcome he received wasn't much of a welcome either. There were hugs and tears and kind words involved (predominantly from Zack, Mr. Moseby and Bailey), just as one would have expected, but there was also a hovering sense of embarrassment and overall awkwardness. It was impossible to shake the feeling that things were being gone about the wrong way—that there should have been some resentment and confusion mixed in with the joy and relief.

After all, how should one welcome home a boy who'd been sent away for trying to kill himself? For willingly causing so much grief? It hardly seemed fitting that he should get a soldier-like greeting.

But no one had the heart to express this emotion. No one had the heart to yell at him, or criticize him, or condemn him in any way. It would hurt too much, and God knew, they'd already had their fair share of hurt. So they let this feeling go and compensated for it by acting overjoyed.

Cody saw through their façade. He didn't say a word about it.

In fact, he pretty much reverted into himself altogether. He knew it wasn't healthy to do that, but he lacked the energy to be more outgoing and assertive (two things he never really was anyway). He didn't speak much beyond a simple "thanks" or "sure" or "no problem" or "yeah, I'm okay." Despite being fully aware that one-word responses were somewhat of a cop out, he just couldn't force himself to say much more.

His mind was on his argument with George. He desperately did not want to think about that but no matter how many times he tried to push it to the back of his mind, it refused to budge. The memory of what they'd said to each other paraded through his head like a horrible case of déjà vu—or worse yet, a nightmare—and he was unable to ignore it. "You wanted to define yourself," George had said. "You wanted to mold yourself into something of your liking…because you lived in a shadow…Zack's shadow."

Cody hated to admit it, but George had been absolutely right. And not just about that, but about everything—the self-seclusion, the loathing, the disappointment, the fact that he'd felt like a pathetic loser and an "extra burden" to his poor mother. The truth of George's words was searing. Burning like a red-hot fire poker against his skull. And it infuriated him—made him want to punch a hole in the wall and scream until his voice became hoarse.

However, on the flip side of that, he'd also been right about George—right about his love of Fairoaks…or, more accurately, his love of a place where he was cared for. The fact that most of the people there treated him like a piece of furniture was beside the point; he was given a bed, three meals a day, a chance to talk to somebody (a nosy psychiatrist counted), showers, entertainment…and what more could he want? It was either that or a life of crime, which he'd already gotten a taste of during his teenage years.

Or a life with his mother, and that would have been pure foolishness.

Cody had known for a while that George was stuck at that asylum. He didn't want to believe it at first, in hopes that George would one day get himself released and find some happiness in the world. But now it had been apparent—Fairoaks, despite its short-comings, despite all the scorn it deserved, was a blessing to George. It was far better than where he'd come from.

And besides, it wasn't like George was interested in finding happiness. He'd stopped looking for that a long time ago. Now he was just concerned about the bare basics of life. The necessities for survival.

They were all he knew he could trust.

Cody's thought-processes took up majority of his time. Despite how grateful he was to be out of Fairoaks (and the hospital, for that matter), he did a great deal of sitting in peace and thinking. He couldn't help it; there was so much to think about. So much to evaluate.

His evaluations exhausted him. In addition to thinking, he slept a lot too. Sleep was something he specifically loved to do. He hadn't had a good night's sleep, it seemed, in ages. He didn't realize how much he missed the quietness of nighttime until he was back in his old bed, relishing it. It was heavenly.

Sometimes it was hard to fall asleep, due to his inability to shut off his brain, but he always made up for that. He started a new habit of jotting down his thoughts (in the form of spark notes) as they came to him and told himself that he would continue them the next day; that way, they wouldn't be lost. He could revisit them any time he wanted. And it worked. It worked like a charm.

Also, he jotted down plans. He reasoned that having day-to-day lists of plans would be a good way to begin his life of freedom. He was right about that. Plans gave him something to look forward to—a purpose. A motivation to get up every morning.

Not all his plans worked out. In fact, several of them didn't. But there was one plan he'd written down that he knewwould happen. He'd make it happen, because he couldn't bear for it not to. His conscience wouldn't allow it not to:

The following visiting day at Fairoaks, he was going back to see George.

To tell him he'd been right. To forgive him. To beg his forgiveness. And to set things right.

…

With Cody regaining his old bed, Bailey had to be moved to a different suite; room 2330 had no more sleeping space except the floor, and none of the Martins felt it hospitable to make their guest sleep there. Since there weren't any more vacant suites, according to Mr. Moseby, Bailey resorted to asking London Tipton if she could sleep on her couch, to which the hotel heiress agreed (and had offered her extra sheets, blankets, and a pillow). Old friends as they were, the arrangement gave them a chance to catch up with each other. Telling each other all they'd done since graduating "Seven Seas High."

Bailey was grateful for it. With all the commotion over Cody's return from Fairoaks, talking about her little farm in Kansas while sitting in a deluxe hotel suite was a pleasant getaway. And of course, hearing stories about shopping sprees, paparazzi photos, and jet-rides in return was enjoyable too.

But no amount of "girl-time"—and no amount of catching up—could offset this sudden feeling of unease that had taken hold of her. She was immensely happy that Cody was home, that was for certain. However, she felt self-consciousness whenever the twins were together (which was often now). Whenever she saw one brother hug the other, or one say they loved the other, or one call the other "bro," she was hit by a burst of nausea in the pit of her stomach.

At first, she had no idea where it came from and worried about it, as she used to love seeing displays of brotherly affection between them.

But then, one day it came to her. Completely out of the blue while she was contemplating about it.

She understood, to a degree, why she felt strange.

And it had nothing to do with brotherly affection.

…

One evening, as Cody was brushing his teeth, Kurt was (surprisingly) washing dishes, and Carey was on her way down to do the hotel lounge to do her first show in weeks, there was a knock at the door and Zack—who'd been waiting for his chance in the bathroom—went to go get it.

It was Bailey.

"Oh, hey Bailey," he said. "Come to say goodnight to us?"

"Well…not exactly," Bailey replied candidly, and then furthered her answer by, "But yeah, that too."

She could have smacked herself in the head. That had made no logical sense, whatsoever.

"I mean, I do wish you all a good night," she tried again. "But Zack, I need to talk to you. In private."

Zack was instantly nervous. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah!" she exclaimed, not wanting to pressure him. "No, everything's fine. I just really need to talk to you for a second."

"Um…" Zack seemed hesitant. Sheepishly, he looked back toward the bathroom, where he could faintly hear his brother gargling and spitting out mouthwash. He didn't like leaving Cody, even when Cody wouldn't technically be left alone. "Are you sure it's something my dad can't hear also?"

"Dad can't hear what?" asked Kurt from over near the kitchen sink, turning toward them with a wet plate in one hand and a dish towel in the other. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Zack lied. "Bailey and I just need to talk."

"Is something wrong?"

"No." I hope not. "There's just something we need to discuss. I'll be back as soon as possible."

"Okay, but remember—we're picking your car up tomorrow morning, Zack. So I'd advise you not to stay up too late."

The following morning was going to be both busy and stressful for Kurt and Zack. They were going to drive down to the impound lot to retrieve Zack's car, but that was actually the last thing on the list. First, they would have to go to the Finance Business Center and pay a 100-dollar parking fee for Zack's parking violation, ask the people there for a Vehicle Release Form, fill that out, and on the way to the impound lot, stop at the Police Department to pay additional fees (which, for the time being, would have to come predominantly from Zack's credit card), and then—finally—go to the lot, hand over the form, and take the car. That was the plan, anyway.

Zack was anxious to get his car back. But at the same time, he wasn't looking forward to the fees…or to the critical expressions of the people he'd be paying. He kept telling himself that it was just one of those consequences he'd sworn to accept in the name of his actions.

And getting his car back was worth it.

"We'll just be a few minutes," Bailey promised Kurt, peering at him from around Zack.

Zack nodded to his father in assurance, and once his father nodded back, he walked out of suite 2330, closed the door behind him, and then stood in the empty hallway with his arms crossed. "So…what did you want to talk about?"

Bailey looked both ways before replying, and when she spoke—even though there was no one in sight—her voice was practically a whisper: "I think we should talk about…you know…what we did."

For a second there, Zack wasn't sure what she was talking about; worrying about Cody, not to mention getting arrested, had rendered his memory useless. "What did we do?" he asked ignorantly.

"Zack!" Bailey said disbelievingly.

Ironically, as soon as she said that he remembered. "Oh…right," he uttered guiltily, feeling somewhat embarrassed. "Sorry. My memory's been shot lately."

"That's okay," she forgave him. "I understand. Everything's been happening so fast."

Zack nodded in agreement.

"It's hard to keep up with it all."

Again, he nodded in agreement.

"I just thought I should tell you"—Bailey looked Zack directly in the eyes—"…since we didn't get the chance to talk about it sooner…whenever I see you, I get this feeling in my stomach. It's strange…almost like nausea, but I don't mean that in a disgusted way." She paused, mortified at the way all this was coming out. "Frankly, I'm not sure if it's because I have feelings for you, or if it's because I'm feeling guilty…or, hell, maybe it has to do with Cody being home. I mean, he's my ex. It's only natural that I should feel weird seeing him." Bailey threw her hands up into the air, letting them flop against her hips as she sighed in frustration. "Ugh! God, I don't know what's wrong with me. I was hoping you could help; I think, deep down, that I would feel better if I knew exactly where we stand. I think it would be better for the both of us if we established what we are and came to a consensus."

Zack looked at her in concentration for a moment, and then gave her his answer: "Alright. I agree. We should do that."

Bailey waited, giving Zack the floor.

"Bailey," he said, "what we did—I don't know what the heck it was, but it felt right. It was the best thing I'd felt in a long time. Even before I was thrust into this mess. And I needed it. God knows, I really did."

Bailey waited some more, anticipating that inevitable 'but,' which she knew, even before he said it, was coming.

"But the timing and the place where we did it were wrong. It was naïve, and senseless, and rash." Now it was his turn to sigh. "I'm kind of sorry to say this, but nothing like that can happen again."

"Ever?" Bailey was astonished by how meek her voice was.

She didn't feel as though she was in love with Zack, but she couldn't deny that when her lips had been attached to his, she'd felt exhilarated—ecstatic. The fact that that would never happen again wounded her far more than she thought it would.

Zack composed himself, bent on his resolution. "Ever."

He noticed that a part of Bailey was dejected. "You're here for Cody, not for me," he explained. "Your coming here had nothing to do with me."

Bailey took a minute to swallow a lump in her throat. "You're right, it didn't. I honestly don't know what I was thinking when I—I mean, when we—kissed. We shouldn't have. I'm so sorry, Zack."

"Don't apologize. I leaned into you first so the fault is mine. Just know that I won't do it again. We've both got too much to worry about besides whatever came between us that day. Let's just be here for Cody, okay?"

Bailey nodded. "Okay."

"Thanks Bailey."

Zack leaned in and enfolded her in a warm embrace. "I'll always consider you one of my best friends," he continued, his chin resting on her shoulder. "And I'll always care about you. Never forget that."

"I won't," Bailey promised.

He then let her go and stepped back. "I'm sorry if you're disappointed. But my brother has to come first. I can't be distracted. The last time I was distracted when he needed me…"

"Shhh…" Bailey gently shushed him. "You don't have to go into that. I get it, believe me."

"I'm just trying to be a good brother to him, you know—the brother he deserves."

Suddenly Zack heard the clanging of a dish hitting a hard surface, and a muffled "Shit!" coming from his father. "I think I should go back in now," he said, semi-amused, "before my dad breaks something—or something else, as the case may be. Normally, he's banned from the kitchen; but our mom's doing a show tonight and he just couldn't pass up an opportunity to show us how 'fatherly' he can be."

"Aww, that's sweet."

"It's a pride and dignity thing, I think—you know? Anything women can do men can do too. Something like that."

Bailey chuckled.

"Well, I'm gonna go." Zack turned toward the door.

"Wait, Zack?"

Doorknob in hand, he shifted sideways to look back at her. "Yeah?"

"You're a good brother."

…

The night of his argument with Cody, George did something he hadn't done since he was a little boy—he cried himself to sleep. Wrapped in his detergent-smelling sheets, facing the wall next to his bed, he thought about what he and Cody had said to each other, remembering certain phrases only once and others several times. Putting the words that had pierced the most—yet had been the most truthful—on an endless loop:

"The only reason you're in here is because you have nowhere else to go!"

"In here, people take care of you…the way they should have taken care of you from the beginning!"

"I have a shot at life, George. You don't!"

"You said you had no secrets but you and I both know that that's just bullshit!"

"This place is a godsend to you!"

"Click!" went his mental replay button.

He wanted to hate Cody for what he'd said. He tried to hate him. He tried to picture Cody's face exactly how it looked when those words had come out his mouth, and feel the wrath that he had felt towards him then—that raw rage clawing at his insides.

He tried to, but failed.

He didn't hate Cody. If anything, he loved him. Loved him for being straightforward and direct. Loved him for defending himself, rather than shrinking away under accusations. Loved him for having insight, despite how self-absorbed he'd seemed beforehand. Loved him for disagreeing with him, and asking him questions, and listening to his life story.

Loved him for being his first real friend, in spite of their differences.

George loved Cody, and trying to convince himself otherwise was a lost cause if there ever was one.

George almost felt pathetic admitting it to himself. After all those years of suppressing his emotions—all those years of not caring—he'd come to feel a measure of affection for someone. It was so shocking. Like an epiphany—a realization that altered the very foundation on which George defined himself. Part of him was angry about it and cursed Cody's name: Look what you've done to me! he inwardly shouted to a sympathetic mental image of Cody. I love you, you bastard. And it hurts. It hurts like I've been shot in the chest!

He had to laugh at the irony of that comparison.

Why does love have to hurt so much? They say hate destroys. I think love does too. Damn!

But there was more to it than that—more to his pain that he hadn't yet acknowledged:

I miss him.

Oh my God! I miss him. I really miss the little punk. I mean, I know I didn't want him to die before, but that's not exactly the same thing as missing him.

But I do. I totally fucking do. I miss him.

And I want him to come back.

George scoffed at himself. Like that's gonna happen! He probably hates your guts right now, just like everyone else in your life—he either hates you or he pities you.

Either way, he doesn't want to see you.

He'll have nothing to do with you ever again.

Face it George, you worthless piece of shit, you had a good friend and you lost him. You were right about him—every word you told him was absolutely true. But what difference does it make? You'll never see him again. You love him and he hates you, and now you're lying here feeling sorry for yourself.

Because you lost him.

And because you love him for hating you.

With those thoughts plaguing his mind, George succumbed to his insecurities and pain and dissolved into a mass of choking sobs. His thin body curled into a ball, his shoulders quaked with tremors, his eyes poured the tears they'd been devoid of for so long, and every barrier he'd ever built around his emotions came crashing down.

He felt like he couldn't breathe. Like he was sinking under the surface of an ocean, drowning.

He hoped he was drowning.

…

George had cried well into the night before finally falling asleep. And the next day, he cried some more. It was as though his body decided it was time to make up for all those years of unshed tears. George tried to hold them back, but in the end his body won out. And he was too exhausted to put up much of a struggle.

As he sat on his bed in the early morning, his legs crossed as usual, he hung his head low and let the sobs come rumbling out of him. It was no longer embarrassing, or something to be ashamed of. He didn't care how pitiful he looked, or how ridiculous he was being for crying on such a nice day, or how his crying wouldn't solve anything. In fact, he'd pretty much stopped caring entirely.

He didn't know himself anymore. The George he had worked so hard to construct was gone.

So I guess this is what it feels like to be an emotional wreck.

He didn't know what he wanted, or what he should do, or why things were the way they were anymore. He used to think he knew, but all his certainty—all his confidence and bravado—had vanished. Leaving in its wake a shell that was filled with memories, and hurt, and love, and fear.

In ways, he felt like an invaded city. His once-powerful stronghold had been torn down, leaving him helpless and vulnerable to his attackers.

Who were his attackers? Emotions. Or, more specifically, an excess of emotions.

An excess of love, which he'd kept bottled up so tightly that it had been bound to erupt.

I'm coming undone.

He moved to the edge of his bed, pulled back the corner of his mattress, and took a long look at his stashed pills. They seemed to be gazing back at him, mocking him for thinking he was better than them—for having the audacity to think he could manage without them. They laughed at him: Haha! Get a load of you! You're a mess!

George was tempted to give in and take one—to pop it in his mouth and sigh in chemically-induced relief.

No! his inner defiant self protested. You can't give up. Then they win!

Think about what made you decide to quit taking them.

George thought back. He remembered perfectly—the news of Cody's sedation, and the fear that he might die. He'd wanted some leverage incase Cody did die. He'd wanted a means to escape.

A means to escape—that's what you wanted. A key to freedom—a way to be with Cody, the one person who's ever cared about you. You didn't want to live without him.

Because you love him. You started loving him before you skipped your meds. You just didn't realize it until you were told he could die.

We never know what we love, or how much we love something, until we're faced with losing it.

Cody's your best friend. He's like a brother to you. He's the only thing you have.

Or had, I should say…because you've lost him. He's not dead, but you'll still have to live without him. Irony.

George released the corner of his mattress and backed up onto the center of his bed. He sat there for what felt like an hour (but was most likely about five minutes), before burying his face into his hands and allowing, once again, for the weight of loss to engulf him.

It consumed him like a fire.

And as he burned in his own misery, he cried.

He cried, and cried, and cried.

It was around noontime when the childhood memories emerged—not the ones he'd told Cody when he'd given him a rundown of his life. No, the darker ones…the ones he'd never told anybody. The ones he'd buried along with his emotions and sought so hard to forget.

The ones Cody had referred to as his "secrets." "You said you had no secrets but you and I both know that that's just bullshit!"—there were those words again, straight from Cody's lips. Engrained now within George's brain. How true they had been.

You were right, Cody. I didn't tell you but you were right all along; I do have secrets like everyone else. I just couldn't tell you because I'd spent so much time endeavoring to cast them out. I had to, or I would have been…oh God, I hate to even think what would have happened to me.

George relived those secrets now: he envisioned a seven-year-old version of himself being goaded to a private street corner by his pregnant mother and told that he would soon have to take on a massive responsibility. His mother was just a little over three months along at the time and had just started to show, which was bad news for her hooking profession. What man wanted to spend money on a big, pregnant woman? "I can't bring in the money anymore, George," she'd said. "Not now that I'm knocked up. Can't start making money again till I pop this little sucker outta me"—her hands went to her slightly swollen belly, and George thought, Am I a sucker?—"You gotta be the man now, George. Okay? You gotta take over for me now. Or else we'll starve—you, me, and the baby." George considered what it would be like to starve; he couldn't quite fathom it, as he'd never once gone more than a few hours without food, but he imagined that it would be horrible. So he quickly agreed.

And that's when his hell started.

His mother taught him "tricks of the trade," as she called them—twirl like that, bat your lashes here, wink there, hold this pose…little gimmicks that he would need to "bring in customers." He was a fast learner, and soon enough, there was a line up. Mostly middle-aged men with child fetishes, and they often brought items from home, or elsewhere, to enhance their pleasures: chains, whips, exotic dresses, devices from tool sheds (as some of them were turned on by bondage and torture schemes).

He remembered once being chained to a pillar in an abandoned metro station, screaming for his mother to save him while his "customer" waved wrenches, nails, saws, and drill guns in his face, threatening to "cut him like a little bitch." He never actually did, but seven-year-old George had been terrified nonetheless. So terrified that he'd peed his pants, which later invoked a beating from his mother, who'd responded to his pleas by simply saying, "It's nothing to piss about; it's just business."

He also remembered having his picture taken…frequently. There was one "customer" who hadn't wanted to do anything beyond take pictures of George, to which George's mother had replied, "Whatever your pleasure, sir. But mind you, it'll still cost the same." The man agreed and had arranged a series of photo shoots, all with one major theme: George outfitted as a sensuously clad girl. The individual photos consisted of several variations: George sucking on his fingers, George dancing, George holding a dildo in every which way, George masturbating, etc. At the end of it, George had complained to his mother, crying, "But I'm not a girl, Mommy! You told me I was your little boy! I want to be a boy, Mommy. I don't want to be a girl!"

"Shut up!" his mother had snapped. "You'll be whatever the fuck I tell you to be!"

He then remembered the worst, which had happened close to the time his little sister was due to be born. These two guys, who were friends, had wanted to simultaneously be "customers" of George's—to try out a deviant, out-of-the-ordinary technique they'd nicknamed "The Double Dong Routine." George fought the urge to gag as he remembered the sensation of choking—choking on one guy's cock—while trying to endure a horrid burst pain as the other was shoved into his backside. He'd clenched his eyes, hoping for it to be over soon…which it was after they'd both climaxed, one right after the other.

George had spit up the cum inside his mouth. And in the knowledge that more was inside him, he'd curled up into a little ball and began to sob. When the men left, they'd told George's mother that they were unsatisfied with "the service," and that they weren't going to pay—which had infuriated her. At first, she hadn't acted angry at George. In fact, she'd asked him if he wanted a soda, to which he answered, "Yes, please" (more to get rid of the taste in his mouth than to quench any thirst). However, while in the midst of drinking his Pepsi, he'd become a little too brave: "I don't wanna do this anymore, Mommy. It hurts. And it tastes bad. I don't wanna make money anymore. I'd rather starve."

That was when his mother had exploded. "You listen to me, you little fucker!" she'd yelled. "I brought you into this world and don't think I'm kidding when I say I can take you out. You have any idea what I've done for you? What I put myself through for your worthless ass? I coulda had a life! I coulda done the things I wanted to! But no, I had to get stuck with you! I raised you, didn't I? I'm raising you right now! The least you can do is help me out!" She'd slapped the half-full can of Pepsi out of his hands, onto the floor, and then fussed at him for making a mess. "You're gonna clean that up!" she'd told him severely. "Now stop bawling and do as I say!"

Everything changed once Sherrie was born. When she was in the picture, and their mother was able to drop to her pre-pregnancy weight, George's days of childhood prostitution came to a close.

Then shortly afterward, he'd started school.

There were other bad memories—none as bad as when he was seven and his mother was pregnant—but still others. Like the time a divorced preacher had decided to take a walk on the wild side and, after finding out about George's sexual experiences with other males, called the boy an "instrument of the Devil" and had attempted to carve a 666 into his hip using a heated knife (luckily, his mother had been in one of her "sympathetic mommy" moods that day and had stopped him). Also, like the time he'd received a thrashing for vomiting on the carpet in his mother's new apartment.

And of course, his days in the gang weren't the best either. They'd been a shitload better than his life at home, but juvie had been a bitch.

My whole existence was a bitch…and for the longest time, I'd acted as though it were perfectly natural.

As though nothing was ever wrong.

George cried himself to sleep a second time. When he woke up two hours later, he came to a spontaneous but definite decision. He took another long look at his horde of pills. A means to escape, he thought. A key to freedom.

…

"Okay George," called Nurse Richards as she opened the door to his room. "One last restroom break before lights out."

"As always," George added, acting as indifferent and casual as usual. He'd managed to stop crying hours ago, and luckily, his face no longer appeared flushed and drained.

Nurse Richards nodded. "As always."

George stood up and walked with her out into the hallway. As he approached the men's restroom, treading at her side, he made sure to take each step cautiously. The pills were hidden within his socks.

Typically, George never wore his socks—not when he was in his room. Bare feet had always been something he'd loved. Unbound feet. Whenever he was in privacy, he'd take off his socks and roll them up. He'd twiddle his toes, rub the bottoms of his feet against the soft sheets on his bed, swoosh them back and forth—anything to enjoy the sensation of boundless feet.

But now, he desperately needed his socks.

He had a plan, and without his socks on, he couldn't carry his plan out.

As soon as he was in the restroom, he walked up to one of the sinks and bent down to remove the pills. There were 14 of them in all, seven in each sock. Each tablet the equivalent of 375 mg (he was given one twice every day to reach the standard daily dose of 750 mg). A total of 5,250 mg in all—more than enough to do the trick.

In the palm of his hand, stacked on top of each other like a little white pyramid, they looked like a welcome gift rather than the scorning sign of defeat they'd appeared as before. George gazed at them, speculating on how he was holding fatality itself in his grasp. Respecting them for having so much power. For being much more than they seemed.

Here goes nothing.

He picked two pills from the top of the pile. Popped them into his mouth. Then, using his one free hand, he turned on the water faucet at the sink to a steady flow, cupped his hand under the stream to catch some of it—just enough to help the pills go down—and then brought it to his lips and slurped it up.

He swallowed.

Two down. 12 more to go.

He did the same with the next two.

And the next two.

"George, are you okay?" asked Nurse Richards from outside the door. "You didn't fall in, did you?"

Uh-oh, I have to hurry. "I'm fine!" he replied. "I'm just gonna be a while!"

"Greeeaat!" returned Nurse Richards sarcastically. "You just had to pick right before bed time to do a big one, didn't you?"

A slight smile crept across his face. "You know it!"

"Well, okay. Just make sure you're done before lights out."

Oh, don't worry. I will be.

George promptly popped the next two pills into his mouth.

Then the next two.

He looked down at his hand. Four more. Just four more. 1,500 mg worth.

He popped them in all at once, and then cupped both hands beneath the sink for twice the amount of water. As he brought it to his lips, he thought, Wait, what if I choke? Then laughed. Automatic survival instinct. All humans had it.

After he'd swallowed the last pills, he went into one of the stalls and flushed the toilet to avoid arousing suspicion. Following that, he turned on the sink again—this time, to a harder flow so Nurse Richards could hear it.

"Okay, I'm coming out now!" he called out to her.

He met her standing at the side of the door, and together they made the journey back to his room. On the way, he pondered how early the Depakote would take effect. He figured it'd be at least twenty minutes, given that they were tablets and would need time to dissolve in his system (which effectively gave him plenty of time to make it to his room unharmed, his doings undetected). He would have time to think last thoughts, and to say his last prayers, and to drift off into sleep.

He liked the idea of dying in his sleep, comfortably. That was a luxury people were rarely afforded.

Once he was shut back in his room and the lights had all been turned off, the asylum came alive with resurrected demons. People screamed, and yelled, and threatened, and threw tantrums—their fear taking over them. The sounds of their anguish reverberated inside George's chest. He'd long gotten used to them—to the point where he could fall asleep listening to them.

But suddenly, he didn't want to fall asleep. He was afraid of the dreams—the nightmares. He didn't want them to be the last thing he experienced. He didn't want to be visited by images of his childhood—the strange men, sweating and grunting behind him; the many different costumes and positions; the pain as his skin tore; the sight of blood; the taste of cum, which one man had promised him would be like milk ("…doesn't taste like milk" he'd said after having it squirted into his mouth); the demands ("Call me 'Daddy!'" ordered another man.); the...the fear…the raw terror…the wretched crying as a stranger with a fat cock raped him. The penetration not just of his body, but of his innocence.

I'll be damned if I have to relive that.

So George thought about the one good thing his life had ever had: Cody. He pictured Cody's face—his happy face—and remembered some of the things he'd said prior to their fight.

It's funny—his past and my past are as different from each other as night and day, yet we had so much in common. We both were unable to face the truth about us. Both didn't understand what fucked us up.

Then he realized something: We saved each other. I saved him and he saved me. We forced each other to see the light, kicking and screaming the whole way…but we forced each other anyway because we had to. Because that's what friends do.

And Cody's my friend. He's the first real friend I've ever had.

Don't forget, you've lost him, reminded that cynical part of him. You lost him in the process of leading him into the light.

I know, replied the other. That's why I did what I did. I don't want to live if he's not with me.

But I can still remember him.

And I can still thank him.

"Thank you, Cody," George whispered into the dark, his eyes staring up toward the ceiling. "Thank you for saving me."

Aren't you going to say "You're welcome" in return? asked his cynical self. After all, you saved him too.

No, said the other simply. Friends don't ask for anything in return. At least, real friends don't.

A few minutes later, 5,350 mg worth of Depakote began to take effect.

He began to feel drowsy—abnormally drowsy. His eyelids closed on their own and he slipped into a light comatose state. His breathing grew shallower, his heartbeats lessened. Step by step, the drug shut his body down until he slipped even further into a coma, and then from there travelled to death.

George Tanner died alone in room 312, at Fairoaks Asylum. Sprawled out across his bed, one leg hanging off the edge, and both arms at his sides.

When he was found the next morning, it looked as if he was smirking.