A woman is running, her footfalls slapping in the rain and sending droplets splattering up onto her pretty, sunny pink dress suit. With her hair pulled up in a bun, her glasses bouncing on her face, she looks like she only just got off work. Probably some young corporate working her way up the ladder. But this wasn't corporate, and she wasn't going anywhere.

She was cornered, cowering against the door of a closed warehouse. He could see the tears in her eyes, see the fear there, but he kept moving. He was the one cornering her, the one that had brought the terror to her young eyes, and it horrified him. Why was he doing this? Why was he chasing her, hurting her?

"Please don't hurt me!" she cries, and he wants to tell her he won't. He wants to tell her that he's as scared as she is, that he's not the monster that's hunting her down. He wants to tell her that everything will be okay, but he knows as he steps closer to her, that it would be a lie.

"Good old Ianto. Loyal Ianto." It's not her voice, but the Voice. The one that has been haunting him, the one that goads him on and punishes him with cruel, sneering words. This time is no different, as his hands close around the thin, delicate neck of the woman. His legs hurt – she's kicking him, and he wishes she would kick harder. She could break his leg, if only she'd try; she could break his leg and run, because he would rather be beaten than become this…this monster.

Ianto screamed, throwing his head back against the wall of his bathroom. He doesn't know when he got there, just that he's been there too long. The cold of the floor is making him shiver, the tears streaming down his face leaving burning tracks. He can't tell what's real anymore. Ever since Jack left – had he ever been there at all, or was that just his imagination? – these hallucinations had been coming. But…he wasn't sure they were hallucinations. They felt so real; sometimes, they felt more real than this now. He had two days he couldn't account for, and they were all so vivid. He could feel his hands around their necks, hear their final breaths, and oh God, oh God, oh God, what had he done?

"It's not real," he whimpered to himself. "It's not real, it's not real, it's not real."

But it might as well have been. Hell, for all he knew, it was. He could've killed those women, could have murdered them in cold blood. There had been no reason to it when he'd chased them down; he'd done it smiling and laughing, because he'd enjoyed it. Like a monster, he'd enjoyed it. The hunt, the thrill, the power.

"Remember it! Roaming the streets at night, looking for bait." The Voice was back, seeping into his brain, stabbing into his very consciousness. He couldn't escape it. It was there, it was real as the hands on his head, the diary in his hands.

The diary? Why did he have a diary? He was supposed to have it; he knew that, for some reason, he was supposed to have it. There was something in there that wasn't right, though. No, there was something that wasn't in there that wasn't right. His diary was missing something. Or no, his diary was right in not having something. There was something that was there that wasn't real, that wasn't in his recollection. There was something there that was made up.

"All human record is a lie," says the Voice, and oh God, it was so convincing. He was moving again. The hands on his face, pushing him down, smothering him, they were gone. All that was left was the feel of the wind beating against his face, and the pungent scent of the alley. There's someone there, though. Someone blond, someone cruel, but they don't matter. His diary is cast aside by this inconsequential person, and he is left leaning against the door of a warehouse.

"But we know the rot in your heart," the Voice taunted, mocking him, accusing him. "You crave flesh."

He cried, and for once, the voice that sounded reflected his own wishes. "No, please," he begged. He wasn't a monster. He didn't want this, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop killing these women, couldn't stop choking the life out of them and laughing. He couldn't stop laughing, even as he cried.

There were hands on his head again, and searing agony shot through him. He couldn't breathe, it just hurt. It hurt so much, and he was so scared.

"Remember it!"

He screamed, but then he was back there, in the alley. There was another woman, young and regular just like the others. He knows what's coming, but he's powerless to stop it. The fear in her tear-filled eyes grows, and then is suddenly replaced with agony as a fist – Ianto's fist – slams into her stomach. He can feel the sickening smack of flesh against his knuckles, feel the crack of bone. She gasps, a heart wrenching mix of fear and pain, but he just slams her back into the wall of the alley.

"Remember it! Remember it!"

He was in another alley, but this time, all he sees are shadows. It's so dark, but the shadows are ever darker, and somehow, he knows that the darkest one is his own. He saw that shadow, the darkest shadow, raise its arm, and felt the air breeze on the back of his hand as he seemed to do the same. The shadow's arm surged forward, and against his own hand, he could feel the air whiz past. And then another crack, another scream. He was hurting her.

He was killing her.

He crawled across the floor, looking for something desperately. He didn't really know what he was looking for, but at the same time, he did. There was pain everywhere now, and he told himself he deserved it. He was a monster. Oh God, he had killed all those women, all those innocents; he was a monster, and he deserved every ounce of pain he felt, from the searing agony in his head to the throbbing aches in his body. He deserved it all, because whatever he felt, they had felt worse. They'd been terrified as the life left their bodies – as the he sent it from their bodies. He was a killer, a monster, and he deserved this.

A broken whimper slipped from the back of his throat as his shaky hand pulled a drawer clear from his sink counter. It landed on the floor in front of him, loud and clattering, but that didn't matter. He ripped through the drawer until his fingers closed on something. A bottle, plastic and orange. It was the only one in the drawer, and he knew what it contained. It contained an end to this.

But then…he couldn't do it. He couldn't…He was a coward and a monster. He was a pathetic abomination. What would Jack think? Jack and Owen and Tosh and Gwen – he was worse than anything they'd ever hunted. He deserved to die more than any of them, so then why couldn't he do it? Damn him, he couldn't do it! He'd killed those women.

He was carrying something. It wasn't until he looked down and really focused his teary eyes that he realized what it was. Against his fingers, the drenched fabric of a rolled up blanket was cold and scratchy, but it wasn't the blanket itself that was worrisome, rather what was rolled up inside it that had Ianto screaming in horror – well, on the inside, he screamed. Outside, he was ice.

There was a body. Blonde hair, not unlike the hair of the woman he'd shoved against that alley wall, hung from the end of the blanket, and it was heavy. He knew there was someone on the other side of that blanket, the blond-haired man, but he didn't matter. He didn't have a face, only a voice, as they lifted the weight of the dead woman and threw her into the rubbish bin of the alley.

"I helped you dump the bodies…"

Because that was what Ianto did, wasn't it? He disposed of the bodies. It was his job. Good old Ianto. Loyal Ianto. He hid the bodies just like he hid his secrets. Just like he hid the women whose lives he'd taken. He was a monster. He was a monster.

"Remember it!"

Ianto's arms crashed into the mirror, from his elbows to his wrists, sending shards flying through the room and digging into his flesh. Blood wept down his arms, from his fingers too as he let his hands drop to his sides. He had seen his face, and how he hated it. He hate the monster looking back at him, with bloodshot eyes and scratches and blood seeping into his hair from where his short fingernails had dug in just a little too deep.

His cheek burned as her fingernails left trails of fire across his face. He only laughed. He loved it when they fought.

He had to get out of there, he realized. He couldn't do it, couldn't end it, but he was a danger. He had to get somewhere where they could lock him away, where he wouldn't hurt anyone. The police dealt with murderers, didn't they? They could lock him away and he couldn't hurt anyone.

But even then, in his mania, he knew he couldn't do it. Of all his secrets, even this one, Torchwood was the greatest. He couldn't risk telling them, and he knew that now, there was no telling what he was going to do. What he was capable of. He was a murderer; it wasn't hard to imagine he could be a betrayer, too.

Torchwood, then. He had to go to Torchwood. They could lock him in the Vaults and keep him away from everyone. They could keep people safe…safe from him.

Mind made up, Ianto ran from the bathroom, his broken, bleeding fingers still clutching the orange bottle in his fist. He might need it later, if he worked up the courage, or if the situation was desperate.

The last semblance of his sanity reminded him to dress himself before he left; walking about in a t-shirt and boxer briefs would alert suspicion, and he couldn't be caught before he reached Torchwood. He had to get to Torchwood, and then it wouldn't matter anymore, because then they could lock him away like the monster he was, with the weevils that murdered people, just like he murdered people. At least the weevils had an excuse; it was in their nature.

But then, maybe it was in his.

A strangled sob broke free from his lips, but he bit back the rest. He had to keep it together until he made it to the Hub.

Pulling on the jeans he'd discarded earlier – had it been hours? Days? – tugging on a hooded jumper to hide the gashes on his arms, he left his flat. With single-minded determinedness, he walked, no, he ran down the stairs of his complex, where he slowed to a quick walk. Long strides, the pills in the bottle in the left pocket of his jumper rattling about like a sort of pacifier, he walked. The path was automatic; there was no telling how many times he'd walked this path in the last year and a half. He kept his head down as he went, but even so, he couldn't help wincing each time the corner of his eyes caught a flash of heels.

She wore heels. How could she hope to escape him in heels? If only should would hit him, kick him, fight him, then maybe she could get away? Why wouldn't she get away?

Shaking his head, he hunched his shoulders and focused his gaze a little more intensely on the concrete under his feet. One foot in front of the other, step, step, step. Maybe he would make it. He had to make it.

Finally, miraculously, the lovely sight of the great silver statue appeared in his sights, like a holy monument in his delirium. He could've cried, except he was pretty sure he already was.

Down the pier he went, until he made it to the tourist office. The sight of it was comforting, but terrifying at the same time. They were going to find out. They were going to know what kind of monster he was; Jack would know, and it would tear him apart, the way the man would look at him.

But he deserved it, because he had taken their lives. Taken their innocence. He deserved to die, and if he couldn't do that, then he deserved to suffer.

The door opened to him, rolling to the side as it had on so many other occasions. He looked around, looked at the work stations, but he was alarmed to find that there was no one there. Raising his gaze to Jack's office, he found more of the same. Jack wasn't there.

He cried, then, a desperate cry. He couldn't fight this much longer; he had to be locked away, had to be made safe. He couldn't remain free any longer, or he would kill someone else. He didn't want to, he knew that, but he hadn't wanted to then either, and he had just the same. He'd killed them and he'd laughed, even though he screamed inside, and he knew that it wasn't in his control. He had to be locked away where he couldn't hurt anyone anymore.

But he couldn't lock himself away. That wasn't how the Vaults worked. He couldn't lock himself away; he had to wait. If they were away, they would be back soon, surely. It was light outside still; they hadn't gone home. Surely they would be back. If he stayed there, in the Hub, then it would be all right, wouldn't it? There wasn't anyone to tempt him in the Hub.

Clenching his fists, even as it ground glass shards against the bones of his knuckles and made joints crack painfully, he forced himself to walk over to the desk by the coffee machine. He would stay there and wait. He would wait for them, wait for Jack to save him. Because Jack always saved him, and he would do what he had to do to protect everyone. Jack would save him…from himself.

She fought so hard against him, even lying there disoriented on that filthy mattress on the alley floor. Her fight was admirable, but he wanted her to fight harder. He wanted to beg her to fight him off, to hurt him, to beat him, to do anything it took to get away. She had to fight him, because no one was going to save her. She had to save herself from him, but she wasn't. She couldn't.

He pushed her back down, kneeling on the mattress beside her and pressing his hand to her throat. The rain slicked his hand, and it was hard to get purchase, but he managed. Panic lit her eyes, her bright, bright eyes, and she tried to scream, but it was too late. His grip was too tight, and she couldn't get away, even as she thrashed. She wasn't thrashing hard enough, and he wasn't letting go. She was going to die.

He was going to kill her.

He couldn't take it anymore. Jack and the others were taking too long. His hands were shaking, his stomach churning, and he couldn't bear these memories anymore. The horrors of what he'd done; Christ, how could he have done those things?

There was no going back now. He knew it would hurt Jack to have to lock him away; he knew he would do it, though. He could save them both the trouble – save himself the suffering and save Jack the heartache – if he just ended it now. The bottle in his hand was burning him now, begging him. He could do it. It would be painless: much more painless than he deserved.

The bottle appeared in front of him, in bloody, shaking hands that fought to get the lid off. They managed, and he watched with some detachment as white pills appeared in his palm. Codeine, from an old injury. Owen did so love his pain medicines; Ianto never did take them. Ironically, he hated the loss of control they always seemed to incur.

Now, though, they represented the only form of control Ianto had. He couldn't control his impulses, couldn't stop himself from hurting people, but he could control his ability to do any of it. If he wasn't alive, he couldn't kill them. If he wasn't alive, then he wasn't a monster.

It was hard, swallowing all those pills. It didn't work like in the movies, where they all went down smoothly. They caught in his dry throat, and though he forced them down eventually, it was slow going, and it felt like they were still there, waiting. He hoped they would still work. Either that, or maybe they would come back up, get stuck there in his throat. If they suffocated him, wouldn't that be fitting? He'd choked those women, wouldn't it be perfect if he, too, choked by his own hand? Or, at least, as close to it as he could manage.

He'd killed so many monsters in his life. What was one more?