A/N: All I can really say about this chapter is that I'm sorry for what happens in it. It made me sad.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Mighty Boosh.

Vince's POV

When I stormed off, I had nowhere to go. I still wasn't totally clean; my thoughts were slightly fuzzy, like when you're just starting to get drunk. I thought I should go to Finley, but then I remembered, and I decided against it. I went to the second floor, and peered around the door, trying to stay unnoticed. Finley was nowhere to be seen. I stepped through the door quietly, noticing the crowd of people around someone lying on the floor. Ah. That was where Finley was. The only person who wasn't glued to his side was Alena, standing with her head bowed near the window. I tapped my boot heel on the doorframe and she looked up. I beckoned her over silently. She joined me and pushed me out of view of the door.

"Vince, are you okay?" she gasped.

"Alena, of course I'm not, you should know that." She grimaced.

"I know, sorry; force of habit. Where's Howard?" I closed my eyes and sighed.

"I left him behind. He got in a fight with Finley."

"I know, I was watching."

"Yeah, well I told him not to. He'll kill us now."

"Howard was just looking out for you."

"I know, I know, why does everyone keep saying that?" I turned and kicked the rusty railings around the stairs, then took a deep breath and leant on them. "Look," I said, "I have to get out of here. I can't deal with it, I'm dying. Can you help me? You can come too!" She looked away and shook her head.

"No, Vince. You know the situation. Finley's the one with the drugs."

"We can quit! Or, or... I dunno. He can't be the only dealer in the city."

"What about Howard?"

"Fuck Howard. He deserves whatever Finley's got in store for him." Alena stared at me.

"Vince, this isn't you." she said. "I know the drugs have changed you, but... You were a sweet guy, with that gleaming smile and those beautiful eyes. Now you're cruel, you never smile; your eyes are always staring into other worlds. What happened?" I sighed and looked back at her.

"This place happened. But you're right. This isn't me."

"No. You love Howard; you two are inseparable. Go and talk to him, Vince."

"Yeah. I will. Don't let Finley come after me tonight."

"I don't think he'll be coming after anyone tonight. He's still out cold."

"Howard's got a good punch." I ran back up the stairs to our room. But when I reached it, it was empty. The window was wide open, and my stomach did a flip. Fearing the worst, I looked out and down at the ground below. But there was nothing there. I was confused by Howard's disappearance. He hadn't gone down past the second floor; we would have seen him pass. I wanted to find him, and the logical place seemed to be our floor. Sure enough, ten minutes later, I found him on the balcony. I watched in horror as his shoulders shook. He was crying. He'd never cried in front of me. Ever. I did a double take, checking it was him, then sidled up next to him. He didn't notice me until I put a hand on his shoulder.

"Howard?" I said softly. "I'm here, Howard." He turned and I hugged him tightly. We stayed there for a long time. We were spending too much time trying to stop each other cry lately. Why should we have to? I was destroying myself, and I was destroying Howard too. I was wrong. Howard didn't deserve what Finley would do to him. He had been honouring his promise, looking after me when I needed it. Now he needed me, and it was my turn to honour him.

That night, Howard was lying in bed, snoring gently. I was on the other side of the room, letting my tears fall silently. When I asked myself what I was crying about, I realised the answer was, simply, everything. I knew what this would lead to. I was doing it before I even noticed; looking for a blade. The unconscious, instinctual part of my mind was taking over, and I couldn't do anything about it. My eyes began the search for any flash of silver in the room. They alighted on my razor. But no, I needed it. Howard had one, but I didn't want to steal his. He'd have a spare though. Howard had a spare of everything. Sure enough, when I searched his case, there was a razor, still in its packaging. I took it out and looked at it. Three thin, sharp blades. I ran my thumb over them and looked at the three lines left behind on my skin. How to remove the blades? I thought if I stood on it, the plastic casing would break. I tried it. The head broke off, but the blades were held in their places by a strip of metal at each end. I used a fingernail to loosen the end, swearing quietly as it broke. Then I could bend the metal and take it off one end. The blades fell out when I turned it upside-down. I held them in my palm. It was odd to think that such innocent looking objects could be so sharp. I put two of the blades with the secret stash of money under the mattress. The other I held in my hand as I walked over to the far corner of the room. I sat down on the bare floor and took off my jumper. I was still almost hypnotised by the glint of moonlight on the blade. I held it to my wrist, ready to cut. But then I realised how obvious that would be. Get a cut on your wrist and suddenly everyone thinks you're self-harming. So I held it further up my arm. I had it ready in my hand. I tested how much it hurt to just scratch myself. It stung a little, but not much. So I levelled the blade and cut deep. First was the immediate feeling of release; of turning intangible mental pain into something I could feel, something I could see. Then I felt the physical pain, and it wasn't so releasing anymore. It stung so much more than the tiny scratch. But I forgot everything when I saw the blood. It started off in a small patch of the cut, then pooled up in the corners, before dripping down my arm in a red stream. I was slightly in awe of what I had done, of the fact that I had done this myself; that was my blood running down my arm, dribbling onto my jeans... The full reality of how deep I had cut hit me, and I swore. I racked my brains. What did you do to a deep cut...? You put pressure on it with a bandage or something. I didn't know what to do and I was panicking, so I picked up my jumper and pressed it hard to my arm. It hurt the cut even more, but I knew I had to do it. I closed my eyes, breathing heavily. My conscious mind was back in control now, and it wasn't keen on this. I didn't know what I should do with it. Should I tell someone? Maybe wake Howard? But no. I couldn't do that. I knew that it would hurt him even more to know that I was hurting myself. I stared down at the blade where I had abandoned it on the floor, a small droplet of blood sitting beside it. I picked up the blade and looked at the window. I wanted to throw it out, but I knew I wouldn't be able to. I knew this wouldn't be the last time this happened. I could tell that this wouldn't be enough. I moved the jumper to look at the cut. The bleeding was slower now, but the cut was deep. It looked like the sort of cut that you need stitches for. I wasn't going to get any of those, of course. I wasn't going to tell anyone.

It took thirty-five long and frightening minutes for the bleeding to stop, by which time I also had pain in my other arm from holding the jumper for so long. I inspected the cut. It still looked too long, too deep. But it had helped, a little. It released me for a moment. And sometimes a moment was all I needed. To sort out how I felt before the default depression set in. I unrolled my jumper and looked at it.

"Oh, god." I whispered. "How do I explain that?" it was full of creases where I had held it so tightly, and the other side was covered with patches of dark red. The last shred of reality I hadn't yet grasped hit me in the face like a sledgehammer.

Look at yourself, I thought. You're doing yourself in. Taking drugs and cutting. This place is going to kill you, you know.

I bowed my head and looked at the blood spot on my pale jeans. I knew Howard would notice if I looked like this when he woke up. But I didn't know what else to do, where else to go. If I went down to Finley, surely I would just be in a world of pain. I couldn't decide whether that would be worse than the guilt trip I would get from making Howard even more worried than he already was. I sat down in the middle of the floor, hugging my knees, wincing as the skin around the cut pulled tight. I realised that I was shaking hard, like I was cold. I pulled the jumper on, but it made no difference. I was shaking from the pain and from the fear of what I had just done. I knew Howard would go mad. But I needed him for now. Maybe after that, I could leave him to get on with his life without me.

So... yeah. Tell me what you think. And I'm sorry if it's unrealistic. I did my best.