THIS IS ANOTHER VERY LONG CHAPTHER (OVER 6,000 WORDS)
CHAPTERS WILL RETURN TO THEIR REGULAR LENGTH OF 2,000-3,000 WORDS EACH, SHOTRLY.
James looked up from the shaking pages in his hands, his vision blurred through tear filled eyes while he sat numbly in the armchair staring blankly ahead and feeling as though he were beginning to have an out of body experience. James studied and observed every atom of his husband napping a few metres away, who appeared so calm and peaceful, as though he could be dead. James reminded himself that Greg's chest was moving, his foot, wrist, and face were slightly twitching irregularly from a dream in his mind of which James only hoped was a happy one for once or at the very least neutral, and who was totally unaware of his surroundings in his sleep, but that he was very much alive. The ignorance of surroundings obviously extended to that of James' incredible distress at what he'd just read, mixed in with such unbelievable, indescribable distress from having just read the last words he'd ever intended James to hear from him, as well as knowing that Greg had no intention for James to ever read it while Greg was still on this Earth, it was to explain his reasoning after the fact. It was what would have been his legacy to James, how he wished and hoped for James to remember him. Not a cry for help, but a final goodbye, of which he had no intention of leaving a backout plan or reasonable potential for survival if he were to have cut correctly. No possibility that he would ever wake up once he was out, especially as they were at home, there was no way to get blood back into Greg once he would have been bleeding like that. James knew logically that he had to accept that Greg hadn't wanted survival to be a possibility. James tried to force his brain to accept that there wouldn't have been anything to change it if it had have happened, as he felt his brain beginning to falter, and he felt it struggling to accept this reality and begin to actively reject it.
Greg had obviously wanted this to truly be the finale, the curtain call. He'd wanted no chance of survival or resuscitation, if he had actually been indecisive or had even just the smallest seed of doubt, then he would have overdosed as he had done many times before; and slowly dozed off as the drugs took control and he would have gone to sleep relatively peacefully. All while knowing that James could have theoretically found him in time, and with Narcan, life breaths, and medical intervention, that he'd likely be fine, given his personal tolerance to the Vicodin he always ended up overdosing on nearly every time.
Yet, now he clearly had not wanted saving, clearly not wanting even a slim, but potential, chance at survival. It had really all been in the timing, fate, luck, or a combination of all of these factors that had saved Greg, not Greg's own natural self-preservation. Some force had clearly decided now was not his time to cross over, which initially and immediately James was very pleased about; but the more he considered that Greg had intended to kill himself in such a final way to not be able to turn back just to get away from his life and James; the darker James' mind and thoughts grew; does he think I don't help him enough or something? What the fuck!
James felt a cold, angry fury combine with his extreme low mood as he imagined what the following moments, days, weeks and months would play out as the images, emotions and words involuntarily rang through his head; despite the fact James knew this thought pattern would only serve to set of his BPD, he couldn't drag himself away from finishing the story in his mind.
Greg had chosen to die, and to die not looking asleep and possibly peaceful, while still being stiff and cold with maybe a bit of vomit leaking from his lips; instead, he'd chosen James' last images of him to instead be far more traumatising. The images of Greg lying half naked in a bathtub; drenched in several litres of coagulating blood with a bloodied razor blade resting on his stomach flashed behind James' eyes, as realistic as a series of violent crime scene photographs. That was how he intended for James to find him, that's what he wanted James' last image of him to be, traumatic, bloody, with the smell of iron filling his lungs, and desperate screaming and shouting for his husband to wake up, for it to have been a sick prank; but when James would have reached out to touch him; and upon feeling his ice cold skin, and trying to shift his stiff, unmoving, with an almost wax like quality, yet slippery from blood, body, feeling the dead weight of Greg when James tried to move him out of the bath onto the floor to try something, anything, as James' feet slipped and slid in blood that had spilt onto the tiled floor, and he felt unmistakeable texture of blood seeping through his clothes, and noticed Greg's chest was not moving in the slightest, and that his pulse was gone, James stopped and sat against the side of the bath, wiping his bloodied palm on his trousers and ringing an ambulance, telling them that he'd just come home to find his husband passed away from suicide, and that he was gone. James knew, both from working and training as a doctor as well as instinctually, that there was absolutely nothing that could be done to save Greg at this point.
For it to have so clearly been a suicide, and a horrifying, violent one at that; this was the last image James had wanted to ever see of his husband, as he wished to some God, any all powerful force in existence, to trade them over; before he'd watched the body bag being zipped by a sterilised hand in a glove. James stood there unable to move or feel; 'devastated, infuriated, and numb' wouldn't begin to even scratch the surface of James' emotional state, he truly had no words; as he stood drenched in his own husband's blood, watching the gurney being wheeled out and looking down at all that would be left of Greg, his blood around the bathroom, and drenched over James' own body; all left for James to clean up.
For James to have to scrub the blood of the most crucial person to him who was as much of James' identity as he himself was; and afterwards stare at tiny blood splatters he'd missed in his attempt to clean the mess in such a destroyed state; the mental toll it would have taken in order to clean the bathroom, throw his clothes and shoes away, wash and attempt to clean his body and his long hair which Greg had always claimed to love and begged James to never cut it short again, that was now matted with blood. James' once beloved hair that had now been dipped into the clotted puddles and as such had become permanently tainted, while James had tried every way he knew how to awake Greg and desperately checked for any signs of life. Even once it was clean and untangled, James knew he would forever feel its acquired filth; for it had soaked up Greg's lifeblood within it, the same lifeblood he died from not having.
For James to have to scrub away the last physical remnants of Greg from around the bathroom and off of his own body. To have to sit Charlie and Tyson down, and tell them that daddy would never be coming home, that he'd died; like their mother and grandmother before him, and their grandfather out of the picture in jail; to answer their questions in the most child friendly way he could think of when James himself wouldn't even know the answers himself; for James to have to attempt to force himself to stay alive for these children he now had no connection to by blood or marriage; but who, now like James, had lost everyone in their lives.
For James to have to organise the funeral, to pick out photos for a slide show and a memorial photo, for James to have to stare down into the coffin of his husband and say goodbye before giving a eulogy while he would attempt and fail to hold himself together to the few people left in their lives, before needing to attend Greg's burial, watching the better half of himself be lowered into the ground and drowned in dirt, and then to have to go to the wake. To have to smile with a fake smile and nod while he would have to lie and assure every person there multiple times that he'll be okay, and would hear countless empty platitudes from those around him that James was certain they would have no intention of fulfilling should he need to ask; 'if he needs anything', 'we're always here', 'can I do anything to help?', 'he was a wonderful man', and worst of all, when some well-meaning biddy would approach him and James would hear the dreaded 'I know how you're feeling' as he'd have to attempt and likely fail, to not unleash his inner fury and to try and stop what he felt was Greg from speaking through him like a possession, where James felt out of control of any words he said.
For everyone else to move on with their lives in the coming weeks; while James, Tyson, and Charlie would be left in the perpetual storm; and snap forward a couple of weeks of the three of them were barely learning how to live without Greg who had always done the vast lion's share of parenting duties. James was now left having to learn how to keep the family and house afloat as a grieving single father, while dealing with Tyson's inevitable extremely violent and frightening outbursts, constantly being called into parent-teacher meetings at the school to discuss the latest antisocial behaviour outburst Tyson had done; whether it was fighting, swearing, throwing tables, threatening, running away, or vandalism. As James would be sat there in his own internal puddle of loss while having to beg the teacher that Tyson was simply coping with the loss of his father and main care giver and they were all readjusting, and as the months would tick by, teachers and principals would be less and less understanding of the reason and begin to call it 'excuses' and 'bad parenting'. James was now left wishing he paid more attention to Greg when he'd tried teaching James how to calm down Tyson's meltdowns, but James had aways told him that "I am the bread winner, you look after the kids and the home," James wished that he'd just listened and learned, that he could go back and scream at his previous self that before he knew it he would suddenly be responsible for all of the parenting, so he needed to know what to do!
For Charlie to go from searching the home with Shady trailing behind her as he always did everywhere; while she called out for her daddy, and waiting by the door for daddy to come home, to taking the brunt of Tyson's venomous outbursts in the home for the crime of being an easier target to beat than a sleeping Rottweiler, once he'd finished hurting his sister, he'd then go searching for James to start screaming and hitting, kicking and beating him on a surprise attack, to shutting down entirely.
That Charlie would begin to regress, she'd stop speaking and stop eating, eventually stop moving on her own or doing any of the everyday activities that Greg had been so patiently teaching her, that she'd be back in diapers all the time, and just sit and stare at the wall or tv in her depression and abandonment she didn't understand, but could completely feel. She would no longer play with her toys, as she would be waiting for "daddy to come play toys with me," because "daddy knows how to play right. You don't papa, you're bad," as James would feel yet another stab of guilt to the heart and pang of regret that he hadn't watched Greg closer and learned more than just the absolute basics of how to look after the kids; wishing that'd he'd learned how to connect with Charlie and her inner world; instead James would have to just nod, walk away and feel his heart, now resembling Greg's description of his own in the letter, breaking slightly more each time he heard her ask for "daddy", the last word she'd reliably say as the guilt was tearing James up inside.
James would have to hide away and cry in overwhelming depression and stress; being in way over his head and not understanding how Greg had ever done and coped with this, essentially alone most of the time. James would be stressing about "last demand" bills and the mortgage, being unable to work now in his psychotic depression and being alone with two kids acting out their emotions; one violently outward and likely swinging off doors and cupboards in attempts at breaking them and physically attacking James several times a day; hitting and kicking him with all the power possibly behind an oversized six year old who was mad at the world, at how much loss he'd suffered in his short life, and who lived in a state of constant fury and stress, who also had absolutely no fear to walk up to and hit James with a closed fist square in the face or to kick him in the crotch, and act out even more violently should he be ever interrupted in one of his 'meltdown moments'. James, in such a state of loss, depression and overwhelm; just gave up and let Tyson trash Greg's beloved house and could never bring himself to clean up after Tornado Tyson had gone through a room, so the home his husband had loved all his life was now utterly trashed and appearing more like a trap house than a family home everyday.
Charlie acted out violently inward, to the point where she was essentially catatonic; now having returned to the state of mind of an infant; unable to do even basic tasks that Greg had been teaching her, not speaking, showing very limited emotional range, and always either sleeping, looking for daddy, or staring at a surface in a trance like state.
"Why did you do this to me, Greg? For the smartest man in the world, you didn't see all this of coming? Did you? Or maybe you did, and you just didn't care about abandoning us. The three people you were meant to love more than anything in the world, now take a look at what you did to us! You did this! You ruined it all! You've hurt us! Look at the kids, Greg! Look at me! You think we're happier now? Do you even care?" James yelled out, in his delusional, psychotic, hyper elevated state of mind; he was just wishing to hear Greg speak back, and yet heard nothing. "That's damn right, you didn't care at all! All you ever cared about your hurt, your pain, your suffering, yourself! How you could escape it! Screw what happens to the rest of us you left behind! We would've been better off if you'd taken us with you! Murdered us physically and not just mentally, you narcissistic cocksucker!"
James threw the envelopes, letters, and papers across the room, watching them flutter down, before sweeping everything off the table and watching it with a contended half smile as it crashed to the ground, "now what, Greg? I can't do this! Look at these fucking kids! They're a mess! I'm a mess! We're two weeks away from losing the house! But you don't fucking care do you, you selfish cunt! Our lives are pure hell every day! We can't go on like this!"
James then smiled and chuckled slightly, shaking his head ever so slightly, staring at the ceiling and curling his lips, "Maybe we aren't too different after all; you and I. You saw only one solution, one way out of your personal hell, well maybe I do too! You expect me to do the dirty work, live in this quagmire of a mess you left us behind in? I wonder how many people are soon going to ask and say things like," and James put on an exaggerated, cartoon like set of voices as he screamed; "'what could we have possibly done?' 'How could we have seen the signs before it happened?' 'How could we have stopped it from happening?' 'He must've just snapped' 'there was always something wrong with him, all along' 'How could we have fucking helped James through the worst time in his life?'" James brought his voice back to how he had been yelling previously as he continued; "maybe you and I should tally them when they start talking, should we? They only care after something happens! But not after my fucking selfish husband, yeah Greg, you! Chose to kill himself, oh no, not then, we can't follow through on any empty fucking promises to help James then!" James chuckled and shook his head, "and once again, Gregory decided to leave me to do what you weren't prepared to do? Leave me as the fucking villain to be remembered as? A legacy is a legacy, right? Well, at least I'm going to be remembered for this, Greg! A double homicide and suicide, with no note! Is that what you want Greg? Answer me, God damnit! You wanted me to fucking talk to you about what's happening? Well, now I'm talking and this is what's happening, you're ignoring me, you useless cunt! But you can see us, can't you? Can you see what you did, you pathetic waste of space? Or you thought you would be able to, you crazy motherfucking cocksucker! We've all got to be wrong sometimes, right Greg? Well, you were very, very wrong!" as James waved his arm, beating his chest, yelling towards the ceiling, "you forced my hand, Greg, let's just hope there's four bullets in the chamber, or the fucking dog is going to starve to death! And this is all your fault, but now I'm the bad guy forever! I won't leave a note, they won't understand how you're fucking forcing my hand, aren't you? Answer me!" James screamed, storming towards and up the stairs to Rob's old room to fix this problem. Unloading the chamber of the Glock he smiled mutely at the six bullets in there; two spare, but I'm a very good shot; there will be still two bullets left when this is over. James looked forward and narrowed his dark, brooding eyes, feeling his anger towards Greg and the situation as a whole morph into a pure, unrelenting, overreaching hatred that he'd been left to do this himself. Greg forced this on us, he knew that we'd all be ruined forever by Greg's impulsive, stupid, fucking choice! But he hadn't had the balls to take all of them with him; making me, James Samuel Gallagher, end up becoming the villain of the piece; the father who murders his entire family and then kills himself. What a coward. But if that's how this story has to end, it is how it is. I'm not going to be around to read the newspaper articles written or watch the news reports about the family massacre that is being forced upon me with no other choice. I'm not a fucking narcissist like you, Greg! I don't care how the world remembers me, because I'm fucking dead! I won't know who finds us, and frankly I don't care. James thought furiously.
He stalked, and for the first time in months, was walking with a real purpose and confidence in his stride and finally knowing what it was he had to do; James stormed out of the bedroom, down the hall, and stairs, before he whistled; "Shady, come here boy," as he raised the gun, took a perfect aim, and pulled the trigger.
James snapped back to his current reality, and felt the weight lift off him as the visions faded and he realised where he was, in his and Greg's bedroom, and that Greg was still here with him, napping on top of the covers. The relief James felt he could only attribute to the pure look of relief he'd see in Greg's eyes and expression when he would come around from one of his night terrors; that the vision he'd had hadn't been real, it had materialised and manifested from his traumas.
His beloved husband, best friend, partner in crime, and the other half who made James whole, and not the fracture of a person he was without Gregory by his side was there, sleeping and resting. The husband who he'd so nearly lost yesterday, who had apparently so desperately not wanted to do what he did but had truly felt no other choice or option, that he'd been begging in terror for it to not happen. James couldn't help but feel and recognise some rising anger at the fact it had only been the interruption that Greg wasn't now lying naked on a metal slate in a morgue, and James wasn't telling their children that daddy would never come home, in between organising funeral arrangements for the man that he loved, picking out a cemetery and plot, choosing whether to bury him in his wedding suit that he'd so recently worn, and what the procession music would be. It had only been the interruption that had prevented the terror James had just essentially hallucinated to have likely become reality, as he tried more to shove the anger out of his body, biting down on his hand to get out some of his aggression, until the familiar taste of blood touched James' tongue and he recoiled in horror, with now incredible hypervigilance, depression and loss being the only emotions he could feel; but they were so extremely intense.
James carefully eyed and watched Greg's body, deeply aware and hyper focused on watching his chest slowly rising and falling his eyes zoomed in like a hawk circling a mouse in the field below. This level of attention and focus was more than James could ever remember concentrating, as if he were to look away, it'd stop and the nightmare would begin, and the hallucination, night terror, whatever that was; would become true. Yet, the constant rise and fall of his husband's chest, proved to James that he was still alive and physically well, and comforted James ever so slightly as he pondered about what had so nearly occurred, yet hadn't through pure fate. He was still here. I can't believe that he so deeply thought that we would be better off without him here with us. That he'd written a letter so long, beautifully articulated and yet utterly heartbreaking. That he was so terrified of what he was about to do yet saw no possible alternative.
James quietly crawled up onto the bed, gently wrapping his arm around his napping husband, and leant his nose onto the back of Greg's shirt on his shoulder blade as he sobbed. "Jimmy? What are you doing?" Greg mumbled sleepily, before noticing James' uncontrolled, spasming sobs, his arm wrapping tighter around Greg's shoulder to the point where he was clutching and clinging so tightly that his grip nearly felt choking, and Greg felt wet patches growing down the back of his shirt. "James, James," Greg was now wide awake, trying to wriggle slightly to loosen the clasp James had him under, "what's going on? Are you crying? James, it's okay, I'm here,"
"You nearly weren't. You tried to leave us, Greg, how could you ever think that we'd ever possibly be better off without you?" James sobbed between shaking and hyperventilated breaths, "how could you ever believe that this was the answer? How could you ever think that the kids would be better off without you? That I could ever be better off without you? That I would ever feel happy ever again after losing you? That I would ever feel anything again apart from despair, loss, and regret?"
"I see you must've read the letter," Greg mumbled, "I was going to burn that, but you followed me down here before I could find where I put down the damn lighter the other night. I'd hoped you wouldn't see it. James, that letter was nothing more than the psychotic ramblings of a desperate madman. You know that I could never leave you,"
"The hell you couldn't!" James sat bolt upright, nearly yelling, "fuck, Greg, you were lying half naked in the bath with a dismantled, broken shaver on the floor and a razor blade held against your wrist. If I hadn't come in then, if I'd… I don't know, assumed you were napping, started on dinner, thought maybe that you'd gone out the back for a smoke and relax, watched some tv with the kids, taken them to the park like they'd begged me to, if I couldn't find the bathroom keys, literally anything to delay me even a couple of minutes- then you would be dead. Got it, Greg? Dead, gone, never coming back, leaving us forever, leaving me. All this bullshit about joining some greater life force and crap that I know you don't believe in, and you've always actively mocked people who do. You wouldn't be watching over and protecting us, you'd just be six feet under and dead inside the ground! All that'd be left of you would be a slab of concrete with your name above your birthday and yesterday's date on it. You're not some romanticised fucking ghost whose watching over and protecting us, you're gone! You know that I would never have coped with losing you! You knew in that logical fucking brain of yours that seems to currently be a pile of mashed potatoes in your skull right now that I would never recover! The Greg I've always known would know without question that all that would happen after they called time of death would be me dropping the kids off with Phil and Ryan, and that then I'd come back here, grab Rob's Glock, and taste gun! Is that what you want, Greg? For me to taste fucking gun? Not to mention that if you kill yourself, you went on and on in that letter about remembering you for who you were; but you kill yourself, Greg," James shook his head, and brought his voice down to normal; "and that becomes your entire legacy. That is all anyone would ever remember you for. You're not Dr. Gregory Gallagher, world famous physician, you're no longer a father, you're no longer a loving husband, you're not all the memories we've created together. you're not the genius you once were, you're not a cycle breaker, Greg. Instead, you're a foot note in the obituary of the newspaper for a couple of days. All that you'd be remembered for is the guy who killed himself. That's all anyone will remember you for if you kill yourself, Greg, really. You're not a martyr, Greg. This isn't some altruistic gesture on your part; all it is, any part of this, it's only lowly, beyond selfish, and cowardly. You were only thinking about your pain, not how much you would then be magnifying that pain you feel and aiming it on me, our kids, the people who love you. Nobody would ever move on. You wouldn't be ending your cycle of hurt; you'd only be starting a new generational cycle of hurt and pain! Probably even more than your pain is already! How could you have done that to me, you were supposed to love me," James broke down.
"Hey, hey, come on," Greg calmed him down, wrapping his arms around him, "I'm so sorry James, it'll never happen again, okay? I see where I went wrong, I instantly regretted it all," James began to shake and hyperventilate in Greg's arms as though he were about to start having a full-scale panic attack. Greg frowned, and pulled away slightly to look at James, "Jimmy, what's going on in your head? What's happening?" James shook his head to indicate that he didn't want to say anything regarding it, but Greg shook his head; "we've got to stop doing this, James, starting now, okay? Both of us. We have to stop not mentioning, hiding, or minimising thoughts were having especially when they're dark or sad, because look where that has left us now?" as James sobbed louder, "it's okay, whatever it is, we'll get through it together,"
James nodded and wiped his snotty nose down the underside of his sweatshirt sleeve and rubbed his wet eyes across the top before he looked over to see Greg looking over at him. Greg's blue eyes held a hint of concern and a shot of curiosity, but primarily that truly unconditional love, and understanding that were two of James' most prized qualities in his husband as he nodded while Greg rubbed his hand soothingly up and down James' back in an attempt to calm him.
"You're going to hate me for this," James whispered feeling shame creeping up his body, "but you're right; we have to start to be completely open and honest with each other about how we're feeling even, and especially, when the emotions are negative. We're not just friends anymore, and can get by on surface level interactions, not that we ever really did, but we can't keep up the charade of pretending our negative or bad thoughts and emotions don't exist, on both sides, we both experience them, and we both love someone who does. We're married now, and we've both managed to miraculously survive our own suicide attempts, but I don't think either of us would be a third time lucky," James whimpered.
Greg nodded, "no, I agree, I think we've both used up our spare lives for deciding that it is time to end it all. I don't think we should push our luck. James, you should have known what some of the horrifically dark and demented night terrors I've had, that are so real, it feels as though it's happening in reality, I can't tell them apart. And while I never mentioned it before, but in the interests of being honest; not all the night terrors I have involve me. I mean, they always involve those men who abused me; especially dad and Henry, being the perpetrators; and most do involve me being hurt. However, occasionally I will have night terrors of those men doing those things to Tyson or Charlie, and that I am forced to watch them scream and cry for help; but I'm tied down, or locked out, or they're in a goddamn fishtank, or for some other reason I can't get to them… and then they end up becoming me. As destroyed and ruined as I am, and I feel guilt as though it has really happened. They become as mentally screwed up and traumatised as me. I feel like a soldier who has returned from war, but the war never left him. Everywhere he looks, he sees what he saw, what he experienced, in the battlefield, in the fight for his life. Other people see him and assume that because he's back home that it's over, but it's never over, and other people just don't understand that part. They can't comprehend it because it's not their reality, they don't have to live it. It isn't their fault… but it's not his, either," Greg's voice dropped down slowly from his regular speaking volume to barely above a whisper.
Greg shook his head, shaking off that train of thought, and getting on a new one and forcing himself to continue explaining; "once, I even had a night terror about you… John and Henry hurting you and I was being forced to watch. They were saying that 'Greg is too stupid to know what he does with you is a sin, James. But you seem like a smart boy, let's see if you can figure this out' and they proceeded to force me to watch as they tied you down, abused you, then they tortured and killed you; as slowly and as drawn out as physically possible. When I have night terrors about myself and my own experiences, that's one thing, that's a flashback and I've learnt to deal with those over the years. Sometimes I would even settle myself down quietly enough so you wouldn't even stir in your sleep. But when they're particularly bad, sometimes I forget where I am for a moment, and those are the ones you'll probably remembering being with me as I come back around. The ones involving the kids are the worst; because for a while I'm sometimes not sure if I'm awake, dreaming, or somewhere in between. Do you remember that night when I had that night terror at 3am and I just had to go and ensure the kids were safe there and then? Yeah, that was an example of a very bad one," Greg shook his head, as if trying to shake the memory from his brain, as if it were clinging onto him with its claws dug deep, "so now I've said that James, why don't you tell me about your thoughts? What happened in your mind while I was sleeping?"
James sighed, fiddling with the cuff of his sweatshirt with his fingers on his other hand, focusing his eyes and attention on that in order to be able to get this all out; "I'm not sure really… You know when I'm really stressed, sometimes I'm here, but I'm not here? Not really psychotic or anything, but sometimes the blur between reality and the non-reality is less concrete and more fluid?"
Greg nodded, "I know that feeling well, as I've just gone into… sorry about interrupting, go on,"
"Well, it was almost as though it was like a night terror; but I know I was conscious and awake and hadn't been asleep, but I was having a fully out of body experience, I wasn't in my body at all, totally disassociated, out of it, whatever you want to call it. I guess if I had to describe it, it was somewhere between a night terror and a hallucination, I suppose. It just… it shook me up a little bit,"
"Okay, well why don't you describe it. Tell me all about it, it can't be any worse than what I've just told you," Greg shrugged one shoulder in a fashion of 'I can't imagine it being too bad at all,'. It felt a combination of dismissive, comforting, irritating, and loving, with just a touch of condescension and arrogance; well, this is Greg after all, it wouldn't be him without that touch of narcissistic traits that aren't enough to affect the day to day; but give him that dry, dark, quick wit; and a hint of self-importance which I suppose has come in handy for keeping him alive in the past. I guess Greg is back again, James considered.
"Oh, you've not heard it," James laughed dryly, "but okay, I'll tell you about it and then we'll see if you still think it can't be worse,"
"Deal," Greg's eyes glistened with a mixture of challenge and curiosity, tilting his head ever so slightly as he began to listen to James' imagined, fork in the road reality horror story.