Stitch by stitch, I tear apart
If brokenness is a form of art
I must be a poster child prodigy

Logan felt entirely numb as he left the Mars Investigations' office. He found himself in the middle of the Grand's reception, no quite certain of how he had gotten there or how many hours it had been since he left Veronica. He was walking in haze. Everything around him looked surreal, like he was floating over a faint dream. He took the elevator mumbling what should be good afternoons, though he wasn't even sure there was anyone around to listen.

As he stepped into his room and clicked the door behind him, consciousness finally started to settle in. The emptiness of the hotel suite; the elegant, yet characterless, decoration; the suffocating silence. It was the perfect reflection of his entire life: one big nothing. It felt like his eyes had been opened for the very first time, like he was invited into the Matrix and could finally see the reality that had been around him all along. He was alone, utterly and completely alone. There wasn't a soul in this universe for which his life made any difference, nor anyone that meant anything to him in return. Not anymore.

Veronica Mars had been a mirage; a beautiful figment wrapping him in a bubble of denial. There was no safety blanket, no pocket-sized superhero that would come and save him from himself. Because the unavoidable truth was no one cared, and no one should care. This realization was so far beyond your ordinary abandonment issues; he could practically feel the physical presence of his own despair. Meaningless, useless, worthless - the demonic voices of reason buzzed through his head.

The ache he felt had little to do with missing the comfort of an emotional support system, because right now he was sure he'd already received so much more than he'd ever deserved. No; the ruthless agony came from his inability of escaping himself. His his mother, his sister, Aaron, Veronica - they all had made the deliberate decision of leaving him behind. He, on the other hand, didn't have such privilege.

He wanted to scream but could seem to find the strength. His knees faltered and he collapsed breathing heavily while trying to grasp on that last shred of self-deception. Hours passed before he woke up, lying flat on the ground, with the sharpness of reality still burning his eyes. He went straight to the room's bar and found his escape in the bottom of a vodka bottle.