The Right Thing Part 13 — "The Damage You've Done"

A/N - Sorry for the delay, guys. I actually had this one finished for a while now, but I was travelling and completely forgot about it. It's a little rough...:/ Thanks for the kind reviews I've gotten, it really means a lot. :)

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September 3, 2007

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"My wife just divorced me via text message."

"Nothing new, right?"

"Not really," Royals sighs. "She does it all time."

We both laugh. I glance through the window at the darkness and the generally awful weather and think about how winter in Bed-Stuy is always a huge inconvenience, especially when it's your job to drive through the snow for twelve hours in an RMP with unreliable heat. I'm relieved to — half-way through my shift — be safely tucked inside Amber's diner and out of the cold.

"I left my wallet in the car," Wolf announces, sighing and heading for the door.

"Okay," I call.

"Too bad he didn't leave his attitude in there too," Royal mutters from across the table after Wolf leaves. I would tell him to give Wolf a break, but since he usually does, I let it slide. Wolf's been dragging his feet most of the night, his eyes empty and any appearance of life in them only fleeting. At this point I've given up trying to get him to talk about whatever is bothering him; whatever has him so fucking troubled, besides the usual, and I've decided to let it go for now. I've discovered over the past two years that he'll talk eventually, as long as I don't corner him.

When he returns, cell phone in hand, I slide over toward the window so he can sit down.

"Hey," he mumbles.

"Who were you talking to?" I ask, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. Wolf was a psych major and he knows I'm only asking to see if it'll give me any insight on why he's acting even more distressed than usual. Especially since he seemed okay last night, temporarily recovered from his usual mood swings and random acts of rage long enough to watch football and attempt to help Amber study.

"No one," he says quickly. I nod and give up again.

The three of us aren't sitting for very long when his phone goes off and he rushes back outside with it.

"Seems worse than usual," Royal observes, shrugging.

"Yeah," I say quietly.

"Just don't do what you did last weekend."

"What the hell did I do last weekend?" I ask.

"More like what you didn't do," he explains. "You didn't come to work. Not the first time."

"Oh," I shrug. I can't really remember last weekend. I remember drinking and then I remember Wolf complaining about how he nearly had to ride with Vandt and how he'd rather shoot himself and how he only didn't because Royal volunteered to take him at the last second and supposedly only as a favor to me. I remember that part pretty well.

"I end up with him every time." Royal's not complaining as much as he's just used to being alone and that his people skills don't extend to troubled, brooding twenty-somethings, and I can't really hold that against him. He continues, "And I'm not good at this whole thing you're doing, you know, keeping him out of the bell jar."

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We were drawn from the weeds, we were brave like soldiers
Falling down under the pale moonlight
You were holding me like someone broken
And I couldn't tell you but I'm telling you now

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April 20, 2012
10 days after shooting

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"Can we talk now?" I ask, walking into the kitchen where Wolf is washing his hands. It's something he does about five times more often than necessary since the incident, almost in some futile attempt to wash away everything his father ever did. He also looks over his shoulder, wakes up during the night, and just generally seems to walk around on eggshells.

"Fine, whatever," he mumbles. "Talk." He also communicates a little differently; a little harsher, a little more impatient.

"Maybe without the water?" I suggest. He shuts off the faucet angrily.

"Better?" he snaps.

I nod, unfazed by his tone. If I didn't expect him to act like this, I wouldn't be his partner, and I definitely wouldn't be his best friend.

"I talked to Royal earlier," I tell him, thinking about how Royal found me at the desk a couple hours ago and told me, among other things, that Wolf had been standing in front of the locker room door for thirty minutes. When I walked over, sure enough, he was standing there looking completely zoned out, eyes glazed, hands at his side. I put my hand on his shoulder, which ended up being a stupid move on my part, since it nearly sent him into a panic attack. Finally he just looked at me, "I can't go in," he shrugged. "I can't do it." I stood there with him for several minutes before finally taking his gun, locking it up, and taking him home, still in uniform.

Wolf's voice pulls me back to our present conversation. "No kidding," he says, unimpressed. He seems to expect that Royal gave him up.

"Yeah," I tell him. "He told me you're being reckless? Making risky traffic stops when you're solo? Not calling for backup…"

"God," Wolf interrupts sarcastically, pushing past me. "He has me all fucking figured out!"

I ignore him and continue, turning around and raising my voice as he storms into another room, "He says you're not wearing your vest. Not wearing your vest? Are you fucking insane, Wolf?" When he disappears behind the door, I follow him. "I mean, are you just out there trying to get killed?"

"No, I'm not trying to get killed, I'm already fucking dead!" he shouts, spinning around to face me and lowering his voice a little. "In case you couldn't fucking tell. It's all back, all of it, the nightmares, the fucking flashbacks, the panic attacks, the anger. I'm so fucking pissed off all the time. I close my eyes for one second and it's all back, everything, everything he ever did to me. It never fucking goes away, Bosco! And I can't wait around forever for it all to stop again, you know? I just can't. I can't."

"Wolf, I…"

"No!" he cuts me off, his eyes wild with despair. "Don't tell me I need to go to some department shrink because you know I can't talk to them! You know how they are. You know they're just going to give me a bunch of fucking pills and tell me none of this was my fault. Well, I already fucking know and it just makes it worse! How is it supposed to make me feel any better, to hear that I did everything right? To have them tell me I did nothing wrong, but it happened anyway? It doesn't, and I won't go, I won't talk to them."

"Then talk to me!" I tell him, exasperated. I want to help him so badly, but he makes it fucking impossible. I wonder if this is how he's felt, dealing with me the past seven years. "Talk to me for God's sake, Ryan! If you won't talk to somebody else, just please, talk to me."

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April 24

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The night following Lieu's ultimatum is spent sitting in Ma's bar ruminating over the pros — if any — and cons of taking the promotion. I don't factor in not taking it, since that doesn't seem to be an option. At some point, I sigh into my glass of water.

"You know, you don't come see me anymore," she says, almost sadly, wiping off the bar. Maybe it's a crappy way of trying to distract me from this decision that seems to have written 'exhausted and confused' all over my face.

"Not exactly the place for a recovering alcoholic," I tell her flatly. I think about how much I could use a drink right now, to numb my conflict of interest, but how I quickly took the water and how it has somehow, remarkably, sufficed.

"You don't come by the house either," she continues, though she knows damn well why I don't; why I haven't in over a year.

"Yeah, well, don't hold your breath on that one."

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April 25

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"How is Miller doing?"

Micah has asked me a lot of questions over the past four-and-something months, but never in a million years did I think he'd ask me this. It just figures that things have become so incredibly twisted, fucked up, and backwards that the question is actually somehow relevant and warranted these days.

"He's fine," I say. "IAB spent less than an hour with him and he was cleared. Two days off and he's back. I never got off the hook that easy for a lot less."

Micah smiles faintly, "And this is good, then."

I nod, "Yeah. I mean, I didn't want him tripped up for it."

"What about Ryan?" he asks. "Is he angry that Miller killed his father?"

"I don't know," I admit. "He doesn't really talk about it. Any of it. I know it fucked him up, to see him shot right there but…well, I know he knows the alternative. I know he knows Miller could've tried to just arrest him but he would've probably taken at least one of us out first. But mostly…mostly I don't know. I don't know because he won't talk to me."

"I guess it's safe to say he wouldn't come with you today?" Micah is clearly disappointed.

I answer from my seat in front of him, "No. He'll come around, though," I tell him hopefully, trying to convince myself. "I mean, eventually it's either gonna be he talks to you or Lieu sends him to the department shrink. He'll pick you."

Micah nods, satisfied, "How is he, otherwise?"

"Getting worse," I say honestly. "But me or Amber, well, one of us is always with him."

"Good. Is talking to you at all? I mean, about any of it?"

"A little," I admit. "But mostly he just changes the subject. I don't want to push him, but I want answers, you know?"

At Micah's insistence, and at Canyon's, I tried to negotiate with Wolf to come down here with me, but my attempts were useless. In fact, our conversations often went something like this, if even this well:

"No."

"Please, for me. For everyone."

"Everyone? Why? Who else gives a fuck whether or not I talk to a shrink?"

"Oh, I don't know — me, Amber, Micah, Canyon, Royal, Lieu, the entire department, anyone who even has to remotely depend on you to back them up once you go out on the street again?"

"Okay."

"So you'll go?"

"Fine."

"Really?"

"No."

I just shrug at the thought and look down, shaking my head at the entire situation, at the whole incredibly ironic and fucked-up status quo that has me sitting here talking about Wolf's instability because at this point, it's actually more likely for him to lose his mind than it is for me to start drinking again. Micah must notice that I'm silently starting to dwell again, because he quickly interrupts; his keen sense of timing is hard to miss.

"When you first realized your vision was getting worse," he starts. "Whose opinion were you most concerned about?"

"The department's," I scoff. "They're the ones who could've kicked me off the job."

Micah tilts his head, "Yeah, but you're thinking about the consequences. I mean, whose opinion mattered the most to you back then?"

I sigh at his success, "Faith, I guess. But I told her about it."

"You told her eventually," he corrects. "But you waited. Why?"

"I'm not sure." I'm honestly trying to remember, but it's just been too long. There's been more miscommunication, or lack of, since then, and everything seems to be overwritten. It's hard to sort through it all these days. "I guess I was afraid of what she'd think. But it's different with Wolf. I'm not going to think any less of him if he tells me truth. None of it is his fault."

"And you losing vision wasn't yours. But you were terrified of her opinion, because it mattered to you. I think Ryan's probably feeling the same way. It's probably why he left all of this out in the first place."

I nod, "I guess so."

"Look, there's something I want to show you," he announces, almost cautious, opening a drawer on his desk. Almost as if it might not be a good idea. "It's not going to make you feel better, but it might give you some answers."

I watch him intently, wondering what exactly he's going to show me that will give me any more insight than I managed to lure out of him during my reckless post-shooting visit. He hands me an envelope a few seconds later — postmarked, and addressed to Wolf. I glance to the left at the stamped return address:

Jack R. Wolf, MD, PhD
1743 Locke Court
Georgetown, SC, 29940

The envelope has been opened before, maybe even several times, and I scrutinize the contents.

"Just don't hold this against Ryan," Micah adds, anticipating my reaction as if it will consist of anger, like it often does. "You can be mad at me if you want, but it was never my place to tell you. It still isn't, not really, but after what happened, I think you should know."

"Five hundred thousand…" I trail off, too distracted to really hear what he's saying. I'm looking down at a check dated September 3, 2007. "What the fuck?" I'm asking more for an explanation and less for confirmation — I know who it's from and I know who it's to, I'm just stuck on the part where it's for such an impossible amount and how it's somehow ended up in Micah Stamford's Manhattan office nearly five years later.

"Okay, so…" I'm still staring down, still trying to figure out what piece of the puzzle I'm missing. "He sends Wolf money… September. 2007. Six and a half years after Wolf moved?"

"That's right." Micah seems ready to spare me any further confusion, but I speak up again before he can save me the trouble. The point of the money seems mostly obvious, afterall.

"This was what, to keep him quiet?"

"Yeah," he nods. "He wouldn't take it. Obviously. Said it was blood money."

"But when—wait a minute," I frown, suddenly suspicious. "How did you end up with it? I thought you didn't see him after he moved? Until last year?"

"I honestly didn't," he explains. "Ryan called me after he got the money, and every now and then to tell me how the job was going. We stopped calling eventually, but when I saw him in December, it came up again. I helped him pack, when he got the apartment, just before your ninety days were up. He found it, got really angry, said he never wanted to see it again. I don't really know why I kept it. Maybe I wanted him to remember."

"Remember what?"

"That he didn't sell out."

We're quiet for a few seconds, my mind trying to make sense of what feels like information overload and the fact that Wolf never, ever even mentioned this to me, not even remotely. Finally, I can't take it anymore. "I can't figure this guy out," I declare. I look at Micah and shake my head.

"I know," he agrees. "But I think it was a last ditch effort to keep Ryan from going to the police. Once Ryan was far enough away that he actually felt safe, he told him he was planning to, that he still had a case, and that I would testify. I think his father was actually worried because he used to say he'd never be prosecuted, but Ryan would tell him that even if he didn't get convicted, a high-profile case like that would at least cost him his job if not his medical license. I think it scared him into trying to prevent that."

"It was a payoff."

"Yeah," Micah replies. "Essentially."

"Still doesn't make any sense," I tell him, doing a little legal math in my head. "I mean, what was the point? The statute of limitations would've been up in March that year, when Wolf turned twenty-seven. Months before his father sent him this money."

"Not really…"

"What do you mean?" I shake my head. "Wolf couldn't have done anything even if he wanted to. Too much time went by."

"For child abuse, yeah," he agrees, looking, for a minute, indecipherably nervous. "Not for rape."

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"Are you…fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," I'm pacing again, not an uncommon thing these days, especially when I'm around Micah, since that usually means we've discussed to death something that eventually gets me angry, or confused, or defensive. Something like me and my fragile willpower or, in this case, Wolf and his skeletons. In fact, it was only a couple of days ago that I was in here accusing him of doing more harm than good by keeping Wolf's secret. I still wonder if my bullying is what finally made Micah crack, or if he really decided I needed to know. Either way, I'm suddenly not sure if this revelation is going to help me help Wolf or not. All I know is that it has me feeling sick.

"Bosco…" Micah says, as if he might tell me to calm down, although he doesn't seem too concerned. I'm not angry at him, after all. A dead person aside, I'm not angry at anyone or anything in particular, except maybe circumstance. And I'm not shouting, and I'm not accusing him of anything, and I guess he figures it's an improvement over my typical reactions.

"Are you saying that Wolf could've taken him to court…any time? Even after this?"

Micah shrugs, "You know the law better than me."

I sit back down, laughing bitterly like I often do out of frustration or slight disbelief. I didn't know there was ever a chance for justice that didn't involve a hostage situation, assault, and gunfire, and now that I do, I wish I'd had the opportunity to get Wolf to take it. It might have been slim, but it was a chance, and it could have potentially avoided the trauma that's sent him back to sleepless nights, catatonic dawns, and paranoid days full of OCD and an overactive startle response. But there's nothing to guarantee that, and I guess there's nothing to make me confident that he would have even emotionally survived the agony of a trial, let alone volunteered for it.

"You know," I start, my voice quieter now, more calculated and less frantic. "I was glad Miller killed him. I still am. But I would've done anything to avoid that whole situation. I mean, I didn't care if he died or not. I just didn't want it to happen at Wolf's expense."

Micah nods, seemingly more content with or resigned to the injustices of life than I will ever be. "The system failed," he says simply.

I look back in agreement, though I know it didn't fail Wolf the way it failed me, or Mikey, or Amber. Not once, not even twice. The system's failed Wolf for thirty-two years.

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April 25

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"Anyway, it always ends with me walking into the apartment after shift, telling Wolf about how his father made bail and that he should probably start looking over his shoulder again."

Faith sighs, peering at me sympathetically from across her desk. I'm supposed to be sitting in her office trying to figure out whether or not the two of us working together again is even a remotely civil possibility. Instead, she asked me about Wolf, and I told her he's doing about as well as can be expected for someone who was recently held at gunpoint. In other words, terrible. She then asked how I was handling it all, and that's how I ended up on this tangent about a recurring dream (nightmare) I continue to have in which the whole hostage scenario had played out a lot differently.

"You're not sleeping?"

I sigh heavily at her suspicion. Apparently, my recovery can't be certain because I was just too fucked up for three months of Micah's in-patient psychiatry to fix. And I'm the first one to say that I'm a little shocked that such a relatively short amount of time did the trick, but, so far so good. I can't stand that she seems to doubt the lasting effect of Manhattan Hope on me. I did that enough myself after I got out; I don't need an audience waiting for me to fall on my face or, in my case, into a bottle.

"I'm sleeping fine," I assure her. "It's Wolf who never shuts his eyes."

She stares back quietly as if she doesn't quite believe me.

"Look, are you sure you're okay with this?" I ask finally. As far as I know, she didn't get much say, if any, in the promotion. Miller had gone to her with the news that he was becoming a chief and that the department would find someone to replace him as soon as possible. Surely he didn't expect Lieu to pick the one person from the 7-9 that spent his first quarter of the year in a rehab facility and who continues to start the day with a cocktail of pills just to stay on the straight and narrow. And I'm still not sure who is unluckier in this situation – Miller for having to confront me, me for constantly having to avoid him, or Faith for having to live with one of us and work with the other.

"Absolutely," she says. Her voice is resolute, but she doesn't look up and I'm not sure if I'm entirely convinced.

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Wolf gets home on the night that I've decided to tell him that not only did I get offered a meritorious promotion for the second time in seven years, as a result of my actions in 2004, but that I also accepted it. I slept on it, like Lieu told me to do, although I suppose it was more of a tossing-and-turning-while-stressing-over-it sort of deal. Either way, he'd backed me into a corner. He didn't have to say it in so many words, but I could read between the lines: it was upstairs or three quarters.

I'll take it, I'd told him the next day, not too enthusiastically, end of shift as he'd asked. I hadn't gone to the usual people for their opinions. Not Wolf or Royal or hell, even Sully. Ironically enough, the only people I told, besides Faith who already knew, were Micah and Ma, but mostly after my mind was already made up.

Good decision, Lieu had replied simply. One PP ceremony next week. You report to Miller.

I'd left his office feeling like I was making a huge mistake, although a small, uncharacteristically reasonable part of me knew that it was probably for the best.

"Hey," I call, when Wolf closes the door. I'm still not entirely comfortable with him being back at work so soon, but trying to keep him home would be like trying to pry a whiskey bottle from my hands four months ago."Sit."

"Hey," he says, complying and then adding, "What'd Lieu want again? Saw you talking to him. He's letting you back on the street, right? This is fucking historical, I hate being alone. And whenever I'm with Royal, well, I think he's sick of me. Which is fine, you know, he's used to being solo and now he has to deal with me and I don't think he's really…"

"Wolf..." I interrupt, stopping him somewhat sharply in the middle of one of his breathless sentences that occur every now and then in his mostly level-headed existence, making him intermittently seem much younger than he really is. "Lieu's not letting me back on the street. I mean, not really."

"What?" He looks up, confused. "You mean, you have to ride the desk a little longer? He's just being thorough, Bosco, that's how he is. Did he say how much longer because I…"

"He promoted me." I tell him flatly.

I expect more of a delay, but he doesn't miss a beat, "You took it?" he asks, almost accusing.

"Yeah, I took it, Wolf. He backed me into a corner, said he couldn't sleep at night sending me out into the field for that many hours. It was an ultimatum. I don't want to go upstairs, but I'm not ready to retire and I don't want to push papers for ten years."

Wolf nods, his jaw tense, "So," he starts, unimpressed. "You're a detective."

I sigh, "No. Not officially. Not yet."

"But you're not a uniform either," he says, almost challengingly, getting to his feet. "You're not getting back in that car with me, are you?"

"No," I look up, regretful. "No, Wolf. I'm not."

He laughs bitterly, "Oh, this is so fucking great. You don't want me, but you don't want me solo, and Royal doesn't want me either. You know what? Maybe I'll just go ask Vandt if I can ride with him again. I mean why fucking not?"

"Don't get mad," I mutter. I really don't intend for him to hear me, but he does.

"Don't get mad? I'm supposed to be happy, then? I mean, when the fuck were you even going to tell me? How long have you known?"

"One day, Wolf! One day, I promise."

"But you didn't think about talking to me until after you accepted it," he points out.

"I told you, Lieu had me in a corner, Wolf. And when I took it I was thinking of you. And Amber."

"Oh, okay," he starts, his tone sarcastic. "So this was for us, then. Well, I'll let you know when I figure out what fucking good it does me."

I stand up to face him, finally angry. If I can see the logic in this move, then surely he can too. "Listen to me, you need somebody out there who can back you up! I mean, someone who can really, actually back you up!"

"But, you're better, now," he persists. "You're okay. You can back me up!"

"I might be better but my eyes aren't," I tell him, raising my voice and neglecting to take a breath before I continue. "You need someone who can fucking see, Wolf! And Amber, I don't know how much longer she's gonna be here with us. I thought it would be nice if one of us, once in a fucking while was around when she was actually awake. I mean, have you actually seen her lately? She's a fucking skeleton. I thought if maybe, just maybe, one of us wasn't pulling doubles every fucking night, we might actually be around when she inevitably starts snorting coke to continue pulling all-nighters for this fucking school that we're paying for, and speaking of paying for school, the pay raise that comes with a D1 promo would help keep us from letting NYU suck us into bankruptcy. I didn't fucking take this to screw you, Wolf. I took this because as much I fucking hate it, it makes sense. I took it to protect you. I can't be the one that gets you killed."

Wolf looks at me, almost like he might just concede, agree that I have a point; that as much as it might suck for him at the moment, it is ultimately the right thing to do. If that's the case, I never thought I would be the one on this side of the argument. But instead, he's quiet. He shakes his head and walks into the bedroom. The door shuts violently behind him and I'm not sure, anymore, if it's the news I just gave him or if it's just the fact he can't cope with life after everything that's happened in the past couple weeks.

All I do know is that nothing seems to be getting better, and that door gets slammed a lot these days.

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December 3, 2011

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As Royal approaches from the direction of the entrance, looking strangely unfamiliar to me in my drugged haze and his civilian clothes, Wolf's expression is heartbreaking. The closer Royal gets, the less it appears Wolf can wait to cry; it's like he's been waiting for hours for someone to be there while he falls apart. Clearly it can't be me, since I'm lying across the room on a gurney as the cause of all of his unraveling pain. But Royal has always been kind of like a big brother to him. Even though he's been solo on the job for years and loves his independence, he never fails to join Wolf on those increasingly-often shifts where I don't show up because I'm drunk, sick, hospitalized, institutionalized, or all of the above. Sometimes it confuses me that me and Royal get along as well as we do. It was fairly obvious that I was already beginning to fall apart when we met, and in spite of the two of us having a lot in common, it hardly seems worth all of the trouble I've been to him over the years. He has his minor vices and his marital problems, but he doesn't have a past that's fucked him up beyond repair like me and Wolf. Therefore, when I say he's level-headed, I can do it without saying except or when or usually. He just is. He hasn't seen all of my self-destruction up close, like Wolf has. If he did, he'd no doubt not just give me an ultimatum, but he'd see it through, the defining difference between him and Wolf being that I'd hate him for it, but he wouldn't care. He'd be able to see the greater good in it all, and he'd be readily able to walk away from me if he had to, something Wolf hasn't been able to do over the years and seemingly still can't.

I wonder why Wolf does it to himself, but maybe it's the same reason I spent so many nights parked on a curb in the dead of winter, waiting. Honestly, I'll never know. But I do know it's mutual, because even in his worst moments of split-second rage, up-all-night months, and flashbacks, I couldn't leave either. And there was a time when I believed his threats, that he would leave if I didn't sober up, and I would quite literally beg him not to go as I heaved a half-empty bottle across the room as contradictory promise to stop if he'd please, please, please just stay. But I kept pushing, and pushing, and pushing some more and eventually I realized he was never going to leave. He cared, for whatever fucked up, delusional reason. He wasn't going anywhere, and I took advantage of the fact that I could say whatever I wanted, do whatever I pleased, drink however much I felt like I needed, and he would be there to deal with me tomorrow. I know it's been hard on him, I know it's been impossible. But it isn't until now — right now, as he, in my blurred, medicated vision, shuffles hurriedly toward Royal, looking devastated, shoulders slouched, hands wringing, legs uncooperative — that I really, actually, truly understand the toll that it's taken. It's not until now that I realize that in the process of trying to kill myself, I've actually been killing him.

And I hate myself for not knowing if that's enough to keep me from doing this again.

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