He only had to stay at the hospital for two days before finally being discharged. His friends had tried to talk him into going with them and staying there for awhile, he knew they were worried about him, and his state of mind. When they would talk to him or visit him the day before he was released from the hospital he had been distant and beyond depressive. He hadn't slept much; sometimes he would sleep for a few minutes or an hour if he allowed himself. When he arrived home to find it empty almost like nobody had ever lived there before it was like a dagger going through his heart. He had gone through every room in the house saving Murdoc's room for last. He didn't know why he expected anything other than the nothing that he found; when he arrived at the bassist room it was completely empty. Most of his clothes were gone, his bass, his records, and the black metal box.

After realizing just how alone he really was he had gone to his room and lay down on his bed. Every little sound, every car that passed by, or voice he heard outside of his window he would jump in response expecting his boyfriend to come home….He spent days expecting; he spent a whole week expecting him to come back. He would wait; he rarely ever left his house, because he refused to believe Murdoc was actually gone. He had tried calling him quite a few times, sometimes sending text messages; the messages never said much just asking where in hell he was and if everything was okay. He didn't think he could actually fit all of the pain and the slowly but surely growing hatred he was feeling towards Murdoc into a message. He loved him; he would always love him until the world ended, but at the same time he couldn't help the bitter feeling taking him over.

His friends worried for him, worried that he would attempt to take his own life, or that he would begin doing drugs like Murdoc had. They checked on him frequently, once or twice he had snapped at them, insulted them, and made them feel so bad they would just turn around and leave him be. He felt bad for the things he would say to them, but he wanted to be left alone, if they knew anything about him then they would know that he would never take his own life or do drugs. Murdoc had worked too hard to bring him back to life, why would he ruin what he worked so hard for?

That was probably one of the things that hurt the most for him; the Satanist had suffered five months, he promised his soul to a demon all so he could bring 2D back. All so he could hold him, tell him how much he loved him, and how much he needed him…All of that just so that in five years he could go to Hell, then not long after coming back from Hell he would leave again. Not because of demons this time, but because he didn't want to be around 2D anymore. He didn't trust himself or maybe he just said that to say it, some days he wanted to believe the nice things Murdoc would say. He wanted to believe him every time that he said he was sorry, when he had promised to not leave, and when he would tell the singer every thing he would do just for him….all for him.

Most times especially lately he didn't believe those things anymore, it didn't make him love Murdoc less, but it killed his trust…Why trust somebody who could bash your head against a floor until your skull nearly cracked open and then they couldn't even take you to the hospital? They had to call their friends, he had to leave a message with their guitarist that he just couldn't do this anymore….Do what, pretend that he was getting better, pretend that he actually loved 2D?

Every thought he had caused his head to ache, days like today he just let it hurt. It would get to the point that the pain was severe and burning; he touched the stitches on the back of his head, in another week they would be coming out. He glanced down at his broken arm and more tears fell from his tired eyes, he looked at the front door then at the half empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table before him. He picked the bottle up and threw it across the room; it hit the wall breaking on impact. He watched as the glass fell to the floor almost like razor sharp rain drops.

He wondered where Murdoc was right now, some part of him feared he wasn't even alive. He didn't know why he thought that way or exactly how he meant it when he thought about it. He wasn't sure if maybe he was murdered, over dosed on drugs, or took his own life…Some part of him did wonder if he was dead, sometimes he would think so deeply into that, that he couldn't even cry. That scared him a lot that he couldn't cry over the idea of the love of his life being dead. It was funny how when he first met Murdoc he kind of hated him; he hated his attitude towards women, how he treated 2D, and every other living thing in the world. When the band formed he hated him less, but it was still there. When he fell in love with him he had enough hate for the both of them, mostly for himself for loving somebody who didn't even view him as a human being. It was strange for him to think that the man he was with for five years was the same one who used to beat him, break his bones, and strangle him. The same man who hit him with his car, twice, and the same one who took away every woman he ever loved. Maybe nothing had really changed at all; maybe he just acted nicely and thought he was in love for those five years because 2D's death shook him up so badly. He could have just been in shock and couldn't tell the difference between his guilt and the actual feeling of love.

He could have finally figured it out, but didn't want to admit it to himself or 2D. He could be angry with him for the cruel things he had said, but they both had said things. He wished he had clung onto the good moments more tightly, burned them more deeply into his brain so maybe they could over power the bad ones.

God he was so tired of being alone; he missed the sound of Black Sabbath records playing in the back of the house, the knowledge that Murdoc was there. He didn't even care what he was doing or what mood he was in he just needed him there. If he came back 2D knew he would work harder, he would be less self centered, and he would try his hardest to get the Satanist the help that he needed. He wouldn't just give up on him and worry about his own damn problems; he felt so fucking guilty. He hated himself, he hated Murdoc, he hated his friends, and the drugs that ruined their lives.

He buried his face in his hands his body shuddered as another sharp pain shot through him. Everything hurt; breathing, blinking, and touching his face. He knew he should take some of his pills, take the whole damn bottle even….He didn't want to though, he needed this pain to keep him rooted to reality. Too many times he had woken up whispering the Satanist name, expecting to feel those long fingers to go through his hair, and to feel the older man's bod pressed against him. Every single time he had woken up alone, cold, and bitter feeling.

Just a week without Murdoc in his life and he was losing his mind. Soon enough this week would turn into two, the weeks would turn into months, and eventually years….Maybe in time he would forget, he would care less, it would hurt less, and maybe some day he wouldn't love him at all.