"Hello, Devin."

Looking up from where I'd been sitting on the hanging cot in my cell, I saw the young girl from the restaurant standing directly in front of me, her short black skirt swaying from side to side and arms crossed beneath her breasts. Rage broke through the numbness at the sight of the insolent ghost, "What the fuck do you want?"

"Same as you," she stated calmly.

"I really doubt that," I scoffed, "You were the one giving Mark a way to die in the first place. Why would you care about getting him back?"

She hesitated, "I meant taking your frustrations out on his murderer."

I bore my eyes into hers and grinned, "I already did that."

"Maybe for a moment. But was it really satisfying after what he did to you, though?" she shot back playfully.

"Look, you little cunt," I stood up and stared maliciously down at her, "If there is anyone I want to take my frustrations out on right now, it's you. You're the one that started all this mess. Mark would be alive right now if it weren't for you."

"Would he?" she retorted.

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" I snapped.

"Think about it," she lifted her hands palm up in a thoughtful gesture, "If we hadn't shown up, he would have never had the extra push he needed to get out of that suicidal pit he was living in." She paused to let me consider her words before continuing, "Furthermore, he wouldn't have been in the ward at the same time as you; you would have never met."

"You're wrong," I growled, "Mark is strong. He didn't need your bullshit. He would have gotten better either way. If him being alive and happy meant I never met him, then I would be fine with that. But you," I made sure to relay as much disgust as possible when referring to her, "Had to be selfish and petty. Not only did you get him killed, but you got four more kids killed! Don't you feel any remorse at all?"

Emma hardened her stance and glared, "That bastard deserves to be in eternal agony for what he's done! How the Hell can you be okay with just letting him live carefree in another world knowing he killed the man you loved?"

Yelling, I reached out in an attempt to grab the girl's throat, only to stumble forward and hit my head on the iron bars when she disappeared into the air. I spun around, but she was gone. "GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!" I cursed, kicking the mattress behind me, sending the cheap metal slat clanking against the wall from which it hung.

"Hey! Knock it off in there!" a guard immediately showed at the entrance of the cell.

After regaining myself, I turned toward him. When I was close enough to reach my hand through the bars, however, I instead retreated my hand and yanked my own hair. Desperately trying to control myself, I pulled until wafts broke loose as I bent at the waist and backed into a corner. As my spine thudded against the wall, I let my body slide down so that I was curled up on the floor, face hidden in my knees.

The intervals of screaming then sobbing seemed to last forever. I remember one day, us inmates were given ramen and bologna. Silly though it may have been, it reminded me of that first day living with Mark. Out of nowhere, I started crying. The man next to me was not amused.

"Save it for the jury," he complained, instantly sending me into a fit that ended with him lying in the medical wing while I laid in isolation. If it weren't for my rabid mood swings, I would have probably been out sooner.

As it was, my court date was postponed twice so that the psychiatrist could properly treat my disorder, which allowed several weeks to pass. By the time the day finally came, I was on such high doses of antidepressants and mood stabilizers that the guards basically had to force me out of bed each morning because I was little more than a zombie. Some of them were nicer than others, yet even when they became aggressive, I never raised a hand.

"Mr. James?" a broad man in a blue business suit greeted me in the small room where I had been taken to prepare for court.

I didn't respond or even look at him. Instead my focus remained on the cuffs chaining my wrists to the table between us.

"I have been sent to represent you," he continued, "My name is Eli Helge."

Helge. I recognized that name. Slowly, I lifted my gaze, surprised that it surely was who I thought. I didn't know him personally, but had seen his billboards everywhere, "You working for the state now?"

"Uh, no," he chuckled awkwardly, "I was paid for."

My brow furrowed, "By who? Ames?"

"A man by the name of Hemsworth," Eli corrected, "He says you might not recognize him by that, but to tell you he lived beside your boyfriend for while. Says you punched him down in front of his wife."

"Why the fuck would he pay a lawyer for me?" full confusion set in upon realizing exactly who he was talking about.

"Yes, well, that's something I meant to inform you of today. You see," he took in a deep breath, "There has been a lot of suspicion going around concerning Mark Chressler and this man who supposedly killed him."

I arched a brow, "Supposedly?"

"The kids who were killed in their sleep; their murders were paced very close together. Yet for some reason, after Mr. Chressler dies, there are no more incidents," his statements were plain, matter-of-fact, "Now, that could be a stretch to theorize he had anything to do with them, but it is another side of the story which makes it more complete."

I remained silent, despising where this was going, but curious nonetheless.

"It seems before he died, Mark became keenly interested in one Lloyd McGraff," he paused, "Do you know of him?"

I nodded.

"There have been copycats of his crimes before and these most recent murders mimic the same MO. During this time, directly between the start of Mr. Chressler's obsession and the start of the murders, he is documented to have had a severe mental break. Despite years of sobriety and improvement assured by his psychiatric care providers, Mark almost succeeded in taking his own life in an unprecedented breakdown," the lawyer sighed, "Many citizens, parents of the victims, and even police believe Mark Chressler is responsible for these deaths."

Thank God, Satan, or whatever the fuck manipulates this universe that I was too feebled by medication to futilely defend Mark's honor. Instead of attacking him, I simply wondered, "Then Hemsworth believes I killed my boyfriend and fabricated a story so nobody would think badly of him?"

The man nodded, "Yes."

"And Ames?" I pressed.

"Says she was never in Mr. Chressler's bedroom until she heard the gunshot."

Vision narrowing, I contemplated whether she changed her story to reflect a better chance of fleeing reprimand or if it had been her intention all along to pin the murder on me. Perhaps she was a greater intuitive than even Mark had thought and saw this whole thing playing out from the beginning.

She knew the murders would stop, that having Mark brutally mauled postmortem would be difficult to get around, and she also had the advantage of knowing how cops think and of how citizens react to these matters.

"Sending me here was Mr. Hemsworth's way of saying 'thank you' for placing justice for his daughter over your love affair," Eli added after a short silence, "He wished for me to relay that he realizes how you must have seen the situation with him and his wife and that it further proves your dedication to doing the right thing."

Our conversation then consisted of running through what I'd have to say in front of the judge, as well as what the I'd likely be questioned with from the other side. Even though it should have been expected after what Eli said about everyone's beliefs regarding how I'd destroyed the killer of their children, the packed courtroom surprised me.

With the overwhelming gratitude of the town's parents, there was little fuss about my sentence. Coupled with my own diagnosis and the 'fact' that I was forced to end the life of someone I loved, it was enough for this small town to excuse the brutal desecration of a corpse. Many of the parents rushed to my aid without prompting, telling their stories and arguing how I was merely enacting justice and keeping the rest of the children safe.

At that point in the proceedings, the voice of the people would have brought into question my psychiatric and criminal records to say I wasn't acting out of nobility, but merely out of my own frustration and flawed personality.

They would point out that I had lied about the events which also portrayed selfishness, that the law should bend for non man, and so on. Fortunately for me, I guess, the people had already spoken for themselves and it seemed everyone was on my side, including Ames.

I had spent a total of seven months in jail before I was finally released, early on good behavior. What a laugh. It crossed my mind that my sister might show up to visit after catching wind of the case, but I never saw her.

There was no doubt she had heard of it all; Hell, she might have even been approached during the investigation to comment on my character. In the end, at least Derrick didn't try to step in and cause any trouble for me.

Ames was there when I got out to offer a ride. I had assumed that Mark's apartment would have been reclaimed by the landlord so I declined, telling her that I didn't know where I was going so I would just walk until I had figured it out.

"Don't you want to go back to the apartment?" she asked as she stood with her butt leaned against the hood of the car.

"It's been months. No landlord is going to have spared the place for that long," I replied grumpily as I started to stroll away.

"As long as rent is paid, they don't care," Ames said, drawing my attention again. Once I faced her, she lifted from her spot and strolled to the driver's door, "Get in, I'll give you a ride."

With a deep breath, I obeyed and loaded into the vehicle. I didn't ask, but after a several minutes of quiet, she explained that she had gotten together with a few others and paid rent on the slum. It was already cheap, but since there was no electricity or water being used, she had gotten the owner to decrease it until I got out of jail.

"He did say not to expect any more favors," she grinned, mocking the man's comment, "I don't care who he is, he's still a tenant and that's exactly what I'm going to treat him as."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," my sarcastic remark came out more sullen than funny.

"Since he didn't have a will and there's no contactable family, his possessions fell to the property owner," Ames ignored me, "But I managed to get him to let you keep everything."

"How'd you do that?" I wondered, "These kinds of people like to take anything they can get their hands on and legally to turn for profit or just out of spite," I reminisced, "Everything in that apartment is theirs now, on all accounts."

"Yeah, well, they didn't know he didn't have a will," she shrugged.

I cut my eyes toward her as we pulled into the parking lot, "You forged a will for him?"

"No, I just said I was his legal representation and told them that he meant for everything to fall to you when..." her steady voice trailed off then, refused to finish, probably for not wanting to upset me.

"Thanks."

Outside of the complex, she handed me the keys and asked if I wanted her to go in with me. Of course, I told her 'no.' She didn't push any further and only told me to take care and reminded me that her number was saved in Mark's phone should I want to call her for anything. I didn't respond except to huff out of the vehicle, almost slamming it shut behind me. 

The trek upstairs was miserable. Initially, my chest fluttered in recollection of the excitement of walking it daily, knowing that the time when it would lead to him was soon coming. However, as my brain chastised my heart, I came to terms with the bitter reality that there was nothing to find here except emptiness.

When I finally stood within those walls, I just stared at them. I couldn't find it in me to even sit down. At some point, I grew aware that my feet were sore. Only then did I force them to move, traipsing about the apartment with no set goal.

I had had a lot of struggles and my life had never been consistent. One day,  I'd have a job and home and the next I'd be on the streets; I'd have friends, then they'd all be gone. But during it all, I had never felt so depressed and just utterly pathetic. I was always the chipper guy- the one that kept a positive attitude, truly stayed positive not just acted like I was happy when I wasn't.

Scenes of my time spent with Mark flashed across my vision. Looking at the couch, I remembered watching TV together. Then my eyes found the stain on the carpet from the suicide attempt that brought us together. I had helped him scrub it with bleach until the color was completely gone, making it obvious that some kind of mess had been made, though only we knew what. 

Turning then to the kitchen, I once more appreciated him always having food for me. I ended up making my way to the bedroom, caught momentarily on the spot where I had pummeled my lover's body.

It appeared that someone, whether the landlord or those kind enough to pay the rent, had also hired utility cleaners to erase the gore, leaving nothing but a hideous memory. With wet and cloudy eyes, I tore my sight away and crawled onto the bed.

As I lay there, my hand grazed the sheets where his body had been when we first laid together. Tears gushed down my face as powerfully as the blood which had flooded from his form. What the fuck was wrong with me? How could I be so broken over him? I threw my head into the pillow, screaming until my lungs and throat were too sore to create the sounds any longer.