In the End

Locking Horns and Going for Broke

He has never felt so dizzy. Karen Barclay's words are still ringing in his head, and he is tired. He is tired of walking down the streets, he is tired of hiding from passersby, he is tired of fighting anyone, of fighting everyone. Somewhere inside, he had hoped Tiffany would have stayed for a little while, but after he had emptied himself in front of her, she had left, their children as her excuse. He had wanted to call for her, ask her to stay, but he couldn't find the voice. He couldn't find the strength. He couldn't swallow the pride.

He feels so dizzy. Something is wrong, everything is wrong, and he does not know where to start to fix it. He does not know how to end it all. There is only one accursed word, ringing in his head, over and over and over, until he wants to scream it, let it out somehow. One name, and nothing can distract him from it, not the innocent mailman, or the child who shouts too loud, or an unsuspecting mother.

Each time he attempts to regain his bloodlust, the remembrance of its metallic smell brings a nausea to him, and he cannot follow through. He cannot do anything. He hasn't felt this weak since the night that Eddie Caputo left him, alone in the dark to cower and hide. For some unfathomable reason, he cannot bring himself to feel angry this time. There is only an unbearable, ringing pain.

Over and over and over, he can only hear one word. He can't make it leave. He isn't sure he wants to. He tries to assure himself that he does, but just the thought of it only makes his blood run colder, and everything hurts.

He wonders, for a brief moment, if perhaps this is the ultimate result of using this plastic shell as a host for too long. Perhaps, in turning human, he is undergoing all this pain and disequilibrium, and he is only confusing this natural process with something more. He hopes he is making this more than it needs to be; but then it begs the question as to why he would make it so in the first place.

"Andy," he growls, and beats his fist against the brick wall besides him. It hurts more than it used to, and it hurts more than he'd care to admit. "Andy, Andy, Andy- you cock sucking mother fucker ..."

He keeps hitting the wall besides him, even though he feels the pain, and he knows that he will probably regret it later. He keeps hitting it in hopes that he will make it come out of him, this strange expanding monstrosity inside of him, and that he will be freed at last. He doesn't know if he has ever felt anything this violently before, and it only leaves him angry – an ugly, pulsating type of anger that rises in his throat in the same way bile would. For a moment, he feels as if he could actually kill Andy this time. He hates the way Andy turns everything out of sorts for him, and if could only end it, everything would be back to as it should be again.

He had gotten rid of his knife, and for a moment, he wishes he hadn't. He thinks to go back and look for it, but even now, he wants nothing more than to find Andy Barclay as quickly as he possibly can. He needs to see Andy just as torn apart as he feels, shredded on the ground and demolished. He wants Andy to burn, even if it means he will burn with him – burn until there is nothing left but ashes and smoke, as bitter and blinding as the well of emotions engulfing him now.

He will fight Andy with his bare hands. He will annihilate him.

This is what he thinks as he pursues Andy once again, the cycle turning as it always does. He keeps this idea in his mind, and forces himself to pump it into his heart and let it course through his veins. A steady and sizzling anger and determination.

He goes first, to Andy's apartment, but no one is home. He checks the bedroom, and the bathroom, but no one is there, and his eye catches the razor on the corner of the sink again, and the nausea returns. It only makes his anger burn brighter.