"Jack? Jack, please. Jack, call me back, will you?"

He thumbed the long neck bottle of his fifth beer, and flicked at the lable with lithe fingers. Call back. Thats all she ever wanted. Thats all she needed right then, right now. Call back. All the time, all the time, since it happened. Talk to me, see me, touch me, hold me, please me. Make me feel better, take away the pain, slather me in a lotion of purity and bliss, and make me know that it'll all be okay. Love me. A part of him wanted to do just so, but the rest of him wanted to know who was going to do that for him.

It hurt him as well as her, and yet he shed his tears silently, letting them fall down his cheeks in lines of wet mourning. He was given a chance to make a difference in a life, and it was stolen from him. It was as if someone handed him paint and a sheet of canvas, only to turn it over and show a picture of a bludgeoned woman, screaming for mercy. It ate at him, worse than anyone else could understand. Even though it was her body that purged her of their love, he felt it was his own cancer, a cancer of unknown qualities, chewing at whatever was left of his soul. Again, he wiped at his face with his free hand, and stared at the burning remains until they evaporated from his finger tips. And it hurt. Hurt like coal oil, set inside his veins and lit afire with the last match he had to give him light. And he didn't know why.

It didn't hit him as hard as it did now. The realization that she could never, ever concieve again was hitting fast at home. He had one chance to prove to the world that maybe, even he was able to give back good out of the bad, polish rusted metal until it gleamed. A canvas set afire after a beautiful portrait painted on it's bare side was still burned into memory long after the ashes had cooled. He tilted his beer almost verticle to his lips down, drowning the last few droplets out of the amber bottle down his throat. It burned. It didn't before. Maybe because his throat was raw from his refusal to fully cry.

The phone rang again. And he checked his watch. It had been a half hour?

"I'm sorry Jack. I'm sorry, but.. But you're taking this worse than I am. It was a part of me too."

How long had he been sitting there, exactly? Minutes? No. The line up of dark long necks proved otherwise. It had to have been hours.

He stood there for what seemed like an eternity, watching her, staring down at her pain wracked form. Blood trailed from inside the toilet bowl and outside to her legs, and in between. How long had she been in the bathroom, sobbing, clawing at her face, drawing red welts as she agonized in pain? Laying down on the cool, white tile, her bathroom open, and the body he carresed only that night before streaked with reddening smears, quickly turning brown due to exposure to air, the white tile becoming streaked into what he compared to later as autumn marble. And he watched her there, the rest of the mess becoming a blur as his eyes swept from her form to her hair, her once beautiful, full hair now stringy with sweat and grime. His eyes trailed from tip to her scalp, and noticed the lighter shade there. It was no longer the rich chestnut he loved so much. It was bright, sunshine yellow, just barely a centimeter in length but it was there. In her clutched hands he saw the comb, and amongst the coppery smell of blood the sweet saccrine stench of dye filled his nostrils. Contact lens liquid spilt from the sink onto the floor.

And when she looked up at him with tear stained eyes, he noticed her eyes were no longer the dark, dreamy hazel he gazed so lovingly into hours or so before.

They were grey.

(My-My hair, my eyes.. you told me how much you loved looking into my eyes, loved my hair. It's not real, none of it's real!)

"Help me!" She shrieked, reaching a clawed hand up towards him. She dropped the parting comb, and it tinked against the tiled floor, a small sound that seemed to scream at him. Shaking himself from his stupor he kneeled down and pulled her bloody form from the floor, and held her against his chest. She shuddered for a few minutes, and then cried out again, more in anguish than in agony, before shuddering against him in a deep slumber. As he carefully picked her up, his mind was elsewhere as he pulled back the comforter and laid her limp form in it's depths. Her mouth, her beautiful lips were twisted into an ugly sneer, even in her dreams, but she was still beautiful. Model beautiful, her cheeks sunken in and her clean eyelashes pressed against her cheeks. She wore makeup even as she continued her charade, the eyeliner smudged and the mascara mixing in with her saltine crystals that fell from her eyes even so. He stood back as he watched her, watched as the sunlight through the blinds glinted through and showered her in it's parted rays. One ray fell directly across her eyes, and to her hairline, highlighting the soft blond roots that formed, and caused her eyes to flutter. In the briefest of moments he took notice that they were no longer grey, but a muddy blue, before her lids closed finally once more.

After a few moments, he turned on his heel and went to the bathroom. He knew what he had to do. Long ago, when he was a child in the field, it had to be done before. The bathroom still held the saccrine stench of copper and hair dye liquid, with the masking smell of contact lense fluid dripping to the floor. It formed a small puddle amongst the blood, burgundy swirls around the clear fluid. He knelt by the toilet and looked inside the bowl, and shut down the urge to vomit. Blood clots, urine and fetal liquid twisted around in circular tributaries, and it smelled. Bad. Like rotted meat left on the bone. It was evil and dank, something that should have been left on the battle field for nature to take it's course, but it wasn't. It was in their small, two bedroom apartment, where they hid away from everything and everyone, with their new names, new lives, beggining as a man and his common law wife.

And amidst of it was his child.

Deflty he fingered his pseudo wedding band and twitched, reaching for a plastic cup that for some reason they kept in the bathroom. He dipped it into the simmering liquid that smelled of pure evil, boiling in is mind, and burning painfully into his senses. They would want to test the dead fetus, he knew this. Did they know she was pregnant, and if she would have lost the child, would they want to see how his genes occured any how? There would be hell to pay if it were lost, maybe.

Why was that, of all things, running in his head?

The phone rang again. Another hour? Damn.

"Jack, I need you. I need you here, with me. Stop it, please. Don't shut me out."

Sixth beer now. He popped the top with his thumb, now calloused from the other lids. The cold liquid flowed down his throat, much smoother now. The whole situation, he figured, he could dominate back into the worst moment of his life. Scooping up his unborn child from a porcelien womb was not the way a child should be born. He looked down into the plastic cup at the time and saw undeveloped eyelids bulging, and puckered pink flesh that showed miniscule bones underneath. tiny hands and fingers, barely formed, clutched at nothing, and his mind tricked him into seeing them move ever so slightly. No sex determined, but his heart told him it was a boy. All this, in a body smaller than that of a mouse.

Carefully he rose, and flushed the toilet, watching clear liquid replace the disgusting body fluid, chasing out the ugly with the pure. He would do the bathroom later. Deflty he strode out and walked slowly to their kitchen, opening a cabinet for an empty jar. He never knew she liked empty jars so much, but he should have, with all of them hanging around. Tilting the plastic cup over into the jar was the hardest part. The malformed fetus' leg caught on the edge, and hung there for a split second before falling in with a plop. The sound of the body hitting the liquid was too much for him to bear, as his stomach lurched forward and he pushed himself to the sink, throwing his head over the edge and losing what remained in his stomach into the cold metal basin. He remained there for minutes, reaching groggily upwards to the faucet and turned it on. Some of it splashed onto his hair, but he didn't care. He knew he couldn't go through with it. Slowly turning the faucet off, he pushed himself forcibly upwards from the basin and gripped his forehead, feeling an incoming headache. He couldn't do this anymore.

Walking heavily to the phone, he picked it up and began to dial a number. The other line rang a three times, and then he hung it up, and dialed it again, allowing it to ring once, before repeating the procedure twice more. On the fifth call, he let it ring, until a groggy voice, laced with years worth oc niccotine on the other end greeted him warily.

"Yeah?"

He wondered if he had a voice then. Finally he whispered a greeting back. After a slight pause, the gruffled voice on the other end sounded slightly more nurturing, although by not much.

"Raiden." He murmered quietly. "You gonna talk or can I get back to bed?"

"Raiden?" The name sounded foreign.

The voice on the other line grew impatient and annoyed. "Raiden!" He shouted. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Gone.. Dead. Dead.."

"..Raiden?"

"The baby, Snake. The baby."

The soft click of a lighter, and a harsh exhale of breath. "Hold on. I'm coming over."

Dial tone. More dial tone. Another swig of beer. Another phone ring. Damn.

"Damn it, Jack! It was my baby too! I lost our baby too!"

When he came over, it was silence. The door knock, the opening creak, and the heavy footed man who came in. He yanked the collar of his jacket fiercly around his neck, a glimmering hint of a cigarette dangling from his lips before with a flick he threw it outside the ajar door. Raiden gave him a cold stare, tilting his head slightly before stepping his way towards the kitchen, and retrieving the jar. He looked at it through the side for a few moments, watching the tiny mouse like body swim around in the rancid fluid, before placing a lid ontop of it and screwing it shut tightly. Setting it on the counter, he stared at the remains of the birth and sighed, his mind a blank slate. Visions of running out to play catch were blurred by duty, and thoughts of first steps and first dates, man to man talks about life where burned over by thought sof getting rid of the evidence.

More heavy footsteps. The jar was snatched from his counter and placed inside a heavy jacket. More cigarette smoke. A smoke ring flew by his head, and a pack of Marlboro Unfiltered were thrown down to replace the jar. He turned to see Snake give him a warm stare before turning on his heel and stepped towards the door. He followed suit, snatching up the half empty pack and right before Snake was to leave, he tapped him on the shoulder. The older man gave him a disgruntled look over his shoulder, pausing only to blow smoke in his face in annoyance.

Snake gave him another look, and then a curt nod before heading out the door with out another word. Raiden shut it behind him, and leaned against the frame. He felt exhausted, and trapped. The room was colder now, making what litle hair he had on his arms stand on end. Deflty he turned around and walked back towards the bedroom, and stared down at the sleeping woman. The smell was nearly dissipated now, just a lingering hint of metallic copper wafting through. He didn't notice it, as he looked down at Rose with awe. The blond in her hair seemed more distinctive now, carressing the crown of her skull like a built in halo. The distorted facial expressions she had when he first left her were gone, replaced with dreamy looks. She was an angel, laying there with her false hair splayed amongst the pillows, and the lights playing with the llight coloured tints in her hair. Raiden shook his head. Even angels could get their wings clipped.

She was a flower, Rose. But a flower made of plastic. A plastic flower melted by the light through the blinds, sloughing away the woman he loved into someone he had no idea ever existed.

Another beer. Damn. And another phone ring.

"Jack, please, please don't push me away. Please, not now. If you don't pick up right this instant, I'm never calling back!"

)

He couldn't get the blond streaks out his mind. He needed an escapse. She had slept for almost twenty four hours, and when she awoke, she acted hurt. She pressed her hands to her eyes as he consoled her, stroking back her hair and murmering swet nothings in her ear. It felt as if he was consoling a stranger there, when ever he pressed her hair behind her ear that blond showed.

When she looked up at him, he saw her eyes. A vibrant shade of blue, tear ridden and lined with red. Beautiful eyes, the shape, and the color. The color. He thought they were a rich hazel once before, but they were blue. Like his eyes, except not.

She had changed right before his eyes, and he never notcied it.

A plastic flower caught in the sun, the ice sculpture, so beautiful until it began to melt.

A week later he moved out. Found a small place and left a number, saying he had to reclaim his thoughts. Of course she was confused, and hurt, but he couldn't help it. He had to get away from the plastic flower she pretended to be. A part of him wondered why she started melting in the hot sun. The rest of him didnt care.

So now he was alone. And he wondered, if it had been that way all along. Imaginary friends were common amongst youngsters, their minds overthrowing with imagery. But did adults have imaginary lovers?

Another beer. Too much thinking.

Another phone ring.

Some people just didn't give up.

The tell tale click at the end of the line. He held the phone to his ear for a few moments, listening until dial tone kicked in before he too pressed the reciever into the cradle. He sat there, for almost a full minute, alone with his thoughts and alone with his mind. Alone. Always alone.

Carefully he rose, steadying himself on a nearby table. It was always the same with him. Nothing would ever come to a head, he realized, as he hobbled towards his small bedroom. Quietly he passed by the bathroom, and took notice of the razer sitting atop the small sink. A fleeting thought of blood, his own, spilled on his own black and white checkerboard floor passed his mind before another thought entered in, and engulfed it in a firey flame.

(Live.. you have too)

He shook his head free of the thought, and stumbled the rest of the way into his room. Life was not easy to live. As he entered his bedroom, a sight nearly made him laugh. The day he moved out, someone had sent him a small gift, welcoming him into the apartment fold; A small plastic flower, that moved to sound, had melted down into a puddle of unmistakable substance. He never noticed it until then, the charming yellow petals gone adrift from it's cute orange core. Deflty, he turned on his radio and watched the immobile plastic dance, wiggling it's way through until finally the neglected toy's energy failed it and it died, a sad whirring sound it's only ply for life.

And then silence.

"Here in my shadow
I'm safe, I'm free
I don't know where else to go, but..
I cannot stay where I don't belong."