AN: I don't own The Sixth Sense, What Dreams May Come, Medium, House, or anything else that would make me any money. More to come soon.

"There are places I'll remember, all my life, though some have changed.

Some forever not for better.

Some have gone and some remain.

All these places have their moments, with lovers and friends.

I still can recall, some are dead and some are living.
In my life I've loved them all
But of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compares with you,
and these memories lose their meaning; when i think of love as something new," John Lennon and Paul McCartney

I got home right around the time that Kutner's funeral was probably heating up—ha!—got out a bottle of bourbon, placed it next to my pills on the coffee table, laid down on the sofa, and turned on the TV. It wasn't that I hadn't been invited to the damn thing; I just don't see the point in them. Even if I'm wrong about everything, funerals aren't for the dead person. It's not like the corpse is gonna sit up and say, 'gee thanks I'm so glad you all think so highly me,' or hear what we say, or see what we do, or, well…anything. They're all about the idiot family members and stupid friends who are still here. In this case, it's for a bunch people who feel bad because they screwed up; so they all hang out together and laugh about the good ol' days and tell each other they couldn't have known what was going to happen, they couldn't of done anything. I figured I'd just annoy everyone, get yelled at, and come home feeling worse than when I left.

Three drinks, four pills, and two half hour cartoons—I wasn't actually paying attention, but it let me focus on the simple sounds and images instead of anything bigger—later he showed up. He stepped inside, and started telling me that what happened wasn't my fault. There's nothing you could have done. Don't blame yourself, blah, blah, blah.

"Shut up," I ordered. He didn't. I turned up the volume on the television, and tried to ignore him. The moron sat down, by my face, and placed his hand on my head, touching my hair, and told me he was sorry about not coming by sooner, not being here for me, all that crap. "Oh knock it off, I am completely wasted, and you're not comforting me. If anything you're making it worse."

"Would it help if I told you I'd been planning this for years," Lawrence asked, smiling at me sort of gently. I rolled my eyes tiredly, fully convinced that I was either hallucinating from the pills, booze and lack of sleep, or passed out and dreaming. "I didn't say anything because I knew you'd feel a million times worse if I begged for your help, and you couldn't make me better, and I did this anyway."

"Oh shut up, you're not him! You're a piece of my drug-addled brain trying to make itself feel better, a hallucination—or something equally stupid and pathetic. Dead people don't come back to say 'I love you' or 'goodbye' or to tell everyone they didn't screw up."

"But I'm not talking to everyone," the hallucination/ dream explained. "And do you really think that your mind would try and comfort itself? You hate yourself. You wanna hurt, which is why I have to do this." I sighed, exhausted. "Is there anything I can tell you to make you believe me?" His eyes did that adorable, puppy-dog thing.

"Except that I already know everything he knew. And even if there is something he knew that I didn't there's no way to prove that I'm not making it up in my dream-state," I snapped, closing my eyes in the hopes that this hallucination would end as soon as I acknowledged it as one. Like last time.

"I got you a birthday present," he started to tell me, stupidly, and I jumped on that one, mainly because it was such a preposterous idea. "I know…your birthday is in September. I got it in July, but chickened out, and left it in the place I was hiding it. Your gift is still there."

"So give it to me," I ordered, eyes squeezed shut. I was half hoping to fall asleep again, half because I'd tried before, a couple of times. Every time I closed my eyes for more than a second, I saw Lawrence: smiling at me, his hands on my shoulders, mine on his hips, bodies pressed together, happily, or asleep, smiling like a little kitten, or in the shower, or on the couch, our bodies close together, play station controllers his and my hands, an open pizza box on the table, or any one of a million other poses.

"Sorry, I can't. I can show you where it is, but—can't…I'm sorry, again. I can't pick up, move, or carry things. I'm not Bruce Willis, and I didn't get you a bumble bee pendent. Come on, it's not far." He grabbed my hands, and tried to pull me up, but even if he'd had the leverage of his full body weight, it wouldn't have worked. In this case it was just pathetic, watching him try so hard and not get anywhere. "It's in the freezer." Yeah, right, I thought. Like I could go for seven months and not notice a "present" in the freezer. "It's hidden in a box of Vegan sausage patties."

"Good thing I didn't throw all his crappy food out yet," I murmured, standing up, not to actually go and look for whatever, but because I was hungry. "How long is this hallucination going to last?" I wondered out loud, pretty sure that I wouldn't get a straight answer even if I wasn't—not that I believed this was real—sleeping. I pulled the freezer door open, and started to dig through the thirty or forty frozen breakfast, dinner, and ice cream containers.

"It's way in the back. There, take those out, put them on the counter. Now go behind the blueberry waffles, and under…there. I told you so," he said, as if the existence of the box proved anything.

"He occasionally ate chicken, but liked all this tofu crap. Think he was a vegetarian," I lied. I knew he had been. "There are probably a dozen veggie thingies in the fridge and freezer. This doesn't mean anything." He sighed, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Shouldn't that feel all eerie and cold and go right through me?"

"How should I know, I've only been dead for two days. I'm not an expert in this stuff," he offered, simply, like a five-year-old. "Open the box. It's nothing to be afraid of. I promise it's not bad." I rolled my eyes again, but pulled the container open. Inside was another box, slightly smaller, and thinner, wrapped in red, and yellow and purple paper that said happy birthday all over it, with bow tied around the wrapping, and an envelope taped to one side? "You don't have to open that now, if you're not ready."

"Oh go to Hell," I snapped, and then stared, stupidly. "Um, I didn't just—I sort of…I didn't. Sort of. That was, what—did I say, I didn't mean…I'm sorry," I finally managed to come up with. He hugged me.

"It's okay; I'm glad you said that. It's good. It means you're doing better. Only, now you feel bad about it. Don't be mad at yourself," he instructed. "Don't hurt yourself. I can't tell you not be sad, that would be stupid of me, because you were sad before we ever met."

"I have a very good reason for that," I shouted.

"I know," he whispered, gently, wrapping his arms around me, and refusing to let go. "I know everything now. I wanted to be with you, I still want to be with you. I don't think you hate me, in fact—I understand exactly how you feel, so don't feel guilty about that. This has almost nothing to do with you." I smirked. "I was going to kill myself long before I met you, and none of this—I…you helped me hang on longer. Never would of made it this long without you. I'm sorry, Greg. I didn't want to hurt you."

"Stop it! This isn't real! This isn't happening. Just go away and leave me alone," I screamed, throwing the 'present' into the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. "Get offa-me!" I pushed him away, and dropped to the floor, knees pulled as close to my chest as possible, fingers in my ears, shouting, "not real" over and over. I don't know how long I sat there. After a while my throat started to get sore, and my leg was hurting. The fake hand pressed down on my shoulder, softly. "Why is this still happening? I don't wanna have this stupid fucking dream anymore! I don't want it! I don't want it," I sobbed.

"I can't go," he whispered, sitting down next to, and wrapping his arms around me. "I have to stay here with you."

"Have to," I muttered, looking at something in the corner of the room, closing my eyes again, and counting to fifty my head. I would have counted further but he wasn't leaving and I wasn't calming down. "Why?"

"Because I messed up. I hurt you, upset you and you're not ready to be alone."

"I've been alone for forty years," I spat back, pushing him away again angrily, but not violently. Only this time he didn't let go, wouldn't let go. "Nothing has changed. Nothing."

"In two months, Wilson's going to be over here, laughing and watching a movie with you, and he'll look over, and for no reason, smile, and decide to stay the rest of the night on the couch. Only, he's not going to sleep on the sofa. He'll realize he's in love with you. He's gonna make you happy. He'll know what to do when you have nightmares about what you're—for lack of another word—dad did. He'll know how to make it hurt less," Kutner explained, pressing his hand against my chest, "in here." I snorted. "I'm not supposed to tell you about that. I'm also not supposed to tell you that your fake dad is in a cold, dark, scary place, with ten holes in each of his legs, or that monsters come out of the darkness and do to him what he did to you when you were a baby all day and all night, only it's never day there. It's only pitch black night."

"But I don't believe in any of this. How am I supposed to trust any of what 'you' are supposedly telling me, if I don't," I cut myself off. "He's dead. Dead people can't talk. They're gone. They don't come back or go anywhere else. This is it, and he's not here anymore. How am I supposed to believe that you're the real you if the real 'you' is dead?" The hallucination of Kutner made the puppy dog face again, and shrugged, helplessly. "Tell me something else, something—you couldn't of known about me, or my life. Since you know "everything" now it shouldn't be all that difficult, now should it? So just, tell me something. Anything."

"You have a scar behind your left ear. It's covered now, but you can still see it, in the mirror, by pushing your hair out of the way. It's from a cigarette burn. You got it when you were 8, and on a camping trip…with, the—I didn't know it was there before. I know what you're thinking, that I could have discovered that one day, by watching you while you were asleep, but I didn't. Okay, how's this? You tell everyone—including yourself—that you don't believe in the afterlife, but the truth is, you're terrified of eternity. You think that you've been a terrible person, and you're gonna end up some place worse than this."

"That's just bad, cheep, pop psychology. Even my brain could think of that crap, although—granted, it's the sort of thing Wilson would usually say to me. You still haven't proved anything." This time he sighed, which made me think it was all in my mind even more. I was still cycling between feeling angry at Kutner, and the world, and the situation, and terrified of the idea of a dead person in my apartment, trying to comfort me, or that I'd believe that he really was a ghost, when he wasn't, lose what was left of my sanity. I felt like I was on that carnival ride where you go inside the little spaceship, and it turns around and around and around so fast that you get pinned up against the walls. You can fight, and you can fight, and maybe you turn yourself around a little, so you're upside down or sideways, but you can't move, you can't get away. Only now, the world was spinning, endless. I was trying with all my might, but I couldn't get of the ride, or make it stop, or even slow down a little.

"That present, the one you're throwing away, um…you remember when we went to the carnival thingy, and we took those pictures in the photo booth? You told me to get rid of them, but I didn't. I had a friend decorate them, and put it in a nice frame. If you wanna go back to my apartment I can show you were I've got some really cool stuff hidden. You can take, well technically anything, but you'll probably get caught with the more expensive stuff."

"I don't want your crappy Star Wars props," I teased, part of me desperate to believe that this was real, and hoping that if it was, he wouldn't disappear. "Or your stupid little baby toys."

"You have toys too—and don't make that into a sex joke; you can do better—a lot of them. So what's the difference between yours and mine? What makes your videogames, and balls, and magic tricks any different from my action figures, blasters, and light sabers," he asked, reaching for my stomach as if he were about to tickle me, but then he stopped himself, and took a step back.

"Umm…maybe that I'm 12, and you were 6 which means that while I'm pathetic and emotionally stunted, I'm still twice your age. And I'm still pretty sure that I'm just sitting here, talking to myself."

"Well at least you'll get good drugs when they lock you up on the psych ward," Kutner offered, and smiled. I let myself do the same. "You wanna go back to the den?" I shrugged. "I don't think your leg will do so well if you spend the night sitting on the kitchen floor."

"So? I'll take a couple extra Vicodin, and be fine…er, well. I'll be back to my regular, old, miserable self," I explained, but started to stand up, and follow him anyway. "Why do you care so much? You got to take the easy way out, why can't I take a few too many pills and pass out for 18 hours?"

"Because if you accidentally OD and die, they're gonna take away my wings," he explained, blushing. This got my attention. He must have known it would, which was his only reason for saying it.

"You have wings? Can I see them? Can I, look—I mean, if you're trying to prove to me that there is a afterlife, then showing me angel wings will absolutely get me to believe in God and Heaven and Jesus, or Allah, or whatever."

"I don't actually have wings, per say. It's an expression. I'm sorry. I didn't realize you'd take me so seriously, which is kind of stupid of me, but I'm kind of stupid anyway. It's just. Apparently the people who are in charge or whatever think you're high risk for…and—okay, so everyone is supposed to be around for a specific amount of time. Some people get cancer when they're 2 and die when they're 4-years-old and it sucks but that's what's supposed to happen. Apparently I was close, so I got off easy, but if you—you know, now, you'll spend what feels like an eternity, in a cold, dark place, where you're the size of a four-year-old, and there won't be actually monsters, but you're still gonna think there are." I couldn't believe my ears, again. "I have to stay here until you're."

"And what if I'm never okay," I asked, already knowing the answer. Lawrence made more puppy dog eyes. "You're comforting me, by telling me that I was wrong, about everything?" I had more questions but held back, for now. I told myself. I needed answers, about what he'd done, about the Universe, afterlife—or lack there of—my life, God—I still didn't think there was one—and everything else. Kutner stood next to me, put his arm around my shoulder and helped me back to the den, where we collapsed on the sofa together. He tried to hold me there, but I wasn't exactly cooperative. I fought, pushed away from him, but the idiot wouldn't let go. Finally we settled on laying together, his arms around my shoulders and arms, his body between me and the back of the sofa. "Tell me, or I'll figure out a way to kick you in the balls."

"No, you weren't wrong. Not really. Most religious people think that their book tells the absolute truth about absolutely everything, but you and I both know that it's not possible. You don't think there's any god, and that every bible, Koran—okay I'm gonna stop using examples and get to the point. There is an afterlife, but the place where people like us go, is not religious. It's not all puffy clouds and harp music. There is a place for people who think that Heaven is only for the perfect, god-fearing Christians, or whatever. Each of them has their own, nice little park, with soft, comfortable benches, and the place is completely private. Only people like them are allowed there. But most of us, except for the truly evil monsters—child molesters, murderers, people who defraud charities—go to this huge place. It's a lot like Earth, except that it doesn't hurt. No one hurts. And you can do pretty much whatever you want. If you want a condo on the beach, you can build one, and dive into the water from your bedroom window, and swim for days, never getting tired. If you always wanted to paint, you can paint. If you wanna teach, or study something, they have books, if you wanna—apparently new arrivals go through a period of being physically and mentally exhausted, and they need 'doctors' and 'nurses' to take care of them. There's more but I don't think you'd really listen, and even if you would, you're not ready to hear about all of it, okay?" I shrugged, rubbing my face against his, sniffing him.

"You don't smell like you, and shouldn't—you shot yourself in the head, but there's no sign of that. If you're really the ghost of my dead boyfriend/ employee, then why don't you look like a dead person," I asked, still trying to figure out what was going on, why my mind was torturing me like this.

'Because looking at me and seeing that would freak you out, majorly. I can make it go back to the way it was. Another thing about…you can make yourself appear however you want. Could be white, or black, or I could look like Han Solo, or Luke or Anakin Skywalker. I could be a chick, a dude, a kid, a teen, an adult, an old person. I can look like me, you, Cuddy, Wilson. I can change my voice, and even the size of certain parts of my body…you know like my nose." He smirked. "Do you want to see it, or can I just keep looking like I want?"

"Maybe staring at the giant gaping hole in your head, with blood and brains spilling out isn't the healthiest thing for me to be doing right now," I admitted, pathetic, weak, and small. "How long do you hafta keep on bothering me for?" I started to think about all the things he had said, letting them really sink in, and suddenly I realized something. "Wait, I've got another question, and it's essential that you answer this one first. If the day I'm gonna die, and that Wilson's gonna die, and when Amber and my fake dad and every one on the planet is going to die is already set, then what's the deal with free will? If I'm supposed to go from heart disease can I smoke four packs a day? Would that change anything? If I got lung cancer and died from that would I have to go to the—place?"

"I'm the last person you should be asking about this. I got exactly enough time to recover from the transition, a quick briefing on what I needed to know/ understand before I did this, was told what my options were, and then they sent me right here." Lawrence stuffed his hands into the pockets of the jeans he was wearing, and blushed again. I wanted to ask a million other questions, but knew he didn't know anything else. "I wish I could tell you more. I'm not even supposed to let you know about this stuff."

"Obviously they don't care if you tell me, because if they did they would of sent someone who could control me in even the slightest way, and who wouldn't do anything to please me. Or they would have threatened you with something you're more scared of than me." He acted like he hadn't thought of this before, but I had a feeling it was for my benefit. And yet, I got the, oh my god you're such a genius; I can't believe it, but you're right, response. "Can I just watch TV, take a couple extra Vicodin and stare into space for a while?" Kutner nodded, touching my hair softly, gently, the way he used to sometimes.

I popped the lid off the prescription bottle, and poured six pills into my hand, mostly to see what he'd do. When he acted like this was normal, I checked the clock and saw that nearly 5 hours had passed since my last pill. I put three back, took the first two, without thinking. Then, I held the last one in between my thumb and finger, turning it over, staring at it for what felt like an eternity before making up my mind, and putting it back in the bottle. "I don't suppose you can drink some of this, huh," I asked, offering him the booze.

"No, but even if I could, I wouldn't. Learned my lesson that one last time," he explained, and I remembered, with a small smile—minuet really, almost non-existent—how I had offered him a swig of the stuff. He had taken it off course, and nearly coughed up a lung afterwards. 'I think I just drank fire,' he'd whispered.

Some more time passed. The pills and the drink I'd taken kicked in, fully. I relaxed a little, and lay there quietly, my head pressed right up against his chest, as I listened, part of me fully expecting a heartbeat, or the sound of him breathing, but it wasn't there. I felt nothing, heard nothing.

"Why are you…you're not usually like this. Act like yourself. I want you to be—if I have to have a nervous breakdown and I'm seeing dead people, then they should at least act like normally. Stop being so gentle and paternal. You think you're comforting me but you're not." He stared at me, with the puppy dog eyes. "And stop doing that. It's annoying, not adorable."

"So you want me to make stupid jokes, point out the obvious, and try and make Harry Potter, or the Justice League analogies, even when they don't work? You hate it when I do that. Of course if I do, you'll know it's me because you don't know nothin' about Harry Potter. It's gotta be way more annoying than being nice—oh shit. I just figured it out," he admitted, blushing again. If I wasn't so exhausted, I'd think it was cute. "'Sorry, I won't be nice ever again." I actually laughed. "See, stupider already."

"Yeah well, I'm dealing with a guy who set one patient on fire with a defibrillator I don't set my expectations all that high," I told him, and watched the sort of sad look take over his face. "Damnit! I screwed up, again." Kutner instantly started smiling again, his face all soft and bright. "What the he—what are you doing?"

"You didn't make me kill myself, Greg. Yeah, I'm calling you by your first name. Deal with it. I'm pretty sure I don't work for you anymore anyway. So, no more Dr. House this or Dr. House that, oh and—and I had to do something, or the chick was gonna die! You even said I made the right decision," he tried to defend, back to the astronaut with the fake tits.

"No, I told Cutthroat—I mean, I told Amber that it would be stupid to punish you because you saved the patient's life, even though you did set her on fire, since she hadn't done anything to stop you, which was meant that she didn't have a problem with what you did, she just wanted to get rid of you."

"You didn't fire me or her, even when Cole won the challenge," he tried again. I smiled, shaking my head. Will this kid ever learn? "What, you got a smart ass answer for that too?"

"You should know me well enough by know to know that I have a smart ass answer for absolutely everything. And I got rid of Big Love because he teamed up with Cuddy to screw with me. He cheated, and would of kept on tattling to Cuddy every time I did something I shouldn't of. That's why I fired the moron," I explained, but honestly I probably would of gone with the guy's recommendations if he had picked anyone else.

"How long did it take you to figure out that I liked you…you know, that way?" he asked, and I lifted my head to look at him again. There was something strange about his skin—or body, maybe, I couldn't tell for sure—but I couldn't figure out exactly what. It was almost glowing. In a way.

"Do you really care about that?" I really, really, didn't feel like talking about this, but knew he was gonna let it go. Lawrence even made the puppy dog face, again. "When you came back with your number on upside down. Everyone else I fired accepted defeat, left. And don't try and bullshit me, and say you just really, really, really wanted the job. All 40 of you really, really, really wanted the job, but nobody else I fired was stupid enough to come back and try to trick me."

"I wasn't trying to trick you," he explained, as he started to rub my back. "I thought you'd appreciate my cunning and sneaky—ness." I was about to say, that's not even a word, but he smiled, and blushed, once more. "Okay, I was sort of hoping it would make you, like me, or notice my existence."

"You are—were—kind of hard to miss, especially considering how many times you almost destroyed the hospital," I quipped, reaching up and tussling his hair. "This is so weird. Everything feels real…at least everything I've touched so far. You're not cold, and there's no blood or anything."

"You broke two MRI machines in less than a year! And gave a gun back to the guy who had taken you and the rest of the clinic hostage. You were going to let Chase to surgery in a patient's home, and—I'm not the only one who blew something up."

"First off, I only broke one of those MRIs, Cameron was the one who forced the fat guy into the other one and smashed it to bits, and it's true, Thirteen did leave the so-called musician alone in the bathroom with an oxygen tank, and the thing did explode when he tried to smoke a cigarette, but everyone else who blew up or destroyed something learned their lesson; it never happened again." Even more puppy dog eyes. "Stop doing that too; it's only half as adorable as you think it is. And how did we even get to this conversation?"

"I asked how long it took you to figure out that I liked you. And if you knew so soon, how come you didn't put the moves on me until the night you made the final decision about who was and wasn't hired."

"Mostly because I was positive you weren't gonna make the cut, and the last thing I needed was to get sued by some kid I fucked and fired. Plus, I didn't put the moves on you; you followed me to my apartment, and pretty much let yourself in. I should of called the police and said you were a stalker."

"Kinda hard to convince the police you don't want someone around when you've got them bent over the sofa with your pants around your ankles," he smirked, smiling proudly. "I'm sorry—not for what I just said but for…you know."

"Oh good, I was hoping we'd get to this point, prove that it's all just in my head. He wouldn't have said that. If you wanted to tell us how sorry you were you, would of left a note," I explained.

"You wouldn't have found any more answers if I had. You wanna know why I did it? Why I didn't come to you? What happens next? Why I keep telling you things I'm not supposed to? Why whoever's in charge would tell me something, things they know I'm gonna tell you, and then order me not to say anything about it? Or maybe you wanna know what it felt like, how I feel now, what God looks like, or you wanna know about yourself. You couldn't control what happened to you when you were little; Heck, you can barely control it now. So, you go around and you dig up every big of information that you can, learn everything about everything, because if you can understand something, then maybe you can control it too, maybe it won't be so scary, because you won't be in the dark anymore, and then it won't hurt. You won't hurt, which is all you're really looking for. And the only question you really wanna ask is: why?" I wasn't completely sure which why he meant, but didn't really give a shit.

"Okay now I know that this is all in my mind, because even if he knew everything about everything that ever existed in the whole universe; he didn't talk like that. I do; Wilson will occasionally make a summation like that when he really wants to make a point, but there's no way—" Whoever was laying beside me lowered his head, pressed his lips against mine, and kissed me, rough, passionate. "I have an active imagination, a kiss, easy to remember, easy to convince myself it happened."

"Well I could give you a blow job, but I don't know if it'll actually help," he offered, hands out, innocently, shoulders shrugged, chin down. "I thought you'd take me more seriously if I could get into your head, use your logic, and I thought you already decided to believe that I'm really here. You can always tell yourself it was a hallucination or a dream later, when it's over."

"When is it gonna be over," I asked, half—maybe a little less than half—hoping he'd say never. As obnoxious it would be to have Kutner following me around for the rest of my life, making idiotic jokes, and second guessing me, he was right. He did get me, sort of. And we had spent nearly two years sleeping next to each other, screwing each other, laughing together, playing games, talking about everything, watching stupid movies. If it hadn't been for him, I don't know how I would of handled the whole Wilson hating/ not being able to be around me for four months thing, and I don't just mean because he prescribed my pills. He listened to me rant, and complain, and bitch, and moan, and (once, and mind you I thought my head was going to explode from the pain) cry. He kept me occupied, kept me from calling Jimmy and screaming at or calling him names.

"A week, or two, maybe—a little bit longer, I don't really know for sure," he explained, sadly. "Sorry, I'd tell you if I did. I'm supposed to keep a real close eye on you, make sure you don't hurt yourself too."

"Don't be stupid," I muttered. "I'm not gonna off myself." I lay still, quiet, and even a little scared. "Did it hurt," I finally worked up the nerve to ask what I'd wanted to know for ages, reaching up and touching the side of his face with my hand, brushing his hair back, running my fingers over the spot where the bullet hole should have been.

"I thought you got already got shot once before, technically twice, but it happened at the same time so it counts as one time," he explained, kissing the top of my head.

"I know what happened to me, but I don't really fully remember that day, especially the part about…I remember the guy walking in. I remember him saying he was a patient. I remember him pulling out the gun. I remember—actually that's pretty much it, then I went into the hallucination, and then I regained consciousness in the ER, and well, you know the rest of that story." Kutner sighed, and touched my hair a little. "Besides, I didn't—two through-and-throughs, no major organ damage, small amount of blood loss. I was fine, pretty much…"

"I should probably tell you it was the worst pain I ever experienced, that it hurt like crazy, to keep you from ever, ever doing it yourself, but like you said, you'll know it's a lie. It was fast, and I was terrified, which got my adrenalin going—so, even if it had been more than a fraction of a second long—I still wouldn't of felt anything."

"You know, when someone does that, their body goes through a whole series of disgusting…I mean, uh—the bowels basically empty. Sometimes, granted it happens more in hanging deaths than gunshots, there's also—" He cut me off mid-sentence.

"Yeah, I knew a thing or two about people getting shot. Go figure. I took a laxative the night before and…um—I didn't take Golytely, but uh, still spent most of the night getting emptied out," he explained, blushing a little. "Which is the main reason I didn't call you or come over that day." Now I know it's you, because you're the only one stupid or weird enough to say THAT, I thought, and I'm sure Kutner sensed it, because he sort of smiled, and patted me on the shoulder.