A/N: Okay. So a while ago I tripped, and I like... died or something. I don't know. So what I put Morrison through in this chapter happened to me, and I'm just trying to make sense of it all, I guess. It was fucked up.

Another door opened, and he walked through it.

Melina went to visit her parents on her day off, so John took up the opportunity to trip as much as he could before she came back. His intentions weren't to deceive her, but it just happened to end up like that. He couldn't control it, his soul was crying, scratching at his throat, "Let me out! Let me be free!"

He took two hits of acid and sat in the grass in the backyard.

Tripping alone was never fun, nor was it smart, but John had no one else to do it with. Mickie was god knows where, and Melina wouldn't really be into seeing Mickie board a plane to go to his house.

But it was times that he was alone that he felt the freest.

Nothing had happened yet, so he sat back and waited, felt the wind tickle his skin. He stared up at the sky and the sun winked at him, told him to expect a warm day.

John just wished it would rain. He hated tripping when it was hot.

He sighed and ran his fingers across the grass, watching the blades swing back into place. It was usually starting by now. He'd feel his skin radiating, see his fingers trail in the air.

He searched around for the bag it came in.

He probably got jipped. He'd bought this from Mickie's friend, someone he's never gotten it from before, and it was probably bunk because the guy was an asshole. He knew he'd gotten a bad feeling from him, his aura was a dark color. There was just—

John's head rushed, a train bearing down. He looked around, found the trees smiling. The grass was a green pool, his hands disappeared when he touched it.

He smiled and laid back, disappearing into the dark.

His eyes opened when he heard something snap.

His house was gone. The grass was an electric blue, fog rolling in like silver air. He couldn't breathe, the smoke was getting to him, so he stood, and found himself stumbling into metal.

He looked up.

A train, maybe from the fifties, pulsating red and yellow. There was a man standing by the door, he was pointing, John, the train, John.

"I don't have a ticket, man," John said with a smile.

The man pointed again. And again.

John looked down. He was wearing a jacket, a brown jacket, an old jacket, corduroy worn and faded. There were patches on the elbows. He reached into the pocket and found a one way ticket, no words, just red and white and blue.

The man folded his fingers, once, twice.

John made a step, found his foot stuck to the ground, pulling up sticky mud and grass, like gum. Everything around him was melting.

"I... I can't, man." John tried to move, but the jacket bit his arms, kept them inside the pockets. He jerked slightly. "I'm... I'm stuck."

The door beside the guy opened, shifted loudly, a creak, a thunk. Two steps, three steps, the man with the hat was back, he smiled and came over.

John could feel his breath coming out, then he saw it, crystallized pieces of his soul falling to the ground. They were swallowed up by the sea.

The man took off his hat. "Smell the daisies, son."

John frowned. He felt tears in his eyes, slicing down his cheeks. He saw the blood drip off his nose before he felt it. "What, man?"

"Smell the daisies, three fingers left."

"I don't understand, man."

"Smell the daisies before the sun rises," he said, and turned to go.

"Wait!" John struggled against his clothes. "I don't get it! Come back! Please!"

"You'll see yourself looking back at you—the mirror's been smashed."

John fell to his knees, the hands of the earth gripping them tightly. "Come back, please! I don't want to be alone!"

"Jagged pieces of your soul lay awake in the sand." The man shook his head. Took a step onto the stairs. "Find a way to keep your fingers from disintegrating."

"Don't leave me!" John yelled hoarsely. He hit his head against the grass repeatedly, felt the souls of the past clawing at him. "I can't be alone."

"One step behind, you're already in his shoes. Leave them by the door, you can't get mud on the floor."

"I don't understand!" He was crying now, real tears, tears that reflected the light around him.

The man smiled and dropped his hat. He took another step up and disappeared, millions of pieces, a soul tornado. It swept past John, bit his ear, ruffled his hair.

He felt his body tense, then nothing.


Light. Flutter. Songs.

John opened his eyes slowly, blinking twice. The sun was peaking from its hiding place, giggling and retreating. The sky was blue, blue as the ocean, as God's eyes. He sat up and shook his head, turning over to find his right side numb.

He coughed, spat, felt his hair.

Where was he?

He glanced back, found his house looming, frowning at him.

He looked at the sky again.

Was the sun just coming up?

He groaned and felt his knees, pressed his face to them.

"Never again," he grumbled. He was sweating, mouth dry. "Two hits is too much."

He stood up wobbly, felt his dead-weight leg collapsing. He folded like a sheet in the breeze, back and over and forward, head against the ground. There were nails up and down his whole side, his only proof that he was still alive, that he was still breathing the same air as everyone else.

He staggered and ran a bit, stumbling on his feet. He needed to call Melina, to confess to what he did. He needed to tell her that he was sorry, that he would never do that again. He needed to—

Grass.

His feet flipped over his head, his neck snapping, eyes blinding for a second. He rolled and hit the bushes, thorns against his bare shoulders and arms, face in the dirt.

He groaned and lifted his neck with his hand, heavy with injury. He turned and stared at the ground.

A black derby sat, untouched, clean as day.

John crawled toward it, hand on his mouth, mud smeared on his face. It was real, he touched the felt, ran his thumb along the brim.

He turned to the house, the hat between his fingers, and saw the man standing in his doorway, smiling.

He waved, and John blinked.

Gone.

He pressed a hand to his face. "I'm still tripping. I have to be."

Smell the daisies before the sun rises.

It hit him like a truck, first in the gut, then the head, pounding relentlessly until he fell to his knees. The bushes he'd fallen into before had white petals pushing out between the leaves.

He parted them like a sea, hat pressed between his fingers.

A group of daisies, hidden and frightened, cowered from him.

He bent his head to smell.

But the sun hit the side of his face, blinded him, orange and bright.

Too late.

A/N: The words exchanged were added for the story, but everything else – aside from the smelling the daisies and finding the hat – was real. Except the guy wasn't this one – it was Jim Morrison. I'm still having nightmares about it, especially since I saw that medium. Don't do drugs, kids. Just say no. Review.