He lays in bed. It's alone, and the sheets are cold, the cheap air conditioning humming in the near distance. A steady whirring sound buzzes in his head; the fan, he assumes. He lays above the sheets and the secure covers.

(He doesn't sleep anymore.)

Blue eyes, steely and dull and lost, don't close. He's afraid of his dreams, of the images permeating behind shut lids, the whispers caressing his cheek like phantom wings. He breathes. It's all he can do.

Inhaling - large, desperate breaths, deep; cold, clean air filling his lungs.

Exhaling - a breath of stirring warm air, coming out in a soft whoosh and depleting the strength from his veins.

(What strength?)

Blood pulses, drumming beneath his skin, and it's a comforting feeling. His heart thumps against his ribcage, steadily, ever-so-slowly; it's a secure thought. He's alive. He's breathing, inhaling desperate gulps, exhaling sorrow; his blood is running, his heart is beating. He's alive.

(She's not.)

For a ghost of a moment, his eyes flutter shut; behind the blanket of darkness, it comes, waiting for him. A flash of crimson red hair, swishing adoringly over a pale shoulder; just as an innocent smile begins to overtake a beautiful face, he flies his eyes open again, and he is still there, shivering beneath the artificial lights and the cheap air conditioning.

He's still alive, his heart thrashing against the confines of his chest, vehemently making itself heard in the quiet room.

(Captain Hammer will save us.)

He does not move, does not roll over or sigh or cry. He lays there and remembers. He allows, for a split second, his eyes to drift closed again, fearing the image.

Instead of a blissful smile and idealistic green eyes, he's met with the scene, replaying over and over in his aching mind. Photographs, like flashing lightning on cold, pale skin. Numbness, like crippling tendons, tingling on every nerve of his body.

(Dr. Horrible, why did you kill her?)

He utters her name like a cursed oath beneath his breath, carrying the single word into the atmosphere. It hangs there, thickly, rising into the air until it disappears in the swirling mist.

(Why did you kill her?)

He closes his eyes tightly, forcing away the pictures that flashed, rapid-fire, through his mind. Crimson hair, green eyes, blood, thick blood; photographs, like lightning --

(Why did you kill her?)

He breathes, harshly, swallowing in shallow gasps, willing away the memories, the bruises beneath his unblemished skin, the bitemarks etched into his heart and lungs, crippling, dying lungs --

(Why did I kill her?)