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Video	By : kattanon Category: S through Z > The Shield Views: 1116 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Shield, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Disclaimer: - I don�t own any of the characters of The Shield, they all belong to Shawn Ryan and FX.
Video � Chapter 5.
He slowly, groggopenopened his eyes. Jesus he felt like shit. His mouth was dry and tasted foul, his tongue feeling thick and as if it had a layer of fur covering it. His head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton wool, and sharp needles jabbed into his eyeballs when he opened his eyes causing him to quickly shut them and turn away from the light. God, he wished he could go back to sleep, but as he tried to reach out and grab onto his slumber he found it tumbled away, and he felt as if the whole world was wildly spinning out of control. Once he noticed the spinning it seemed to get worse, and he thought that maybe if he opened his eyes and fastened his gaze on a fixed point the spinning might abate. So he slowly opened his eyes again, squinting at the room, trying to ignore the jabbing needles in his head. He realised he was in his bedroom, in bed. It was night time but the bedside lamp was switched on, bathing the room in a warm golden glow that was usually restful and soothing but which his sore head was making far to bright and piercing. He looked down at himself and found he was still dressed, at least he had his shirt and trousers on. He slowly came to the conclusion that he felt so bad, not because of some exotic deadly disease, but from a self-inflicted source. Damn it, he was hung over.
Closing his eyes once more he tried to remember when he�d gotten drunk, how he�d gotten home. For a long moment his cotton wool brain refused to give him any answers, but then suddenly everything came slamming into his mind with blinding crystal clarity. He remembered it all. The "talk" in Aceveda�s office, fleeing the Barn, driving home much too fast half blinded by the tears that had refused to stop falling. Then once home his despair, an utterly soul destroying black hole that had seemed to open up and completely swallow him. He remembered how a thousand images and sounds, a thousand sensations and emotions had suddenly been unleashed into his consciousness. It was as if someone had turned a key and opened up his very own personal Pandora�s Box inside his mind. Things that had been half remembered blurs on nights when he�d woken up in a sweat, needing to turn on every light in the house, needing to take a shower and get clean no matter what time it was, suddenly roared into his mind. Memories that had been half-formed, blurred and jumbled were now intact, sharply defined and playing out inside his head like a perverse horror movie. His heart had been slamming against his rib cage, beating so loud and so hard it had hurt. His chest had tightened and he had thought he was going to have a heart attack. A cold sweat had broken out all over his body and he hadn�t been able to control the shaking that had taken him over. It had felt as if there suddenly wasn�t enough air left in the whole world to fill his lungs, and he�d been left gasping for oxygen.
Heembeembered taking his gun out of its holster. All he�d wanted was for it to stop, for everything to stop, it had been too much, complete sensory overload. He�d been standing in the middle of his living room, the metallic taste of his gun bitter on his tongue. The metal had been cold against his lips and hard against his teeth, and he hadn�t been able to do it. A myriad of voices had howled and screamed in his head saying,
"Do it�squeeze the trigger!"
While one lone voice, a dark hate-filled voice, that he knew as well as his own, sneered at him,
"Coward�sniveling coward. You stupid little piece of shit�can�t you do anything right boy!"
He�d pulled the gun from his mouth and snatching up a nearly full bottle of whiskey, "Dutch courage" how appropriate, he�d fled upstairs to his room. Once there he�d crammed himself into a corner and tried to hide from the monster that he knew had been unleashed, that he knew was stalking him just waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. Just waiting to humiliate and hurt him. He could remember uncapping the bottle, and the feel of the whiskey as it had burned its way down his throat. He�d thought that if he drank enough maybe he�d finally be able to get something right.
After that his memories became less coherent, a jumble of fear and sobbing, of despair and loss. Then he remembered voices and faces. Oh Jesus, Claudette and Vic, they�d found him, they�d seen him like that. Worst of all they knew. They knew the foul, stinking, filthy, poisonous stain he had burned into his soul. They knew what he was, how dirty he was, how bad he was. Then he remembered something else. Something that made his heart falter in his chest and the acid sting of vomit rise up into his mouth. He turned his head to the side and, into a bucket that someone had had the foresight to place there, he was violently sick. As he heaved the only memory he had in his head now was the image of himself pointing his loaded gun straight at his partner, straight at Claudette.
After the dry heaving had finally stopped he turned over onto his side, squeezed his eyes tightly shut and curled up, trying to make himself as small as possible. Wishing as he had on so many dark, lonely nights in his childhood that he could curl up so tightlat hat he�d somehow fold into himself and just disappear, just cease to exist.
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