Nothing.

I turn off all the lights and sit alone in my apartment. I think back on my life and it occurs to me that some of my mistakes, and my regrets, are beginning to catch up with me. I start to blame Cassey for causing me this pain, but she was just the drop that caused the dam to overflow.

I have been kidding myself. I told myself that I was over her, that I had finally stopped loving her--and blaming her. Huh, listen to me; I can?t even say her name.

Rebecca.

Rebecca--the one person who I ever completely trusted. Rebecca?the first and only woman whom I ever loved.

Looking back, I can hear her trying to tell me that she was fond of me, but that she didn?t love me. I heard her words but I didn?t listen to what she was saying. The only thing I heard when I was with her was my own heart beating. I was as much in love with how I was feeling, as I was in love with her.

I start to pour myself a drink, but stop. The last thing I need to be doing now is crying in my beer.

I go and look out the window. I see the corner shop where I couldn?t stop a crack head from killing the owner?s son. I see a cop car drive by and think that if I had been able to keep my mouth shut I would have made detective by now. I see a girl, no more than sixteen years old, getting onto to bus with a suitcase in her hand. I?ve dealt with too many runaway cases to want to think about what that could mean.

A wave of black depression falls over me as I get into bed. I could almost cry, but I don?t think I have any tears left. Dark thoughts fill my head as I fall asleep.

I have a dream. I am walking down a long hall. On the walls are paintings, all completely black. I don?t know how I know, but I know they are all painted on black canvas using black paint. Underneath each frame the title of each painting is written in large block letters. ?Jerome Cook? ?Mary Pelzer? ?Mike Yang?

I realize that all of the paintings are of people who I have tried to help, but failed. I look down the hall and there doesn?t seem to be an end to it, just an endless line of black canvases.

I try to remember the faces that should be there, but I can?t. Why can?t I remember what these people look like? Some off these people are junkies, some are in prison, some are dead, and in some ways, I am responsible. I should at least be able to remember their faces! I scream in bitter impotent rage and turn to run the other way.

I find myself on a stage. I can feel an audience looking at me, but cannot see them. A disembodied voice begins to speak.

?Now we have the self-righteous man. Please note his ability to be so sure that his view of the world is the right one, that he is willing to sacrifice his career, his relationships and even his health--notice the scars on his body.?

I look down to see I am naked. The audience laughs and then disappears, leaving me cold and alone on the stage.

I fall to the ground and start silently weeping. I guess I have some tears left after all.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and hear a voice say, ?Whisper, you have only done what you thought you had to, you have only done what you thought was??

A phone rings and I sit up in bed. I rub my eyes and look around, confused for a second as to where I am. I try to shake the dream from my head as I answer the phone.