Damien stared long and hard at the gate to her house. He wanted to douse the place with gas and set it on fire.

Fire, how all-consuming it was. He wondered why this was necessary, why pain was necessary, what pain was supposed to teach us except to never ever let anybody hurt you ever again.

He’d been thinking of hurting himself for days, too. He thought perhaps the problem was him, maybe by some sick series of generational curses he ended up here, in this crazy cycle of lost loves and searing pain.

Perhaps if he got rid of this mortal body the pain would stop.

But what if it doesn’t? What if all killing himself accomplishes is to release this universe of hurt back into the present? What if he were doing the world a disservice by adding to these columns of regret and pity and self-disgust and anger and hatred and blinding rage?

Who knows. No one’s ever come back from suicide in a form disembodied enough to convince people he had been there and back.

All he had was this: this stupid gate. He wanted to ram his head into it, feel the blood run, feel his heart panic. He was so numb and angry at the same time it wasn’t funny at all.

“Damien?”

He whirled around. He was paralyzed. He couldn’t speak. Suddenly everything he wanted to say was stuck in his throat. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch the gate, show her he was pissed.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

He shook his head. His mind supplied unhelpful words, like, “I went here to kill you,” or “You hurt my feelings so much I want to die,” or “I hope you get what you deserve.”

The words danced on his lips.

As she looked back at him, obviously unaffected by anything that she had done intentionally or unintentionally, he realized the simple truth. He’d been led on. Led on to think they were friends.

There really was no one to blame but himself.