Author's website: http://snowee.50megs.com

Disclaimer: Not mine, Alliance gets them back.

Author's Notes: Thank, Ice, for the encouragement needed to finish.

Story Notes: Rather depressing, a little drug use.

I don't really remember the surroundings that day in mid-October. It could have been any temperature with any amount of precipitation. I can't even recall why the events played themselves out the way they did. Therapeutic now to put it on paper, I'm hoping, but sitting here with pen in hand I'm having a hard time putting emotions or thoughts at the scene.

Earlier I'd started to count things. I counted the people I knew, making checkmarks in my head as I examined reasons they wouldn't miss me. I went through life in default mode watching for something to make me want to stay.

That afternoon, my thoughts were at peace. There was only one thing to say, one knot I had to tie before leaving this place. I took a moment to flush out an apology, not caring or paying attention to what was being said because I would not be here to face the consequences anyway.

I remember it like a dream. In my mind I see myself floating to the medicine cabinet and looking inside. I had one of those family size bottles of Tylenol because of the constant headaches I suffer, but it was one of those generic brands so the large red lettering read 'Pain Reliever'. With a scoff, I glanced around me, but really didn't see. 'Pain reliever,' I said to myself. 'If only it were that easy.' Though I knew how easy it would be. Two could relieve the aches and pains in the body. A handful chased by the bottle of Vodka on the counter could relieve the aches and pains of life.

The stereo was probably still blaring when Fraser came knocking at the door. I hadn't heard it so I hadn't thought to turn it off, but I recall now that there were floating sounds in my head. They drifted farther and farther away as I lay there in bed, eyes closed.

Now 'they' say they don't know when I'll be mentally stable to return to work. I'm beginning to believe they're avoiding telling me the truth. I will never be stable. Living alone makes it easy. I played their games in the hospital and was released in just two weeks. Fraser checks in on me often, of course. It's his duty. He says hello and casually looks at the bottle of anti-depressants on the counter, making sure there is one fewer than the day before.

Although, since I don't know how they'll react with the weed I smoke on a daily basis, I simply flush one down the toilet every day. The weed dulls the pain. What do I care? Back in default mode, nothing matters because if I hurt, I can take a puff. If I'm happy, I can enhance it with a puff. All the problems are drifting away.

"It's the job," I told them, knowing full well that a common problem such as the stress of being a police officer would make few questions of disability. Rent was paid, bills paid, and if I eat less, there's always enough left over for the best pot money can buy. Good riddance to the fears. Farewell to the anxiety. Hey, who needed those thoughts of suicide? The weed is always there and it's what I have to look forward to now. There's something worth staying on this earth for.

Ray Kowalski set down the pen and took in a deep breath of the sweet smoke. He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering despite the jacket he wore. It was getting too cold to leave the window open so the smoke could drift out into the street. A breeze blew into the window as he folded the sandwich bag and twisted the red rubber band he had saved from the newspaper around it. Standing, he leaned out the window to expel the last breath, then he picked up the bag and the pipe, heading for the kitchen.

Reaching to the top shelf, he slipped the contents of his hand into a large mug but accidentally knocked it from the cupboard as the knock on the door caught him off guard. The crash made him jump and he immediately squatted to begin picking up the pieces of the broken mug.

Fraser heard the crash from the other side of the door and knocked again. "Ray? Is everything all right?"

"Yeah," Ray replied as his eyes widened. 'He's already been here once today,' he thought to himself. 'Why would he come back?' "What are you doing here?" he asked as he shoved the baggie and pipe into a nearby drawer.

Fraser furrowed his brow at the unwelcoming greeting. "I had some time. I didn't think you would mind."

Ray grunted and got to his feet. Opening the door, he prayed the smell had already left the apartment enough to bypass Fraser's keen sense of smell. He straightened when he saw an odd look cross Fraser's face, then relaxed as the Mountie looked over at the open window. "I didn't realize you enjoyed the fresh air so much," Fraser stated as he glanced around the apartment.

Ray nodded and tried to stand in front of the mess in the kitchen. Fraser noticed it, though, and stepped past Ray to get a closer look. "Oh, is this what I heard?"

"Yeah," Ray replied, then thought quickly. "I was about to get some coffee when you came." At that, he went back to picking up the pieces. Fraser knelt beside him and took two large chunks in his hands and held them the way they had once gone together. The letters 'et it sno' scribbled across made him think of home. Let it snow. How simple a thought. He dropped the piece in the garbage can beside Ray and looked at his friend.

Ray was beginning to feel the soft blur of his drug kick in as he looked at Fraser and realized he was staring, but not saying the words on his mind. He tried so hard to speak them out, but something wasn't connecting between his brain and his mouth so he just smiled.

"Is something wrong?" Fraser asked, noting the look on Ray's face.

Ray clasped his hands and tried to warm his fingers. After a moment he realized he hadn't answered Fraser's question. "What?"

Fraser saw the shiver that ran through Kowalski and frowned. "Are you cold?"

Ray nodded, stood, and went to close the window. The air coming in was very cold and he shivered again. He glanced at Fraser and forced himself to speak the words. "I'm not feeling well, Fraze. Maybe you should go so I can get some rest." He found himself hoping Fraser hadn't noticed that sentence seemed to last an eternity.

"Oh. Maybe I can get you something?" Fraser knew Ray was lying, but could see no graceful way of getting around it.

Ray shook his head. "I just want to be alone."

"Perhaps you shouldn't -" Fraser began.

Ray straightened and moved slowly to the door, opening it. "I think you should go," he insisted.

Fraser reaffirmed his stance and tensed his hands. "I will not go until I feel confident that you are all right to be left alone."

Ray slammed the door. "Jesus! Is this what I have to look forward to? Everyone tiptoeing around me like I'm fragile?"

Fraser swallowed hard, trying to calm his heart which, in anxiety and concern, now pounded. "I can't help being concerned," Fraser asserted. Ray's mood had changed so quickly. His erratic behaviour was becoming harder to deal with.

Ray grunted. Politically-Correct-Fraser was refusing to say what was really on his mind. He'd expressed concern in words a million times, but they hadn't talked about it. Fraser wanted nothing more than to pacify Ray on every visit. Just enough words to avoid facing the actual reality. "Get out," Ray said with finality.

Fraser stood firm. "I won't leave until we've talked."

Ray shrugged and looked defeated, but only long enough to see the doorway to his bedroom. "Fine," he said stiffly, then lifted his head and walked quickly into the room, closing the door behind him and flipping the lock immediately.

Ray desired the peace brought by pain so he walked to the window and slid it open. The cold air rushed into the room and he shivered only a moment before he became cold enough not to notice it.

Fraser watched the bedroom door for a moment and knew he would not be able to convince Ray to talk to him today. Frustrated, he left the apartment.

From inside the room, Ray heard Fraser leave. He looked out the window and watched the Mountie exit onto the street below. Fraser stopped at the sidewalk and looked back at the building, up to the window where his friend leaned out. Ray let their eyes make contact, then he let out a deep breath and turned away from the window.

Going to the door, he locked it securely before turning back and looking at the apartment. He grunted again and stood in the kitchen. 'I should be feeling bad,' he thought to himself, 'but I'm tired of him and his saviour routine. I'm tired of everyone sticking their noses in my business.' He looked longingly at the drawer which now held his stash. 'I'm so tired of caring. I'm so tired of trying.' He slid the drawer open and grabbed the paraphernalia. Sitting at the kitchen table, he opened the journal again and prepared a bowl. Taking in a lungful, he held his breath and began to write again.

Yes. All the problems are drifting away. I'm finding it hard to care about anything when I can just use these deep breathing exercises to relax me.

Ray let the breath out slowly. He looked at the window and remembered he had closed that one earlier. He went to it now and opened it again so the smoke could waft away. Taking another puff from the pipe, he smiled. Everyone knew the old bong was the smoother way to smoke, but it was less compact, more difficult to hide. He smiled because he imagined if it had been a bong to shatter on the floor. The smell of the contaminated water would have stayed in the air for several minutes. The pipe had saved him this time.

After letting the breath out, he read over his words. He picked up the pen again and pondered as he let another puff of smoke into his system.

I won't make so many mistakes next time. Taking those pills and drinking alcohol were no guarantee to death. Besides, it took too long.

He paused for another smoking break and thought about what else he wanted to say.

It's work. I run around all day putting bad guys in prison. Last month I was so proud when we picked up an arsonist. That night on the news there was a fire set intentionally by a landlord for insurance money. He killed over 100 tenants. Getting the guy who burned an art gallery in the middle of the night suddenly seemed unimportant. I'm not doing any good. I wasn't doing any good.

Ray felt a tingling run through him. He read the words over and over again, but all at once, they didn't make sense. He would begin a sentence, but by the time he got to the end, he would forget how it began or even what the point was. Standing, he felt immediately dizzy and fell back into the chair. It began to tip, but he caught himself. He began to chuckle and it quickly became a laugh. Having nearly fallen, his hysterics were ridiculous.

Laughing uncontrollably, tears began in his eyes. It took him several moments to calm himself enough to attempt walking back to his bed. Wobbling a bit he found himself in the kitchen. He couldn't remember why he was there and the thought occurred to him that he wanted to lie down. He let out a deep breath and used the walls to hold him up until he flopped on the bed.

He was thinking about something, he knew, but it was beyond his grasp. "For the best," he said to the cold air in the room. "I probably didn't give a damn about it anyway."

It was cold when Ray woke the next morning, the sunlight blaring into his eyes. He found himself still clothed and tasted rat testicles on his tongue. "Fuck me," he whispered as he sat up slowly and let himself adjust to the idea of the state of awareness he didn't want to be in. His all too real dreams flooded his head and the vivid images blinded him. He had to silence them.

Stumbling to the kitchen, he saw the bottle of Amaretto hiding behind his paper towels. Without much thought, he reached for it and took several large swallows. When he screwed the cap back on, he looked up and noticed the bag of pot and pipe blown across the table. The pipe had tipped and spilled the blackened, unsmoked contents on the table and the wind had pushed it a couple feet. He set the bottle back behind the paper towels and headed for the table. Brushing the tiny bits to the floor, he then loaded another bowl and sat at the table before lighting it and taking in a deep breath of the sweetness. He wanted that feeling back desperately. The feeling of not caring, the feeling of floating, the feeling that left him no need to think.

He'd barely had a chance to let out that first breath, to begin to let go of everything when there was a knock at the door. Ray glanced at the clock on his otherwise not working microwave. He'd slept much later than he realized and here was Fraser for his daily visit. Ray held still a moment. 'Perhaps he'll go if I just stay quiet.' He became suddenly aware, however, that his not answering would more likely cause concern in the Mountie and lead to a break in. The Mountie never gave in so easily.

Waving his arm around the room and toward the window, he took the handful of items and closed them away in the drawer. He went quickly to the door and unlocked it. When he opened it, Fraser immediately took a step inside. "I wasn't sure you would be talking to me today," Fraser said, testing the waters.

"What, and play on your fantasies of getting to save me again?" Ray said, adding a grunt while avoiding eye contact.

"Of course not, Ray. I only meant -"

"Yeah. I know what you meant," Ray cut in quickly. "Do your rounds. Make yourself feel better and then get to work," he added. "The Ice Queen'll be waiting."

There were so many things wrong with that sentence, Fraser didn't know where to begin. "I didn't intend to make you feel as though I was watching over you," he said at last. "I only wanted to check in. I only want to give you the chance to talk about the things that are bothering you."

"Bothering me?" Ray snorted. Fraser nodded his response and Ray growled under his breath. "It's not like I've got a bee following me around. It's not like I'm bummed out about the rain."

"What is it, then?"

This was what Ray had been waiting for. He'd been anxious for Fraser to want to discuss something more than the surface, but now that he was asking, willing, open, Ray didn't want to say anything. "You wouldn't get it." Ray, defeated, fell into a chair.

Fraser glanced at the counter and saw the prescription bottle. It hadn't been touched since the day before. It took him a moment before he smelled something in the air and the cold in the room made him wish he'd brought his coat with him. His fingertips were pinking and he frowned. The relative warmth of Chicago had spoiled him, he realized, because he tucked his cold fingers into the palms of his hands. At the same time he caught a scent on the breeze. He recognized it immediately as marijuana, but passing it off to the window, he let it go without comment.

Sitting across from Ray, he pressed on. "You know, Ray, it's a common misconception that just because I haven't experienced certain things that I cannot understand. I can consider it. I can imagine. I can sympathize." Ray shifted at Fraser's comments, but said nothing. Fraser continued slowly. "Why don't you think I could understand?"

Ray shrugged. "You like your job?"

Fraser was taken aback by the sudden turn, but took it in stride. "Yes. It is an honour..."

"Yes or no," Ray chopped in.

"Yes."

"There you go." Ray replied, putting his head down and resting his cheek on the coolness of the table with a sniff.

Fraser failed to see the significance. "Pardon?" he asked finally.

Ray sat quietly a moment before straightening up again. "No secret to you I didn't plan to be a cop. Not sure how it happened now. College wasn't right for me, that's for sure, but a cop?"

"It's a noble position -"

"Cut the bull shit, Fraze. It's not for me."

"Then what is for you?" Fraser asked, trying to grasp the slang.

"Circus performer," Ray retaliated, then sighed when Fraser didn't seem to notice it was a joke. "I don't know. That's the point. I never got to figure it out." He shrugged and wiped his eyes. "This whole life isn't exactly peachy, Fraze. I got put in the position and at first it was great, you know? I got to clean the streets, put bad guys behind bars. For that brief instant when I was cuffing a guy, I was freakin' hero." Brushing his fingers through his hair, he cleared his throat. "I'm not doing any good."

"Of course you are," Fraser assured him quickly. "I don't know that anyone could do better than you."

Ray frowned. Fraser had misunderstood. He took in a deep breath before continuing. "Where does it get this world, Fraze? I put a guy away and there's ten more waiting to take his place. There's ten more waiting to be twice as violent and kill twice as many people."

It was easy for Fraser to see that his friend had placed far too much weight upon his own shoulders. "You can only do what you can do," he advised.

Ray let out a chuckle. "Yeah, well, I'm not doing it anymore. I'm not a cop anymore and I'm sure as hell not going to sit around and watch the world fall apart."

The words frightened Fraser, but he felt his place was to be Ray's strength. "What about all the people in your life? Do you care enough to help them?"

"Help them? What for?" Ray growled the words. "I wasn't ever good enough for Stella. Just when I thought my love life couldn't be worse, I met Frannie. She was all cute and funny and screw the sister thing. It didn't matter anyway because she was all hung up on you. Kept a picture of you in her mirror. God, isn't that ridiculous? That funny little laid back woman and you, Mr. Stiffy." Ray chuckled when he realized his double entendre, lowering his head until it passed.

Fraser swallowed. He knew it was true. Frannie was too obvious for him to deny that, but Fraser had his reasons for pretending. "What about me?" Fraser asked meekly.

Ray swallowed hard. "You?" He stopped as if thinking for a moment, but he wasn't thinking. He was spewing whatever came into his head before he had the chance to change his mind. "Do you know how insane you make me? So incredibly perfect, no woman can take her eyes off you. So incredibly fair, no criminal slips through your fingers." He enunciated the next words, pounding the table for occasional emphasis. "You are a reminder of what a failure I am at my job, in my personal life, and as a pet owner." He shook his head and pointed across the room. "That's the eighth damn turtle I've had since taking over Vecchio's identity. Stella used to tell me I couldn't keep a houseplant alive. Why on earth did I think I could keep a turtle alive?"

He took in a deep breath and when Fraser didn't speak up, he said the next thing on his mind. "Vecchio's identity," he repeated. "It's not even my life to begin with, Fraze. It hasn't ever been my life. It was Dad's life, then it was Stella's, then it was Vecchio's. It's not me. I'm not even - ME."

Fraser had no idea the despair which had made home in Ray's soul. All those times he flipped out on a criminal or did something unpredictable made sense suddenly. Ray was trying to figure out who he was, but it rested deep inside him and rarely got to see the light. Now it was time for him to admit the things he never wanted to say. The protection of the two alone combined with the sharing Ray had already done helped Fraser make the next move, but it was so new to him.

"I need you, Ray." Fraser let the words out so simply and was encouraged when Ray made eye contact and leaned forward as if waiting for more. "On many occasions I have needed you or I would not have been able to conclude an investigation."

"Someday Vecchio will be back. He'll help you with that, won't he? I mean, obviously he was good at it."

"That isn't all. I've watched and learned much about interaction with people from you. Where I was stationed previously left me with very few associates. Most of those felt as solitary as I. I loved that life, of course, but here in Chicago I had to learn an entirely new dynamic."

"Vecchio had you pretty well trained, from what I saw when we met."

Fraser shrugged. "Vecchio wasn't quite as -" he paused, searching for the right word. "expressive."

Ray chuckled. "Expressive? Well, I guess that's as good a word as any."

Fraser noted the smell from when he had first entered was still drifting through the apartment. Without making it obvious to Ray, he took in a deep breath through his nose and tried to place the smell. It wasn't coming from the window, it was wafting around the room. He took in more air and looked at Ray, remembering the brown bottle which was still on the counter. "Have you taken your anti-depressant today?"

Ray glanced up. He had forgotten to flush one down the toilet, he recalled quickly, but played it cool. "Yes."

Fraser gave Ray a moment to contemplate before pointing out the truth. "It didn't appear as though one had been taken," he said.

Ray shrugged. "Well, if you knew I hadn't, why'd you ask?"

"In my experience, it is better to give one the chance for honesty before pointing out a fault." Fraser stood and walked over to the counter. He took the bottle in his hand and held it out to Ray.

Ray looked at the bottle a moment before turning away. "I don't like the way they make me feel. Makes me feel like a zombie," he responded.

Fraser stepped closer and held it before Ray's face. "Doctor's orders." He was simple and firm.

Ray took the bottle in his hand and held it. "I don't like taking them."

Fraser felt warm. He was frustrated and annoyed. "Are you afraid of how they'll mix with the marijuana?"

Ray snapped to attention. He knew. "How did you -?" 'He smelled it, of course,' he thought quickly. "It doesn't matter." He set the bottle harshly upon the table.

Fraser took Ray's shoulder. "It does matter. Something's been off with you for -"

"As long as you've known me," Ray replied without giving Fraser the chance to finish his thoughts.

"How long have you been smoking that stuff?"

"All my life," Ray replied. "Or at least the new life I've been tossed."

Fraser frowned. "Are you planning to destroy this chance as well?"

Ray grunted and stood. "Don't worry, Fraser. I won't make the same mistake next time." The vagueness of the comment was the only thing that kept him safe. Fraser assumed he meant he wasn't going to make mistakes, but Ray knew his real mistake had been in not going out in a blaze of glory the first time he tried to end this life.

"Then you should quit smoking that stuff and take the proper medications. Isn't your appointment today?"

Ray growled. Those damn psycho appointments. 'Psycho' was his less than affectionate name for the hell he only actually subjected himself to once a week instead of the prescribed three. "Yeah," he replied. "I suppose it is." He paused. "Perhaps you should get to work. Make Ice Queen happy and give me time to shower before I have to leave."

"I could go with you, if you would like," Fraser offered.

Ray shook his head emphatically. "No, this is something I have to do on my own."

Fraser nodded his understanding and left quietly. From the apartment he had to walk to the Consulate. It gave him time to think about the things that had been said. The comments about Francesca came to the forefront and he let out a long breath. The truth was, he liked her, too. He didn't know how affectionately he cared, but he knew that one day he would return home. The ice fields and harsh life was no match for Francesca, he knew. If he became too attached it would be difficult for him to leave. No, he couldn't let Fran know how he really felt because if they proceeded into a relationship, it would hurt him too much to leave her. He wanted better for her than the life his mother had.

By the time he reached the Consulate he knew that the discussion had still been healthy. Ray had shared a piece of himself and Fraser had done the same. Fraser was certain that he could commit to doing whatever was necessary to help Ray return to a life he desired. With work, he could help Ray work through his insecurities and find out who he wanted to be.

With renewed vigor, he went about his work day.

Ray finished the bowl of weed he had prepared and moved to his desk. Upon returning home from the hospital a week ago, he had found the letter still leaning beside a lamp in his bedroom. It was the final apology he had made.

He opened it now and read it slowly.

Dear Ray Vecchio,

It seems I may have made mistakes in your shoes that you would not have been foolish enough to make. I did the best I could, but it wasn't good enough.

I tried to be everything you needed to be, but it wasn't ever going to work because beneath it all I was still me. Me isn't worth much, I assure you.

The mistakes I made, the hurt I caused. I'm sorry. I apologize for everything it meant.

He hadn't signed the letter. He hadn't even made it specific enough to let the real Ray in on his secret, but by the time Ray Vecchio saw it, he would know what had happened. He glanced back at his writing and realized the way he spoke didn't reflect the real knowledge he had picked up in college. He'd gotten lazy, but reading what he wrote, he knew that, at least, he wasn't stupid.

Kowalski picked up his pen and scribbled at the bottom of the page. "Good bye," he added simply before folding it again and returning it to the envelope. This time he clipped it to a magnet on his fridge beside the shiny green shamrock, then walked out of the apartment.

He hadn't locked the doors or taken his coat. The half empty baggie of pot still sat on the table beside his pipe and lighter while the bottle of pills tipped in the wind from the window and rolled to the floor.

Ray knew the building where he wanted to go. It was tall and had an easily accessible roof. He'd picked the location two days ago. An apartment building that was 21 stories tall. His brain was shut off as he drove his GTO to the place and rode quietly in the elevator. With reddened fingers and cheeks he stepped out onto the roof and his mind soared. 'Not doing any good. Not worthy of -' He stepped to the edge of the roof and avoided looking down. The air was sweet and fresh from this height. He enjoyed it a moment before spreading his arms into it. 'I'm a bird,' he thought to himself, closing his eyes.

'My last breath,' he added in his mind as he sucked in the sweet air.

But it wasn't sweet. As his lungs filled, the stench of burning synthetics filled his nostrils. He firmed his stance and looked down. Smoke flowed from several windows below him. He didn't even have time to consider before his mind concentrated on the lives inside the building. Pulling him back to the door marked 'roof access', his body took him down the stairs. The fire alarm resounded and he found his way to the floor where the fire had started. He opened the door from the stairwell, the numbing cold making him oblivious to the burning heat. Fire and smoke filled the hallway.

A man grabbed at Ray, coughing between words. "They already got out!" he yelled as he passed Ray and headed down the stairs. Ray coughed once, the smoke beginning to infiltrate, but the adrenaline quickly taking over.

Ray squinted into the barely visible hallway. A woman shielded her eyes and Ray ran in, taking her arm to pull her to safety. "NO!" she screeched. "My baby! My boy!"

Ray pushed her toward the door. "I'll find him, ok? Your baby boy?" She nodded. "Where is he?" She pointed and told him it was the third door, then watched him go into the smoke. Someone else then grabbed the woman and forced her through the stairway doors.

Stepping carefully around a flaming beam, he had to crawl when he reached the third door to be low enough to see anything. Rolling to his back and kicking the door open, he was greeted by flames. He rolled back to his stomach and coughed. He could barely make out a pathway into the fire, but he slid into the apartment.

Passing through the front room, there was less flame but more smoke in the adjoining hallway. Moving along carefully, he saw a crib and hurried into the room. A small baby lay screaming and coughing. Ray saw a humidifier beside it the bed and covered his mouth with one hand to lessen the smoke for a moment. He flipped off the top of the humidifier and saw that while the heat had evaporated some, there was just enough liquid left inside for him to dunk the baby's blanket. It was barely damp as he wrapped the baby tightly, leaving only the smallest of openings for it to breathe.

When Ray made it back to the front room, his pathway was aflame. He grunted and tucked the baby closer to his chest, hurrying to the edge of flames, then skirting them with his back to protect the small life in his arms. The feeling of melting flesh fooled Ray into thinking he was on fire, but he looked down at the screaming child and, though he could barely hear him, he felt its fear.

The rim of fire completely blocked the door. He looked to the window. 'Fire escape.' He looked back at the flames. Either way he would have to pass through fire, but the fire at the window was only curtains. He had an opening. Wrapping one arm around the baby, he clutched it close to him and used the other hand to grab a lamp. Using one end, he smacked the curtains down and away from the window. He dropped the lamp and embraced the fragile being with both arms. Climbing out the window, he saw that flames licked out from another window below, but he could still pass around it. Hastily he moved down the stairs, slowed slightly without use of his hands. Soon he was losing balance so he let go with one arm and used the hand to steady his way.

He looked into the alleyway and heard fire trucks squealing to the building. Running around the building, he saw clumps of people crying, holding each other. Ray froze for a moment. This was the beauty of humanity. Neighbors ran with blankets to cover the poor souls whose homes were burning away. Firemen risked life and limb running into the burning building, trying to make sure all lives were saved. For a moment, he confused the water rushing from the houses as rain. He looked up into the sky, the water drenching him.

The baby screamed again and he snapped back, letting a cough escape. The baby began to cough more profoundly and so did Ray. His lungs ached and his throat itched. His body began to cool, causing him to shiver between coughing fits. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the air, letting a clean breath in to cleanse him. It helped just enough for him to move briskly through the people until he found the mother. She was staring at the building, screaming hysterically, but when he approached, she looked at him. Tears streaked the soot on her face as she ran to him. She stopped and looked at the bundle Ray held out to her, then embraced him.

"You saved my baby!" she cried, then took the infant from his arms. Peeling back the blanket, she watched the child coughing. "My God! You saved my baby!" Her voice cracked as she screamed.

Ray didn't move. He couldn't speak, he couldn't think, and he couldn't move if he'd wanted to. Somehow he would make this world a better place. He had to do it for the sake of future children, including his own.

He didn't notice his singed clothes, but he felt himself begin to cry. He felt something. Whether it was the pain of the horrific event or the joy of saving a life, it didn't matter. He felt something. Somewhere in there was a being who knew that he wanted to do something good and that he wanted to live long enough to do it.

THE END

End Smoke and Mirrors by Laura Lee aka Snowee: alaskanrose515@hotmail.com

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