Disclaimer: I do not own Mag 7, nor am I attempting to infringe on any rights or profits of those who do.

Read Healing first.

by Tiffiny

Dead. Dead. Dead. *My* fault. The words echo over and over in my mind. A constant refrain of guilt and remorse. Sometimes I don't know who I hate more. You for dyin'. Or me for livin'. Guess it don't really matter. Aint much difference between the two.

I didn't think anything could hurt worse than losin' Rain. I was wrong. Losin' you hurt a powerful sight more. Ain't really sure why. Maybe it's because I never got a chance to make things right between us. Maybe it's because blood and tears and ridin' together to the gates of Hell and back forged a bond I can't even begin to explain. Like so many things, it don't seem to matter much anymore. For whatever reason, that's just the way things are.

You sure could get under my skin like nobody's business. Faster than greased lightnin'. Seemed like every time I turned around, there you were, committin' some new act of folly. Tryin' to make a profit out of other folk's pain. Leastwise, that's what I used to think. Now I think maybe you just didn't know any other way to help. Lookin' back, I can see how easy you made it for everyone to forget about the good stuff you done. You didn't want anyone gettin' too fond of you. Afraid you would disappoint them. I never knew a man who needed the gift of friendship more than you. Or one who deserved it more.

The children always had your true measure. They loved you like you was candy. I wish I'd told ya that even though you drove me plumb crazy, I was always proud to ride with you. Funny how I said all the things I didn't mean and never said the things I meant.

I don't know what to do anymore. Now that there's no healin' left in me. Can't heal myself. Can't heal anyone else. So I just sit here, day after day, with ghosts and whiskey for company. Knowin' I could've saved you both. And didn't. The other fellas try, but there's nothin' they can do. There's nothin' anyone can do. The only two people who can offer me absolution are beyond my reach. You can't touch a ghost. Or tell it you're sorry. I've tried.

Looks like my whiskey is runnin' low. I need to get me some more. Maybe this time I can drink enough to forget, at least for a while. It ain't happened yet, but I've got to keep tryin'. Ain't nothin' else I can do.

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