The absence of expression on his face tells me I've really done it this time. I think I actually broke the camel's back. I didn't mean to. I really didn't. If he'd listen, I'd swear on any and everything holy I could think of, but he's stopped listening, because he doesn't believe me. And if Mr. Easygoing doesn't believe me, well, the rest doesn't bode well.

So I tear off up the stairs, clicking the door shut behind me. The sound echoes in my mind like the click of a loaded gun being cocked and I wonder if it's not a good analogy. I pace around the room like a caged animal, trying to decide what I can do to make it better, to fix my mess. Sitting down on the bed, the tears begin to spill and I'm not sure who they're for. Me, my mate, my love…I don't know.

I can imagine the conversation downstairs. I know I'm the topic; I am such a screw up. It had been such a lovely day until I let things get out of hand. And I did. I let them get out of control. I should have seen that I was asking for trouble. I should have known. The guilt comes crashing down on me like a wave that's intent on drowning its victim. And for a moment, I wonder if I did know and just let it happen… But an image in my head forces that thought aside, and I realize I'd never have done something so hurtful on purpose.

It occurs to me that I'm clutching the bed so hard I could rip the comforter if I wanted to. Relaxing my fingers before they get stiff and stuck in that position, I grab a tissue, honking my nose into it. In all the time I've spent agonizing and crying this morning, I haven't thought of one workable solution. Not one thing I could do to make this better, and to make people hurt less. I'd glad take all the blame and be hurt forever if no one else had to hurt. Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way.

The pain radiating from my mate isn't the only thing I'm worried about. I know it's only the beginning. And that makes my heart want to crack in half. I never ever wanted to-but it's too late now. What's done is done, and it's my fault for not being strong, for being too soft. I put myself in a position that would make what happened possible, and even if I didn't see it coming, it's still my fault.

I look down and realize that while I've been ranting in my head, I've been slowly packing a duffle a bag. It's almost scary when you surface into consciousness after your subconscious has been doing the driving. Wait. That almost sounds insane. How about… I was so caught up in beating myself up that I didn't notice that I'd made a decision about what to do. Run.

Not the best decision in the world, mind you…but a valid one just the same. I zip the bag slowly, trying to figure out just where the hell I intended to go. Guess it doesn't really matter much where now, just getting out without getting caught will be the challenge. I walk over to the front window, trying to assess whether or not I could shimmy down the tree to the porch roof and got from there. Shrugging, I slide the window open, tossing the duffle to the ground. If I don't break my arm trying, I'll be home free.

Settling myself on the window sill, I rub my hands together, hoping the damn branch I'm aiming for is sturdy enough, and then push off the sill with my legs. My hands wrap around the branch, thank god, but it starts to give. Wrapping my legs around the trunk, I start scooting myself towards the porch roof. One more inch… and I've made it. The branch I was holding snaps off as my feet touch the shingles and I sigh with relief. The only way this situation could have sucked more is me being in freaking traction.

The drop from the porch roof is jarring, but not injury worthy, and I pick up the duffel, scanning the front yard as if it holds the answer to my plans. And it does. The keys to the Beemer are resting in my pocket from my morning jaunt to the store for more cleaning supplies. Suddenly, I know where I'm going. I creep across the lawn, jump into the convertible and pull out quietly, resisting my urge to peel out in a squeal of tires just because I'm overly dramatic.

The next thing I know, I'm ringing the doorbell at a familiar house, all but tumbling inside when he opens the door. I look up at him, my eyes dark and conflicted; he scoops me up wordlessly and carries me inside. My arms wrap around his neck, cuddling to him trustingly. I knew I could depend on him to help me sort this mess out. I can always depend on my Fangy.