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Debbie's use by her Master's friends continues.

He dreamt of how it must have been for her in those final moments, spinning and soaring through wild gyrations in the air, her hair whipped out behind her. She loved 'flying', as she called it. And pleasing her was his life.

In his dreams he remembered how she looked, a little blond angel all smiles and bright eyes, the sound of her laughing shriek the last clear notes of joy he'd ever hear from her. She had slipped the bonds of earth.

But the earth was a jealous bitch and took her back. And Eddy watched her hit again and again and again. Twenty-one years later he could remember every second, every expression, every drop of blood as it arced through the sky, the sharp cracking sound. Most of all he remembered that last, short bark of a cry that escaped her lips.

In the aftermath there was the terror on his mother's face, the look of a lifetime's hopes and dreams crushed in an instant. The wounded look that never left her face. Even the mortician's skills couldn't erase it twenty-one years later and she had gone to her grave bearing the mark of Eddy's (the Monster's) misdeeds. She had said she forgave him, but that was impossible. Some things you never forgive, some things you can't forgive.

There were the words of his father, damning him, cursing him, blaming him... all of them, while painful, a thousand times less so than the punishment he inflicted on himself. His father had never pretended to forgive him. He remained honest in his hatred even now.

"Wake up, sir! Please, love, wake up! EDWARD, WAKE THE FUCK UP!"

Theresa pounded on his back as Eddy continued to weep, rolled into a fetal ball of sheer misery, his hands locked on his upper arms, holding them in a white-knuckled grasp. Theresa could see blood oozing up where his fingers were gouging into his flesh.

He shook and rocked as though he were being beaten and unbeknownst to Theresa, that's exactly what was happening.

His father's kicks would forever echo in Eddy's dreams.

Her blows, falling on his body, only played into his nightmare and strengthened its hold on his consciousness. Eventually she gave up and went to the bathroom, bringing back a pitcher of water and dashing it in his face.

As her love spluttered to wakefulness, she knelt by the side of the bed, head and eyes downcast. As soon as Edward finished coming to and wiping his face, she felt his hand, large and gentle, come to rest on her head. He stroked her hair.

"Bad nightmare, huh?" he asked softly.

"Apparently so, sir."

"You couldn't wake me up any other way?"

"No sir, I tried."

"Well shit, that leaves me with no gawddamn justification to make you sleep in the wet spot," he said and she could hear the smile on his face.

"Since when have you ever required a justification, Edward?" she replied, smiling herself.

"That's it, prepare to be tickled," he said as he pulled her up on top of him.

* * * * *

Margo whimpered to herself as she tried to go to sleep.

The rest of them would never, could never, know just how close it had really been. None of them had the medical training to recognize just how near death he'd been when the EMT's arrived. Even if she explained it to them, and why would she, they wouldn't have the years of experience that had tormented her through that terrible time. The experience that told her she'd done all she could and it still wasn't enough... that the only thing that could keep her love alive was his will. They'd never know how she'd felt like some primitive shaman, muttering to her patient that he had to want to live, to fight to live, that there was nothing more she could do for him.

Margo had, in her intern year, worked a turn in the E.R. She was no stranger to traumatic injury or blood... the weekend graveyard shift at any major urban E.R. brought a doctor in contact with far more of both than her time with Harry had.

But none of her experiences there had the effects on her that her eternity in the park had.

She was periodically being overwhelmed by the rich, c

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