The Game

AUTHOR: Sylvia
ARCHIVE: Email me and tell me about it, but otherwise you're free to take.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue. No money. John Truman Carter the Third from the TV Show ER is not mine. I have my own John Carter. Really I do!!
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I wrote an Abby POV Fic a few weeks ago called "The Dance" and well if there was an Abby fic, there had to be a Carter fic.. I don't know if they are both considering the same things, and if both situations are the same or whatever but I hope you like this one as well and please review. It only takes a second and it really helps me please *you* the reader!!! :-)
SUMMARY: Love is a game. A game he couldn't win.

He stood there, watching the light hues of the sunset disappear. The colors mixed together into a stream of pinks, violets, oranges, and ultimately blues. The clouds stood out more intensely against this background than they ever did on a clear blue sky. A gentle breeze ripped at his face, the temperature was about sixty-five degrees and dropping. A true Chicago Autumn was descending upon the city. The last remnants of the day disappeared and the lights in every room of the city turned on. He stood up there silently, alone.

Every few minutes he would instinctively pull his jacket closer around his body, only to loose the battle with heat. He didn't want to go inside. To face her.

He couldn't face *her*. He was so scared of what would happen if he did. He didn't want to hear the inevitable words that they were over.

They weren't over. What did over really mean? A movie, book, TV Show. They can all be over. But a relationship? It can never truly be over. It was like a memory. Memories cannot die. They really never are over. They live on inside the hearts of all the people it has touched. And she touched his heart the worst of all. She held on so tightly, took so much, forced so much pain.

But he couldn't mind. His love was like a steady stream of water. You can never really run out of water, it is present in everything, alive or dead. He knew what it felt like to be alive.

He knew how light your heart felt when you were happy. You could fly over any ocean, soar to heaven, swim to the bottom of the earth, and not realize it. You were in a trance, a type of obsession, that controlled your every move, but you never felt in danger until it all came crashing down.

And then you went crashing down. You couldn't get up in the morning. You didn't have enough energy to breath. You felt heavier than the world, and it all rested on your shoulders. He felt like that.

Every word he spoke, every dream he ever dreamed was shattered. The devil was with him, the power against him. Like that feeling you get when you're having a bad day, it just never left him.

His fingers were numb, along with his nose. They didn't hurt, they were just there. That's exactly the same opposite he felt. He was just there. He couldn't come up with a purpose for life. He just hurt. This hurt was a tremendous amount of pain, not just mental but emotional as well. It was like a stinging sensation intertwined with a stabbing and slicing. Like you would slice away the fur off an animal, knowing it was dead, but every part of your mind told you it was alive. You were destroying something beautiful, something good.

He was just plainly destroyed. He hadn't meant for everything to play out like this. It was a gruel game. He was a piece on the board, his heart the player of the piece. He couldn't do anything to stop it, and he couldn't even tell it to stop. His opposition: desire, despair, hope. lust, faith.

Desire. Desire to be a better person for himself, and for her. For them to be able to be together. A desire so strong, he would sell his soul and be tortured alive.

But he was being tortured alive. Like a burning at the stake. He could feel the heat, the last few flashes of life before him, but he couldn't move, there was no exit, nothing physically wrong. But your mind could play games.

And he played the cruelest of all. Every morning he woke up, ready to kiss the woman next to him, to play with her dark blonde hair, to taste her sweet lips, to mold his body into hers... And every morning he was left alone, in an empty bed.

Emptiness seemed to be his best trait. He had never felt full until he was with her. The friendship they shared, the long late night conversations, the hot fudge sundaes, cups of coffee, and numerous pie dates. He had felt full for the first time in his life. He had felt true love.

True love was a joke. A sick, twisted joke that man created to torture themselves with. To make wars seem justified, to make children fall asleep at night, to give hope till tomorrow.

There was no hope for him. He had lost it completely. Hope could get you through the worst, hope and love. He had neither. Hope had gotten up and blown away in the wind, flown free yet once again. And love had been taken away from him ripped violently from his soul.

He didn't have a soul. The world revolved around nothingness. The sun didn't need to shine. The rain didn't need to come down. The air didn't need to invade his lungs, and he would still be alive. He was eternally in hell.

A hell he had created for himself the day he had deceived her, and left her. The day he had come back and not made her his forever. The day his world came crashing down and left him alone and abandoned.

He tightened his coat around his body once more and headed back to the door. He had been off for almost three hours.

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