He threw another piece of broken glass, flicking his wrist just so that it spun in a downward arc into the blue, blue sea. The fading light glinted off of its sharp edges for a few glittering moments. The water should be turbulent, he thought - in all the books he'd read, things like the sea had always matched the protagonist's mind, swirling violently, casting foam up in thick, white tongues that looked as though they wanted to devour the world. But for him, here, the sea was still, almost glassy, like some kind of darkened mirror. There was no reflection of his thoughts in the weather either, no storm clouds, no dramatic rain, not even a wild, whipping wind. It was a beautiful tropical evening. And maybe, Horace conceded, that was because he wasn't the protagonist of his own story. His life had been built around others - his friends, family, lovers - and he truly cared about them, but he lived vicariously through them as well, knowing he was not enough by himself. Horace took the scraps of other people's lives and clothed himself in them, and told himself he was happy for the opportunity to wear such cloth. Although... he had entertained delusions, once upon a time, that things could be about him, that he meant something to someone, maybe even could mean everything. But those ill-begotten hopes had died in a cave by the sea, even if he hadn't died there. Horace's life was not about him, but about the people who came through, drifted lazily past him, or stayed for a short while. Horace was, ultimately, a convenience for others: a back-drop, a useful accessory for sex, a serviceable ear for his friends' problems, an excuse for revenge. And because of this, he knew he had to be more careful, he needed to stop antagonizing Jan. He was replaceable. Not even for a second was Horace able to delude himself that Jan would repair him over and over should he get broken. His jaw clenched against the urge to cry - he did not deserve even his own tears.

Absently, he swiped at a thin line of blood that had slid to curl around his wrist. His hands hurt, sharp edges had stuck in his palms, small chunks sliced into fingers, clung there until he dug them out, face twisting in pain. It didn't matter; it kept him focused. The blood from his hands (cuts from glass always seemed to bleed a little more freely, more intently than normal), pinked the white of the lamp except the places where it was already stained - brown and rusty, marks of old blood. Some of it was his, probably, some of it America's. Unhygienic, he thought, and almost smiled. He shoved his hands into the bag he'd broken the lamp in, thick canvas appropriated from some forgotten corner of a storage room. Pieces stuck into him, small silvers not even big enough to throw. Horace picked out a larger piece and sent it swirling out. The bag was almost empty; he'd thrown pieces out wildly at first, thinking that some sort of aggressive display of destruction would help. He wasn't sure it had. But if he couldn't be better than a lamp, than a pair of red shoes, he could at least get rid of them. It had been surprisingly easy to wait until she wasn't home, to sneak in, grab the lamp, and be out. The fact that Dr. H may have had the house under surveillance didn't deter him. Stealing was a crime, yes, but... It was only a lamp, after all - standard issue, white. The only thing to set it apart was how it was slightly misshapen, pieced back together with some sort of thick white glue or caulk. The fact that it was not only a lamp was not apparent to most, luckily. So he'd taken it out to one of the few cliffs on the island, smashed it within the bag and begun to idly dispose of the pieces. He almost rubbed a hand over his face before grimacing at the bloody mess of it. Sighing, he looked down.

Horace's feet dangled over the edge and, just for a bit, he thought about how easy it would be to slide down after the glass. Those beautiful seconds of free fall... It was far enough that he would be instantly unconscious when he collided with the water, assuming he didn't land on a rock. Horace had heard drowning hurt. The old thoughts trickled back - the realization that he wouldn't be missed, was easily replaced. If he set it up so that a cardboard cut-out of him was available, would anyone even notice? Jan might notice, but not care, he knew; Jan would probably feel relieved, free from the weight of feelings he would never return. He was a burden, but still unnoticeable. The dichotomy didn't escape him and his feet swung out over the sea. Horace was no more important than a fly buzzing about, the whine an unintelligible 'notice me; love me'. He was ******** pathetic and it would be better for everyone if he weren't around. It was tempting, but he hadn't tried hard enough. Horace held onto certain words, wrapped them around himself like a safety net: fifteen months and sixteen days, how many chances does he get, this is what you get, only what's deserved. With a sigh, he tore his eyes away from the gentle water and levered himself up. For a moment, he simply stood , ignoring the blood that dripped off of his fingers, and stared out across the sea. They were so isolated, insular here. Small. With an uncomfortable shiver, he kicked the rest of the lamp: small, shining pieces, into the sea. The bag followed. Horace stared after them, watching until even the canvas was swallowed up. Then, slowly, he turned around and walked back towards the dorms.

Someone had told him that in the wake of destruction - or even in the act of it - came catharsis. But he didn't feel better or relieved. He didn't feel anything in particular at all.