Living With the Consequences


AUTHOR'S NOTES: I thought the song was about mixed feelings: regrets, hope, frustration, friendship... and living with the consequences, as hard as they can be. Thanks to Elaine and Birgit for helping me 'interpret' the whole thing when I loathed the lyrics, and to Birgit and Sue for doing truly superb beta service. Ermm... as for spoilers, I do put them on stories when / where I should. Enough said.

Lyrics are posted at the end of the story.

Doyle was fading: Cowley knew that.

He didn't have much longer even if any cavalry, seventh or not, and including or consisting of Bodie or not, arrived. And it seemed impossible that anyone could get there in anything remotely like the near future, even if they got there at all.

And even if they did come and Doyle was still alive, no hospital, no surgeon could ever repair that sort of damage. Cowley knew that, too, just as he knew he couldn't get out of the warehouse to get help on his own without tunnelling under the damned walls or prying the bars on the window apart with his bare hands. Smashing down a very, very solid door had proved impossible too: he'd tried that.

The hell of it was that Doyle was still conscious, and even rational between the times when the pain dragged him down to a point he couldn't speak. Those times, however, were becoming more and more frequent.

Raymond Doyle. His choice for the squad, and one of his best. Along with Bodie, of course - some of the others might joke about them being joined at the hip but their partnership in the field always worked.

Had worked, Cowley admitted to himself. It was over now, whichever way you looked at it.

He'd envied them both for years for both their talents and for their friendship, although he'd never say so to anyone else and had rarely admitted it even to himself. How could George Cowley ever confess that the two of them had so much that he, too, had wanted?

So, he'd just forced himself to soldier on (a very appropriate phrase, he'd often thought wryly) and told himself his role was different from theirs. What was the point in regretting it, either? He'd chosen it, worked for it, and often - if the truth were told - enjoyed it.

But not always. Not when his men were in trouble, in danger. And no, he wouldn't admit that, either. Showing weakness left him too vulnerable. Bodie and Doyle had perhaps realised to some extent, perhaps - had seen through the faade just a little over the years. They probably even realised that for all the difficulty of their own role, they had each other to rely on and to turn to, not to mention somebody they answered to. He, as that somebody and the squad's figurehead, leader and creator, had nobody. The buck stopped at George Cowley's door.

Doyle moaned, putting a stop to his musing, and he allowed himself to stroke the pain-racked face, trying to offer comfort.

"I've had it," Doyle said softly. "Haven't I."

"No," Cowley contradicted, hating himself for. "It'll be all right, Doyle."

"You're a lousy liar," Doyle murmured, turning his face away.

Cowley swallowed.

Dear God, this was hard. Kneeling there, watching the pallor grow, the light fade in the expressive eyes, Cowley hated himself and the damned job at this moment, however much he'd wanted it and defended it.


Doyle's voice was almost a whisper.

"Here, laddie."

"Finish me off. Please."

Cowley's heart tightened, and he reached out to the man's shoulder.


"Please." There was urgency, pleading, in the single syllable.

"Och, man. Bodie'll be here in no time..."

"Not... the point. Even if they... keep me alive, I don't want this..."

Doyle pointed to the blood, and Cowley's eyes followed the shaking finger.

"Surely," Doyle continued, with an effort, "you've done this before? In that... war of yours?"

Cowley swallowed, because he hadn't.

He'd seen somebody else do it, though. On a battlefield, when the hospital was too far away, staffed by inexperienced surgeons anyway. The enemy had been too close, and they didn't treat prisoners kindly, even badly injured ones.

He'd watched the officer pull out his pistol. Watched him fire it, and then, over the weeks that followed, watched the man fall apart from guilt and self-disgust.

This wasn't the same, though. It was decades later. Surgeons were more skilled, might be able to at least save Doyle' life. Help might still come, unlikely though it seemed. Miracles might happen.

Might. Might not.

"No," Cowley breathed. "No, Doyle..."

"I mean it," Doyle repeated stubbornly. "One more bullet... use his gun..."

Cowley glanced over at the body sprawled on the floor a few yards away from them: the bastard that he'd killed, and killed too late, after two bullets had already slammed into Doyle. The man's gun lay there where it had dropped, almost within his reach.

"Favour, sir. Please."

Cowley touched the pistol, and then drew his hand away as though it had burned him.

"Now. Do it," Doyle insisted.

Cowley reached a little further, fingers closing on the weapon as he caught a slight flicker of a smile on the tired face.


It took so little to squeeze a trigger...

Cowley clawed his way out of the dream, familiar with the sweat on his face, the sour taste in his mouth, the smell of blood in his nostrils, and remembering the thoughts that had been running through his mind with the usual astonishing clarity.

Pity, envy, cowardice, fear...

Dammit, how many more times would he relive that day in the warehouse?

He could still almost feel the weight of the pistol in his hand, the feel of the cold metal, his finger touching the trigger.

He shuddered, trying to throw off the web of emotions, to re-emerge as CI5's controller rather than a weak, emotional wreck.

Would they ever end, these nightmares? They were coming thick and fast at the moment, mainly because two of his men were missing: that always made it worse, as he would fall asleep with mental images of his men lying, broken and bleeding, with help coming too late.

He'd gone through one such a period where the wee nightcaps - a ritual since longer than he could remember - had become a great deal more than 'wee'. That had meant mornings where his brusque manner wasn't just part of his persona but because his head was pounding and his tongue was furred.

So, the excesses had had to stop. He couldn't afford it - not yet anyway - but he did wonder if, when retirement came, he'd spend more time staring at the bottom of a whisky bottle than at his golf clubs.

Retirement was still a while away though, and somebody had to keep things going until then. He couldn't afford to take the risk of falling apart, because he couldn't tolerate the waste of seeing what he'd worked for crumble. It was as simple as that. What was more, he owed it to his men to prove that their sacrifices were worthwhile, which meant getting results.

Sacrifices, yes. Too many of them. Another image of Doyle flitted through his mind, followed by one of Bodie. The dream threatened to suck him in again for a moment, but he fought it and mentally geared himself to get moving.

Swinging his legs over the bed - scrawny, old man's legs, he noted absently - George Cowley dressed and went to work. Each day another day.

This was, at least, a relatively quiet one as it progressed. Those happened, even in the terrorist-ridden, crime-infested world he and his squad lived in. He was glad of it, feeling the effects of disturbed sleep blunting the sharp edge to his mind.

Then Bodie walked in to his office towards the end of the day, looking tired and worried.

"Still no news from Harrison and Merrick," he said, taking a seat in the battered armchair.

Dammit, Cowley thought, he'd been hoping all day that there would be a satisfactory conclusion to the undercover case, but his agents were missing.

"We can only wait," he said, hauling out the bottle and pouring.

"Yeah," Bodie sighed. "Oh - I've sent the young 'uns home for the night. Didn't think you'd have any objections."

"No. They're shaping up well, though?" Cowley realised he'd formed the question strangely, in a way that betrayed his hope that his new recruits would live up to expectations rather than simply asking for an opinion.

"They'll do," Bodie said absently, turning the glass around in his hands and then knocking its contents back rapidly.

What was Bodie thinking? That the new intake were all fit, enthusiastic, and just as likely to get maimed or killed as so many others before them? Whose numbers might have already increased by two even now?

The two men talked for a while, keeping to banalities, tiptoeing around leaping to conclusions about Harrison and Merrick but their disappearance hanging between them all the same.

Finally, Bodie got to his feet.

"Night, sir."

Yes, that was how Bodie usually was nowadays and particularly over the last few months - almost too polite. Efficient in his role of selecting and training recruits to the squad. But sometimes - like tonight - it seemed though he was weighing his controller up, as though there was a question in his mind that he wasn't asking. He'd never done so, though, much as he was obviously thinking back to finding he and Doyle that night.

What the hell did he know about Doyle's plea? He'd never broached that. Couldn't, somehow.

And what did that expression on his face, that polite faade, mean tonight? Disgust, sympathy, condemnation...?

Cowley reached for his glass, weighing up the relative merits of anaesthetic relief versus running his squad with a little more efficiency the following day. Finally, he settled for a fairly modest shot and slowly screwed the cap back on the bottle.

He had willpower to do the right thing when he needed it, he decided. Most of the time anyway.

"Sir? Finish me off. Please."



"Och, man. Bodie'll be here in no time..."

Cowley knelt there, trying to offer comfort when no comfort would be forthcoming.

Doyle's eyes pleaded as they always did, and Cowley's heart tightened as it always did. This time, he refused to even look at the gun lying on the floor. At first, anyway.

"I can't, laddie," Cowley whispered. "I can't."

"I don't want this..." Doyle gasped out, raising a weak hand and pointing at the blood.

So much blood.

"Favour, sir..."

Cowley woke up, mind full of Doyle's words and his own shaking fingers reaching out for the pistol.

The dream varied a little. Sometimes he even saw the bullet he fired smash into Doyle - those times were the worst of all.

Sometimes Bodie came before he fired, and sometimes he didn't.

Sometimes, Bodie even shot him - Cowley - in sheer fury at finding his partner dead, reading his mind and knowing what he'd done.

Occasionally, Cowley didn't even pick up the gun and Doyle died in his arms. In those - slightly less gruelling - dreams, Bodie shared his grief, dropping to his knees and ruffling the curly hair one last time.

But never, ever did Doyle do anything but beg, plead for it all to end.

Cowley shivered as the sweat streamed down his face. This particular dream had come early, too. Experience had proved that it wouldn't be worth going back to sleep, either, as Doyle's voice would continue to haunt him as it implored, as it clawed at his insides.

So, at four thirty in the morning, Cowley went to work.

By eight, his temper was frayed, his eyelids felt like sandpaper, and he was damned sure that quiet voices were spreading the word that the Cow was not having one of his better days.

So let them. Harrison and Merrick had been found during the early hours of the morning, yes, but Harrison was barely alive. It hit Cowley as badly as it always did.

Bodie's arrival in front of his desk surprised him, as did the man's silence.

"So what is it, Bodie? I am extremely busy." Cowley kept his head down at first, hoping Bodie would change his mind and go away. Not that he usually did.

"Thought you might like to know he died in hospital," Bodie said coldly. "Poor bastard."

Oh, God. Another one. Another sacrifice.

Cowley swallowed, and forced himself not to pull his glasses off and drop his head into his hands.

"I've done the necessary," Bodie continued. "Funeral's on Wednesday."

"Thank you, Bodie," Cowley said flatly, wanting the younger man out of there because his control was hanging by a thread. Bodie didn't move.

"Will that be all?" Cowley snapped, more sharply than he intended.

"All?" Bodie said, with dangerous calm. "Will that be all? Well yes, I suppose it will. Sir."

Dammit, why didn't he go?

Finally, Cowley shook his head.

"Yes, Bodie. I am a heartless old bastard. Is that what you're waiting for?"

That actually produced raised eyebrows, but still Bodie stared at him.

"Sometimes, yes," Bodie said thoughtfully and turned on his heel. "Although not as heartless as I am, I suppose."

Cowley picked up the gun, fired it, and Bodie arrived while it was still in his hand. And this time, Harrison's body was lying beside Doyle's.

"Heartless old bastard," Bodie repeated, over and over, cradling Doyle in his arms.

This, Cowley realised as he awoke, had to stop. From being difficult to handle, the nightmares were once again seriously compromising his ability to function.

He hesitated, and then decided to call both men in.

"Where's Doyle?" he started, when only Bodie turned up.

"Out of the building," Bodie said airily. "Busy fighting in the jungle of paperwork and bureaucracy as usual, I suppose. Although I must say he's getting quite a taste for it."

"Indeed," Cowley agreed calmly.

"So?" Bodie asked finally, frowning at the silence.

"I've seen Merrick. Read his report. A very unpleasant business indeed."

"Yeah," Bodie nodded. "And there was no way we could get to them sooner... unlike..."

"Miracles don't always happen," Cowley said quietly. "Not like in Doyle's case, you mean."


Bodie was wearing his impassive face.

"I re-read your report on that," Cowley continued. "Recently, in fact."

And about a dozen times, he added mentally.

"There wasn't much to say," Bodie said curtly. "He took two bullets. You shot the bad guy. We got there once we located you and called the ambulances."

"And that's all?"

"You mean I missed out the bit about Doyle, what he asked you to do? And yes, of course he told me about it, although long after I'd done the report."


"And what?" Bodie wasn't making this easy for him.

"Did he... mention anything else?"

"He said he wanted you to shoot him but didn't know whether he'd managed to ask you or whether he just imagined it... but it looks like he did from what you just said."

"He did ask me." Cowley couldn't avoid his tone being defensive.

"And?" Bodie said. "Would you have fired it?"

"What do you think, Bodie?"

"That's a bit like when I once asked you whether you'd have put a bullet into my brains when I went after the biker. You said 'what do you think?' then, as well."

"Possibly not your brains," Cowley said quietly. "Heartless bastard or not."

"Sure," Bodie said with what looked like a sneer. "But you didn't answer my question about Doyle."

"No," Cowley said, almost in a whisper. He didn't want to put it in words, now he'd got this far.

"You didn't have to take the decision, like you didn't with King Billy," Bodie said tightly. "Both times you didn't need to. You were lucky."

"I was lucky?" Cowley shot back. "As well as heartless? Is that your assessment of it?"

"Yes, sir," Bodie said coldly. "Will that be all?

"It will," Cowley said reluctantly, feeling it was far from all.

Doyle pleaded. Cowley sat there with the gun in his hand.

Bodie charged across the filthy, debris-strewn floor... and then stood there, horror in his eyes.

"He couldn't do it," Doyle's voice came over clearly. "He's a coward."

"He wanted to," Bodie shouted. "Just like he wanted to kill me. And he's not a coward; he's a murdering bastard. He wanted to kill me once, now you. I refused to give him the excuse to shoot me, and today I got here before he did it. But he would have."

"No..." Cowley gasped, but nobody heard him. "It wasn't like that. It wasn't..."

"Coward" Bodie murmured. "And bastard."

"Bastard and coward," Doyle's voice echoed through the warehouse

Cowley couldn't breathe. Called for somebody to help him, and nobody came.

Then the dream shifted: he was pointing a gun at Bodie now: Bodie had a filthy, leather-clad biker in a stranglehold.

He squeezed that trigger, too.

Cowley knew the previous day's conversation had solved little, but he'd been impatient, hadn't been able to wait any longer to broach it. Proof, as if he needed more, that he was getting old.

Doyle arrived in his office as soon as he called for him.

"I spoke to Bodie yesterday," Cowley informed him. "About..."

"I know," Doyle grinned. "He told me."

"I thought he might," Cowley said dryly.

"Yeah," Doyle said thoughtfully. "It's funny, really - I've always wondered if I'd only dreamed I'd asked you to shoot me. I told Bodie as much, but I didn't like to ask you. In fact I wondered if that's why you didn't do it... simply because I hadn't got the words out. Looks as though I did ask you, though, from what you told Bodie."

Funny was not how Cowley would have described it, but Doyle was still thinking aloud.

"I told him - Bodie - that I meant it, sir."

"Aye," Cowley said quietly. "I know you did. And yes, I considered... doing what you asked."

Doyle nodded slowly.

"Well I'm not going to say there were times, even afterwards, when I wished you had, but there's not much point in dwelling on it now. And I wouldn't have blamed you in a way, although I wouldn't have been around to tell you so, right?"

Doyle's logic led Cowley to smile faintly, but at the same time he couldn't make himself come out with the truth - much as he wanted to.

"And I'm not about to start polishing me halo for being saintly these days, either. I can still be a miserable bastard and sorry for meself, and I can't count the number of times I said I didn't want this... nothing being the same..."

Cowley nodded. He'd seen some of the bitterness in Doyle's eyes at the hospital, and his frustration on several occasions afterwards, yet most of the time, the younger man had thrown it off and managed to focus on his work.

"But all things considered," Doyle continued, grinning, "I think I'm better off here behind a desk than up on a cloud with a harp. So I should have kept me mouth shut on that warehouse floor."


"I mean that, as well. And I'm sorry I put you through it a bit over it all, sir."

Cowley let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Thank you, Doyle."

"Don't thank me - I should thank you for not listening to me when I was blabbering away asking you to shoot me. Oh, and while we're at it," Doyle paused. "I ought to tell you that Bodie's had to finish a mate off once. I probably shouldn't be saying it now, but I expect he never told you so. "

"He did?" Cowley said softly, surprised. "And of course it will go no further."

"Thanks," Doyle nodded. "Maybe he'll tell you himself, but he only told me when I said I'd wanted you to do the same."

"I never knew."

That explained Bodie's harsh comment about Cowley's 'luck', however. And a great deal more.

"Thought as much. So if you think he's been acting a bit odd, that's why. For what it's worth, it still bugs him sometimes. And I expect it's on his mind again as he's taking Harrison's death badly but trying not to show it. Like we all are."

"Indeed," Cowley nodded.

"Merrick even told Bodie that Harrison was probably better off dead. And Bodie told him he was a fool and nearly thumped him, which says a lot. But he didn't, and they've sorted it."

"Good," Cowley said, watching Doyle carefully.

"I'd better get back to it," Doyle sighed. "Said I'd initiate Bodie's recruits into how to avoid shooting their toes off, and it's a little light relief from the paperwork."

"He's got you doing that?" Cowley couldn't disguise his surprise. "At the armoury?"

"Now and then," Doyle chuckled. "Lunch hours, usually. And because we always bet on whether I've lost my touch, and I always win because I haven't, it keeps me in beer."

Cowley allowed himself a tiny smile of satisfaction at that as Doyle disappeared. Bodie wasn't anywhere near as heartless as he made himself out to be, but Cowley had known that for a very long time. And particularly where his partner was concerned.

The nightmare was even more vivid than all the rest had been, if that was possible. The three of them together in the warehouse that reeked of filth and spilled blood.

Doyle's eyes bored into his, then Bodie's. The green ones, pain-filled as they were, were suddenly full of a hope of sorts, and the blue ones had fear in them as they swivelled from his boss and his partner.

Cowley was holding the younger man as he drifted somewhere between unconsciousness and agony: he had been trying to explain to him, even as Bodie arrived, that he couldn't do it. That he'd picked the gun up and put it down again, revolted.

He couldn't do it any more than he'd have been able to shoot Bodie, although - as Bodie had said - he'd been spared the horror of taking an irrevocable step.

The dream continued, relentlessly.

A maelstrom of feelings, of shouted voices, ambulance sirens, and that all-pervasive stink. Then the plastic chairs at the hospital, Bodie's bowed head. Quiet words from doctors, endless cups of coffee, and then a few too many whiskies with Bodie in the nearest pub much, much later. A Bodie whose feelings were perilously close to the surface, as were his own.

The alcohol and the fatigue had taken the edge off their emotions, at least fleetingly: emotions that ever since had remained tucked away, emotions that hard men couldn't, mustn't show.

Cowley awoke to the realisation that what had been torturing him was the very fact he'd considered killing a man on both occasions. Both of them people he cared about, and deeply.

The familiar twist to his stomach as he'd dreamed of crouching there in the warehouse or even pointing a pistol at Bodie's head was the recurring theme every time, in every nightmare. His confusion, frustration, despair... and grief for what had so nearly been.

Oh yes, he was a hard man. Heartless in many ways... Bodie was right about that. But what would happen if one day, the choice came again and he couldn't avoid it?

Yes, he was capable of shooting a villain in cold blood: he'd done that without a qualm. But would he be able to pull a trigger if it was somebody he cared about? Like Bodie or Doyle or, in fact, any member of his squad?

How did Bodie live with having done so? Or at least coped better than the officer he'd seen kill out of mercy so long ago had done?

He didn't know the answer to either question.

Bodie came over after Harrison's funeral, while the others were toasting Harrison, consoling Merrick, and working on the false cheer. His face was pale, drawn, and his expression was one that once again, Cowley couldn't read, so the words came as a surprise.

"Owe you an apology, sir, for being a bit sharp the other day. I wouldn't have liked being in your position. Either time - with Ray or with me over King Billy."

"Bodie, I -"

"I mean it," Bodie said quietly. "And God knows I'm glad you never fired that gun on Doyle even when he asked - I should have said so."

"There was no need," Cowley said stiffly.

"Yes there was. I expect Doyle told you about...when I had to...?"

"Yes," Cowley admitted, softening as he saw the effort it was taking Bodie to come out with this. "I didn't know that, laddie."

"Suppose that's stuff you might just tell your partner, but probably not your boss," Bodie added thoughtfully. "Although under the circumstances... it's probably best you know."

"Perhaps," Cowley said. "In the light of..."

"Ray, and what he asked. You've got to hand it to him nowadays, though," Bodie said, as they both instinctively looked over at Doyle across the room. "Even if when he was first in hospital he kept saying he was useless... that he always knew it'd end up like this."

"Aye," Cowley nodded. "I remember."

"But he's right back on form, y'know. Gave me a right old bollocking last night when I admitted I'd called you on Harrison and said you were heartless."

"Och, man, I can be heartless fair enough", Cowley said, staring at his empty glass. "About Harrison..."

"Sometimes you have to be. Goes with the job," Bodie said. "I told myself that. But it never stops hurting, right?"

"Never," Cowley nodded agreement. "Whether you kill them by firing a trigger, or by simply by being the person who sends them out onto the streets or even teaches them not to shoot their own feet off."

"Yeah," Bodie murmured slowly, acknowledging the inference to Doyle's little sideline with a tiny grin. "I tell myself that now I am training them to go out on the streets, but I still think about the guy I killed - still wonder sometimes how I did it."

"Because you had no choice, Bodie," Cowley prompted. "And not because of being heartless. Am I right?"

"No, sir. I couldn't carry him out of there - had a bullet in my thigh. And if he'd been taken, tortured... he was already dying..."

"Then you made a decision, and the one that seemed the only one," Cowley said simply. "I'm glad I didn't have to shoot either you or Doyle, Bodie - of course I am. But to be perfectly frank, I may not have been able to do it whatever the circumstances."

There, he'd said it. Bodie stared at him, obviously amazed at Cowley's open admission.

"It was different for you both times, sir," he said finally. "I think if you'd been in my place on that battlefield you'd have done it. Just like if I'd been you in that warehouse - or even pointing a gun at me - I think I'd have done the same as you. Waited. Like I said the other day, you had a choice. You might have...acted differently if you felt you hadn't."

"Perhaps," Cowley said. "Perhaps you're right, Bodie."

Both men fell silent for a moment or two, until Bodie looked up as Doyle approached.

"Evenin'," Doyle said, looking from one to the other. "Looks like a pretty intense conversation."

Bodie raked up a grin. Cowley groped for words and didn't find them.

"Suppose I can guess what you're thinking about. Poor bloody Harrison, right?"

"Something like that," Bodie said softly.

"And all the others," Cowley said spontaneously. "The ones injured, crippled..."

Both men stared at him, and it was Bodie who broke the uncomfortable pause.

"You win some, you lose some," he said. "And sometimes you don't have the choice in this job - that's what we were saying, Ray."

"Yeah," Doyle agreed. "But somebody's got to do it, right? And then live with it, and the consequences. Mind, sometimes think I should have stuck to painting or something and left saving the world to somebody else. But I didn't. None of us did."

"Right," Bodie said, looking from Cowley to his partner. "I'd say that puts it in a nutshell. Making choices. Living with consequences."

Doyle nodded, frowning slightly at them both, then shook his head as if to clear it.

"Well, can't stop too long putting the world to rights - got a date," he told them airily after a second or two. "Irresistible, me."

"Impossible, more like," Bodie snorted. "Yet another one to fall for the wounded hero stuff, I suppose?"

"Jealousy'll get you nowhere. But don't overdo the whisky or the intense stuff. Either of you."

Doyle waggled a finger at both men and slowly, incredulously, Cowley felt his own expression turn into a smile.

"Date, eh?" Bodie said, not without a little pride. "That's the second this week, dammit. You know, I once told him - when he took that bullet to his leg - that the stick would be a plus with the girls. Now look at him."

Cowley did look at the departing figure. Doyle's wheelchair cleared a space through the crowd as if by magic.

"Like I said, impossible," Bodie murmured. "And about being heartless, sir..."

Cowley stared yet again, the smile fading.

"Since you're not, and are in fact extremely generous and kind, and like he says we've done enough heavy stuff for now, it's your round, I believe."

"Is it indeed?" Cowley eyed Bodie with mock-severity but couldn't stop the smile creeping back to his lips. "And as you are hardly without a heart yourself, apparently, the one after that comes from your pocket, lad."

"Most definitely, sir. And we'll live with both our actions and the consequences - whether it's a hangover or anything else."

Bodie chuckled then paused, speaking more seriously. "Like we always have, all three of us. I think that's the only way."

"Aye," Cowley agreed, and started to head for the bar. "The only way."

He wondered if he'd dream that night.

He didn't.

-- THE END --


Two men
They started walking
Started talking bout better days
One says to the other
We do it all again
Seems I knew I would
And now I found it
Found I got it
I didn't want this
Somebody help me see
Now I feel it
Feel like I've been there
I didn't need this
Somebody help me breathe

Here we are again
Just face to facing
Each other another day
Who wins
Well who cares
It always ends up the same
Seems I knew I would

And now I found it
Found I got it
I didn't want this
Somebody help me see
And now I feel it
Feel that I've been there
I didn't need this
Would Somebody help me stand
And now I've told them
Already warned them
I didn't want this
Somebody help me breathe

If I was them
Then I wanna be
What I see
If I could drag my life in a moment
Wanna know do you want me to go
Gonna keep it all from ending
Never stop myself from pretending
That you always knew that I never could

All I ever really wanted was to be the same
Equal treatment never ever comes
and there they go again
All I ever really wanted was to be like you
So perfect
So worthless
If i could take it all back think again
I would

And now I found it
Found I got it
I didn't want this
Somebody help me see
Now I feel it
Feel that I've been there
I didn't need this
Somebody help me stand
And now I've told them
I didn't want this
I didn't need this
Would somebody help me breathe
Would somebody help me breathe
Would somebody help me?

(c) Brenda, January 2003

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