The smoke clears, leaving him untouched. Him and his smug grin in his pinstripe suit, pristine as usual, with his fedora that must be cemented into place and coated with teflon. Really, I don't know what to do about him. One can only tolerate so much. The girl at my bed was the last straw. I enjoy my sleep, without Tortured-Past-Girl showing up and bloodying up the floor every night. It took me three hours before she left me in peace. Three hours of listening to her talk about her life of woe, her cruel and unjust death, and how everyone believed the stupid girls who brought about her death. So much for leaving psychiatry. AND THEN JOHN WAS A ZOMBIE.