Hallam continued, dragging himself wearily through the sand until a sound struck his ears and he turned thoughtfully to the sea that lapped just out of reach of his naked feet.

"Michael."

Hallam swallowed hard and listened again as the sea called to him.

"Michael."

"No." He growled, forcibly shaking his head and turning away from the wistful waters.

"Listen to me Michael."

"Leave me alone, don't call me that,"

"There is nowhere left to go Michael, stop running from yourself."

"I'm not Michael, he's gone, leave me alone."

Hallam's ambling footsteps had transformed into a clumsy jog as he slowly realised that there was, indeed, nowhere left to run.

"Michael, you can not run from what you have done."

By now salt water was beginning to well up in Hallam's eyes and he slowed to a stop, breathing and listening as the sea began to cover his feet in icy coldness, coldness that already belonged in his heart.

"Leave me alone." He managed, but it was feeble, and as he lay down in the inky sand of the night, his eyes closed and he drifted. His mind spun freely and he was launched backwards, remembering and regretting. He would remember what he had done, he would remember when he had been Michael, when he had been young and ambitious and he would remember the pain, of yes, he would certainly remember that.

"So, what are you doing today?" Micky asked pleasantly, curling a lock of his hair around his finger.

"The same as I do everyday, look for a job." Mike murmured, not looking up from the bills he was examining.

"Don't you want to spend the day with me?" Micky pretended to pout, leaning closer to Mike until his face was almost buried in that ebony mane. Mike looked up slowly, a coy smile playing with his lips.

"Whatever happened to the innocent little Dolenz I fell in love with?" The Texan purred.

"He fell in love with a boisterous Texan who doesn't know the meaning of 'no'!" Micky gave his cheeky grin that always succeeded in making Mike melt.

Mike leant back in his chair and tucked his arms around Micky's slim waist, pulling him down onto his lap. He breathed deep and could feel himself growing hot, man, sometimes Mick smelt so good. Micky smiled sweetly and eliminated the space between them, bringing his full lips to meet his lover's.

The kiss was mind blowing, in fact, better than that. The mid-morning sun cast a glow of warmth across their skin and Mike could feel Micky's tongue, could taste his sugary mouth. But this was the kind of sugar that couldn't rot your teeth, and with that thought, Mike pushed the kiss on deeper, pulling Micky to straddle his lap, pressing up against him in an urgency he only felt when he was with his lover, an urgency to share all he had to give.

Their bedroom was a lot cooler than the rest of the house, but it was blissfully quiet, not that they would have noticed anyway. Micky peeled Mike's shirt off gently, playfully, knowing how much Mike hated it when everything seemed to go in slow motion, but the drummer was impressed, Mike was restraining himself. Micky was already naked, a product of the Texan's eager handiwork, and he nibbled hotly at Mike's ear, carefully pressing his body against his lover seductively.

"Mick." Mike groaned, his eyes closing and his head lowering so that he could rest it on Micky's shoulder.

Micky smiled, kissing Mike's neck as he worked on releasing him from the rest of his clothes. When Mike, too, was naked Micky handed over the reins to Mike, who would take total control from there. That was the way things were, and that was the way, if it was up to Mike, things would stay. Micky didn't really mind, he was loved and in the end, that was all that mattered. Surely freedom is a little price to pay for love?

Mike moved Micky over to the bed, and laid him down, hesitating briefly to look at him. He was beautiful, with his soft curls and child-like face, slim body and perfect skin tones. He was a priceless possession, and Mike was hell-bent on keeping him.

The Texan lay down beside his lover on the bed and stroked a caressing finger down Micky's chest, over his stomach, feeling the little patch of fuzzy hair that began there.

"I love you Micky," Mike whispered hoarsely, as he manoeuvred himself on top of his lover, feeling the warmth generated when their two bodies met.

Micky merely moaned quietly but that was enough for Mike. Slowly, lovingly, he entered Micky with all the precision and care he could muster. Micky's hands reached up and latched around Mike's shoulders, the long fingers clutching and relaxing, clutching and relaxing. But Mike failed to acknowledge them. At that moment all he could feel was the immense heat, the pure pleasurable tightness. He gradually began a rhythm and with every movement the feeling and sensations were amplified ten-fold. A groan escaped his lips, no matter how much he tried to keep it in and Micky moaned too, as if they were singing, the song of loving unity.

Mike knew he was close, his emotions had been running high since that first morning kiss and when Micky moaned for a second time he felt himself give way and he came. Micky felt Mike tense up and sensations spun up his spine, sending him over the edge. It was an almighty climax and when he was finished, Micky realised how tired he was, not even having enough energy to open his eyes. This was it, this was what made it all worthwhile and with that thought, he succumbed to beaconing sleep.

It wasn't all love and care as Micky had soon found out. Their relationship had begun when Mike finally confessed his feelings to Micky, only for Micky to realise that, deep down, he felt the same way too. At first they were wary of each other, sharing mere childish kisses that reminded Micky of when he first started dating, but as the weeks passed, Mike became more assertive, and rough.

There were times, Micky could recall with painful clarity, when Mike would lash out if he didn't get his own way, particularly if they had been having a night out at a club or party and everyone was pretty pissed out of their skulls. Micky could remember telling Mike that all he wanted to do was sleep and the painfully humiliating slap he received as a response. Mike had got his own way that night, as he did on similar occasions, but by the next morning, when Mike would be gentle and caring, telling Micky how beautiful he was, the drummer would soften, not daring to mention the dreaded 'R.A.P.E.' word as he was sure Mike wouldn't do it again, just as he would be sure after the next episode that this time, Mike would not do it again.

To say Mike was controlling was like saying Titanic was a big boat. He could be cruel, very cruel, and with this came Micky's never-ending confusion. Was life with the loving, violent Mike, better than a life without the pain, yet without the love as well? Micky would never answer himself that question, but it was always there, lurking in the back of his mind, just waiting to arise when, once again, Mike got his own way.

In a way, the control was reassuring. When Mike refused to let Micky out of his sight, instead of feeling like he wasn't being trusted or that he was thought of as immature, Micky felt loved and needed and that made him overlook Mike's outbursts, Mike's vicious verbal abuse and of course, Mike's brutal beating. If Mike wanted Micky to stick around, then surely it meant that he cared?

Davy surveyed the scene before him with as much interest as he would if the room were a mere pile of dirt. Sometimes he just hated Sundays. Nothing ever happened, no one ever went out, everyone just stayed indoors, wishing they were anywhere but where they were.

Peter was scoring some music and plucking his bass at random intervals, trying desperately to make his song a masterpiece. Mike was out on the veranda, sunning himself although his skin never showed any sign of tanning, just remained its sometimes sickly shade of pale. Micky was drawing in his sketchbook, a new pastime of his and Davy noted with faint amusement that the drummer always seemed to poke his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes set in deep concentration.

The Englishman didn't move from his place in the armchair, his arms dangling listlessly by his sides. Oh how he hated Sundays. Davy sighed heartily and stood up, his teeth set. He would go out, that's what he would do, and he would escape hell before the fires began to singe him.

"Come on Micky, let's go out." Davy stepped up to the drummer and peered over his shoulder, admiring the rather impressive sketch of a bowl of fruit that was nestled in his lap.

Micky looked up and there was a certain worry in his eyes, something Davy neither recognised nor liked and spoke very quietly.

"Out? Where?"

"Anywhere. 'ow about the movies? Or one of the early-opening clubs? Anything before I go completely crazy!"

That worried look seemed to grow and Micky looked behind Davy, his eyes setting on the veranda.

"I don't know." He murmured, keeping his gaze trained on the figure outside.

"Oh come on Micky, it'll do you good."

"No Dave, sorry." Micky sounded extraordinarily quiet and it unnerved Davy immensely. What was wrong with him? Davy knew of Micky and Mike's relationship, it was a pretty open affair around the pad, but that had been going on for months and Micky had seemed ok, but recently he had changed.

"Mick, get a life man, you've been stuck inside for days! Come on,"

"NO!"

Davy stepped back warily and surprised alarm bells began ringing in his head. Silently he glanced behind him and noticed that Peter was watching them intently now and was that a snide glance from Mike?

Micky huffed slightly, trying to hide the embarrassment from his outburst and ruffled his curls, turning back to his drawing. Davy shook his head, he couldn't stand this room a moment longer, and with that, he grabbed his jacket and left, slamming the door hard behind him, imagining the cringe on Peter's face as he did it.

Micky swallowed hard and tried to overcome his internal regret for yelling at Davy. It wasn't the Englishman's fault, he was just being a pal. But Micky knew he couldn't go. He'd rather stay in Mike's view, like a goldfish, than go out and then face a barrage of questions and accusations when he got home. It was safer, albeit agonisingly boring, to stay home and play the good loyal pet.

Micky looked out at the veranda again and watched Mike relax into his doze again, an imaginary collar and leash lay by his side.

Micky looked out at the sea and watched the moon's reflection dance happily on the waves. But deep down, he couldn't tell whether the moon was dancing because of the water or because his vision was cloudy due to the build-up of tears. It had been a hellish night and it wasn't over, not by a long shot.

The club had been fun and for a while he had enjoyed being out once again, absorbing the atmosphere, but then the games began.

Mike had been particularly moody all day, and the trip to the club had merely swung his mood from grouchy to cruel. Davy and Peter had wandered off around the room, hooking up with varying females, leaving Micky and Mike alone at a solemn table in a dark corner. Mike had risen, claiming to get some more drinks in, and that was the last time Micky spoke to him throughout the rest of the evening.

Mike had reached the bar, Micky could see that, and then everything turned sour.

She was beautiful, Micky gave her that, with her rich chestnut hair that flowed in soft crinkles down her back. Her eyes were almost identical to Mike's own, glowing in dark cocoa, and her body was curved in all the right places, hugged neatly by a petite black dress. What was she doing here alone? Micky thought, but in his heart, he knew she wouldn't be alone for much longer.

The woman had strode confidently over to Mike and immediately they were talking. The Texan, being the way he was, manoeuvred himself so that he could talk to her and watch Micky at the same time, watching Micky's reaction when he leant over and kissed this urban beauty.

Micky's face fell and he felt heartbroken. Mike's gaze was brutal and merciless as he continued to kiss his new female acquaintance, using his hands to caress her hair. Micky knew all too well what those caresses felt like and he felt ill with betrayal.

Of course, the night didn't end there. Mike had taken her out onto the dance floor, although he didn't quite dance, more conquered her body, making her melt while a slow, nameless song flowed in the background. All the while he \could see Micky and could see how his victim was reacting to this new kind of torture.

Micky didn't stick around. He wouldn't let Mike see him crushed, he wouldn't let himself be crushed. The walk home was painfully hard and Micky wondered why he was going home at all. Home was meant to be a place where you could be happy, where you could feel comfort and where you could relax. The pad no longer provided any of these things and for a few maddening minutes, Micky considered going to stay with his mom, at least he could be away from Mike for awhile.

But no, here he was standing on the veranda, unable to sleep and waiting for his so-called lover to return home.

The door sounded and familiar footsteps wandered through the pad, stopping briefly at the kitchen table to deposit the car keys.

"Micky, come inside and shut the door, it's getting cold." Yet another order.

Micky hesitated, wondering if he dared disobey Mike, and then wandered inside, closing the door behind him.

"Mike." His mouth spoke, but Micky felt as if his brain, at least the rational part, was no longer connected to his body.

"What babe?"

"Why do you hate me so much?"

Silence.

Mike had been getting a glass of water and didn't look up when Micky finished, he merely paused for a moment.

"I don't hate you. Whoever put such a stupid idea in your head?"

"It's not stupid. You hate me, you hate who I am, how I act. You don't want a lover, you want a toy."

"Ah, you're always so full of self-pity Mick, it's all 'me, me, me'"

"Don't bully me Mike, I just want the truth."

Mike ignored Micky's last speech and sat down calmly at the kitchen table, pretending for a moment that he was more interested in an old newspaper that sat there.

"You know," Mike began, taking a sip of his water, "You can be so melodramatic Mick, a real drama queen."

Micky's fists clenched and he could feel those tears for sure now, but he held them back, he wouldn't break down in front of Mike, not this time.

"I've been thinking Michael. Maybe we should just call it a day, it's obviously not working." There, it was out. After saying what he had been preparing for a good few days now, Micky felt both physically and emotionally drained.

"You haven't the balls to leave me and you know it." Mike growled and Micky knew that now the shouting match would well and truly begin.

"You can't keep me as your little plaything anymore! I won't let you!"

"Big words for such a little selfish bastard like yourself."

"Well I suggest you take a look in the mirror Mike! Then you'll see the real bastard!" At first, Micky felt exhilarated and deliriously happy at saying what he really thought, but then he saw the dark look on Mike's face and knew that he was now in serious trouble.

"You've stepped way out of line and it looks like I'm just gonna have to put you right, eh Micky?"

Before Micky could dive for cover, Mike had lurched forward, flying with all the strength he could muster and hurling Micky to the ground. Micky felt all his breath escape him as he hit the ground in a painful heap. As soon as he could, he tried to scramble away, but Mike was quick, his anger giving him the reactions of a hawk.

"Thought you could just mouth off and run huh? Well that's just so typical of you isn't it?" The Texan snarled.

He grabbed Micky heavily by the collar and hauled him up, showing his barred teeth. Micky had seen that look in those eyes before and knew what was coming. He couldn't escape, he'd tried before, but he wouldn't go down without a fight. As Mike forced him over to the couch, Micky kicked and screamed, thrashed out his arms in a vague attempt at distracting Mike long enough to get a run away opportunity. No such luck. Mike barely flinched and gave another shove, throwing Micky onto the couch.

Micky kicked out again but stopped when a stinging pain struck him in the face. Mike was using his fists now, painfully accurate. Micky was stunned and could barely feel his clothes being ripped from him and slowly, he no longer cared. Let Mike do that to him if he wanted, why did it matter, what was the difference between rape and making love? Physically, there was no real difference at all. Emotionally, they were poles apart.

"No, please." Micky whimpered, but Mike didn't hear him, or WOULDN'T hear him.

Mike didn't look at Micky as he raped him. He kept his eyes closed, concentrating on all the sensations that were hurtling though him, making his head spin. To him, Micky was no longer a person capable of thoughts, emotions and opinions; he was just a quick fuck, and a pretty one at that.

Mike pounded into his lover, adrenaline pumping through his veins and reached his climax with a cry. He had held Micky down throughout and knew that a set of familiar finger shaped bruises would have appeared on Micky's arms by morning.

Micky was in agony but everything seemed like it had stopped. He couldn't hear anything, couldn't feel anymore. Everything that had once meant something now meant nothing at all. The breaking truth was more than harsh, it ripped at his mind and there was no physical way to explain it.

Micky's tears had over spilled but they had gone unnoticed, just like the time before, and the time before that. Tears were worthless and meant nothing.

Mike gathered his mind together, trying to work out the mind of a man who gained energy from anger, a man crazy with anger. Slowly he stood and dressed himself, calmness washing over him in waves. Micky was still sniffing but one hard look and he was silent.

"You always get yourself worked up over nothing." Mike murmured, buckling his belt around his neat, slim waist.

Micky closed his eyes for a moment and felt his body sag in pain and exhaustion, he couldn't take it anymore. Slowly he dragged himself to his feet and pulled his clothes around him, resembling a rag doll in need of a few good buttons. He stood there for a moment, the silence deafening him, a headache pounding at his temples.

"I'm going now Mike." He murmured, trying to shuffle his feet in the direction of the door.

"I said you couldn't go, stop acting so fucking dumb." Mike snarled, fastening his shirt.

As he gazed upon Mike, Micky wished that he didn't love the Texan. But he did, more than anything. Once, when they were just friends, he would follow him around, like hanging out with the big cool kid. Micky respected Mike, and was loyal to him, always obediently showing up to practice on time, helping with errands just so he could be with him. And now where had that got him? He had been used and abused and still he came back for more. Mike was looking at him now and his face was wearing a look Micky knew too well. Mike would soon begin to act all kind and gentle again, giving his puppy a treat so that it would stick around, wait around for the next beating. No. Micky's mind screamed at full volume. No more, not ever.

"See ya around Mike, it's been.real."

Micky turned to leave and heard Mike behind him.

"I said no. Micky, come back."

Micky kept walking, tears welling up, but the door was in sight and it was getting closer, not far now.

"Micky."

Micky couldn't hear anymore, the door, he was almost there, just a little further.

Suddenly he felt an almighty force hit his back, knocking the air out of him and sending him flying to the floor. Micky had enough time to let out a gasp, more like a strangled whisper, before he crashed down, blackness encircling him.

He was swimming in darkness, pain pounding from all sides and a warm liquid gushed into his mouth, choking him. Slowly his eyes opened, but everything was blue, a fuzzy, lost-transmission blue.

A figure sailed through the soupy tinge and Mike's face came into view, his mouth moving but there was no sound. His arms outstretched and Micky could see them touch his immobile body, but he felt nothing. He wanted to speak, to tell Mike he was alright, he was just fine, when he saw the blue fade, no, not fade - it got darker. The midnight blackness was coming back, clamping down over his eyes and soon Mike was lost in the fog, lost forever.

"I didn't mean to hurt him, I didn't!" Hallam croaked, knuckling away stray tears.

The sea merely sighed beside him, around him, encircling his waist in cold water.

"He fell, his head hit the table, I didn't mean to hurt him!"

This time the sea replied and Hallam felt he was going to be sick.

"Murderer, murderer, murderer, murderer, murderer, murderer, murderer."

"NO!" Hallam screamed, his hands clutching his head, his breath coming in strangled wheezes.

"Michael the murderer, Michael the murderer, Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike."

The voice faded and left a mentally naked Michael Nesmith, kneeling in water that reached his chest, sobbing heartily.

"I didn't mean to kill him. I loved him."

Then another voice spoke up, another member of Micky's wake;

"You must remember who you are, what you are. Discard your false names Michael, live with what you've done. Until you admit it, you will forever bare the weight of what you have done."

The moon, those were the moon's words, hovering and descending, cutting and maiming.

Mike stood up, dripping in icy water and once again began to trudge towards nowhere, his tears masked by seawater.

And he wandered for the rest of his days.

Crazy Man Michael
(Thompson/Swarbrick)
Performed By Fairport Convention:

Within the fire and out upon the sea,
Crazy Man Michael was walking.
He met with a raven with eyes black as coals,
And shortly they were a-talking

``Your future, your future, I would tell to you.
Your future, you often have asked me.
Your true love will die by your own right hand.
And Crazy Man Michael will cursed be.''

Michael he ranted and Michael he raved,
And beat at the four winds with his fists.
He laughed and he cried, he shouted and he swore,
For his mad mind had trapped him with a kiss.

``You speak with an evil, you speak with a hate,
You speak for the devil that haunts me
For is she not the fairest in all the broad land,
Your sorcerer's words are to taunt me.''

He took out his dagger of fire and of steel,
And struck down the raven through the heart.
The bird fluttered long and the sky it did spin,
And the cold earth did wonder and start.

``Oh, where is the raven that I struck down dead,
That here did lie on the ground?
I see but my true love with a wound so red,
Where her lover's heart it did pound.''

Crazy Man Michael, he wanders and walks,
And talks to the night and the day.
But his eyes they are sane and his speech it is clear
And he longs to be far away.

Michael he whistles the simplest of tunes,
And asks of the wild wolves their pardon.
For his true love is flown into every flower grown,
And he must be keeper of the garden.