Christopher was resigned to the fact he would be dead by the morning. Did he deserve to die? What sort of stupid question was that? He would have given himself a slap for being so ridiculous if he could. He might just as well ask himself if he was a good father. He needed to think clearly and sensibly. He was scared - no, he was terrified and it was about time he owned up to that. He had to confront what frightened him most - and that was not death itself, but that promised state of creative, relentless, unforgiving pain that would make him beg to be dead and released from his agony. He wished he had been able to give them what they wanted. It would have been so much easier, but that was not possible now. He mentally beat himself with thoughts of his own stupidity. He had always considered himself to be an intelligent man, he was rich, handsome and well-regarded but right now he really did not know what sort of man he was. How could his decline have happened so spectacularly to the point that tomorrow his life would end? He had the night to think about it before they returned.