Some believe there is a sanctuary beneath our eyelids; if you close your eyes just a little tighter, sometimes you can block out the horrible sights before you. And maybe if you can't hear something, you can make it disappear, so you cup your hand over your ears and take comfort in what sounds like the beach. But there is no escape for the things we feel. You can't wish away the pain of a fist, or the sting of a burn. No matter how much you cross your fingers you can't will some things away.
A soft, small cry filtered through the cold New York City air, falling deaf on the ears of people walking just a few feet away. That's right, my darling. Close your eyes, cover your ears. I love you, a warm voice flowed through her mind, just audible over the sounds of the ocean that took place between her hands and ears.
A loud crash broke through the sounds of the waves, cracking her sanctuary into a million tiny pieces as she was brought back to harsh reality. Really, when your eyes are open, and your hands are gone, the world is a very, very scary place. Especially for a little girl.
It was a quiet morning and the scum of New York seemed to be sleeping. The three detectives and, of course, their tag along sat in the quiet prescient pretending to do paper work, making paper airplanes and generally annoying one another for sport.
"Castle," Beckett warned as she pretended to do something important with her computer; really she was just surfing her Facebook. "If you click that pen one more time, I'll hit you."
Rick put on a pout. "Is it wrong to wish for a murder?"
No sooner than the words left his lips a shrill ring filled the room, drawing everyone's attention. "I hate you," Beckett said in an annoyed tone. "Beckett," she spoke to person on the other end. "Be there in ten." She gathered up her jacket, badge and gun and made her way to the elevator where the team was already assembled.
"Guys, listen up," Beckett called. "Get your poker faces on, okay?"
"What've we got, boss?" Esposito asked as they boarded the elevator.
"A man was murdered during a home invasion and his four year old daughter is still at the house," she told them seriously. "Don't make a scene. No jokes. Don't even look at the body until she is out of there," she took full charge of the situation, leaving no room for error. "Do we understand?"
"Yes, boss," the three chorused.
Thanks for reading!
Before someone comments about the first paragraph, yes I know that children who are physically abused are more at risk of developing D.I.D. and therefore CAN wish away the pain by slipping into an alternitive personality that will protect them...but that would complicate my story so it's not happening.
