I'm Calling 'Fire'
I can't do this, I think, staring at the pool of blood on the carpet. Frankie's blood. It's not even that much, really. It's almost hard for me to believe that this tiny pool of blood, compared to what it could have been, is all that's left of him. The cold, hard fact that he's not here anymore because of me, because of what I'd had to do, stares up at me in the form of that stain. He made you do it, I have to remind myself.
I can't stay here tonight.
Before I can start arguing with myself to toughen up and just do what needs to be done, I give up with a flourish of my hand on my dresser, yanking out clothes and stuffing them haphazardly into my bag. There's no time to be organized or neat. This isn't home anymore and I won't pretend that it is. It's a place I don't recognize because my home is always warm, inviting, comfortable after a long day. It's a place where I don't always have to be "on"; it understands me as much as I want to be understood. I can just be and not worry. But not anymore. This cold, silent place has a story now of the horrible thing that happened here. That feeling doesn't belong to me or my home. I don't want it and I don't accept it. I'm leaving.
I catch a glimpse of the statue on my way out the door, but try to pretend that I don't. It's difficult not to notice it though: the center of the statue, what used to be the blinding whiteness of the face Frankie said represented my "pure, angelic soul", is now speckled with blood. His blood. That I put there. The symbolism of that moment isn't lost on me and I can't ignore the voice in my head that taunts me on my way out the door.
Mac was wrong, it jeers through the slam of my front door, you're not a victim. You did this. No circumstances out of your control got you here. This one is on you. And just look at the mess you've made this time.
I barely make eye contact with the woman at the front desk of the first hotel I pick and I can't feel the expression my face makes. I'm not even sure I hear her speak. I'm really not up for any sort of conversation or exchanging pleasantries, but I have a feeling that nasty slice through my left cheek does most of the talking for me. She hands me my key card and I take the elevator to my room.
I try to settle down to sleep in the darkness after changing at record-speed despite the pinch of pain in my shoulders from the strain of them being tied behind my back, daring for a moment to close my eyes, but then he's there, cowering away from me as I shoot him.
Killer.
My eyes snap open and I slam my hand over the base of the lamp on the night stand to force the light out of it. Breathing hard and clutching the comforter with white knuckles, I stay rigid on the bed and scan the room around me frantically for any signs of life other than myself. Although I find none, I'm not convinced.
I briefly consider showering because that tends to help calm me down, but I glance through the open bathroom door at the tub and see my own bathtub with rivers and pools of my blood. My head snaps away to focus on a shift in the curtains instead. Who's there, I want to ask, but my voice ends in my throat. I know I should try to get some sleep- I haven't slept since I was unconscious…after- but I won't make the mistake of closing my eyes again.
I want to curl up in the bed- it must be comfortable, but I can't relax enough to be sure. I remember those nights in foster care hearing the shouting and slamming of hands on kitchen counters, remember how curling up away from it helped to shut it out. It was like I could create my own little world by turning my back on the anger of the people in that house: my own warm world filled with the comfort of knowing I could always trust and rely on myself. For some reason, I can't do that tonight.
Hours tick by as I scan the room over and over again and try to make up my mind about which is worse, feeling like a murderer or feeling like a victim. As the sun begins peeking through the shades, it hits me and I refuse to look at myself in the mirror when my legs finally creak to life: regardless of which label I give myself, I don't like either one. I've become something that I promised myself I'd never be.
My appointment with the department counselor isn't until the late morning, but I leave the hotel hours early and just walk. For the first half hour or so, I march quickly, weaving through the people in suits who look like they're on their way to important meetings and the exercise nuts out with their dogs and strollers for their morning jog. They're all going too slowly for my pace, it seems. Luckily, a part of me remembers to watch for traffic at the start of every new block and I'm able to focus on the pressure on my face from the wind. I like how it numbs my mind and shuts up that voice in my head that keeps wanting to remind me of what happened to me and what I did.
Soon though, I begin to register faces as I blaze by them and I slow down just a hair and realize that each pair of eyes that I pass meets mine and scans my face. Even if they're looking away before we cross paths, they swing over to me, like they're drawn to the stitches under my eye. For the rest of my walk before I get to the office, they watch me. It's as if they know and I wonder how that's possible.
I duck into the office building that matches the address on the card the nurse gave me at the hospital and take the elevator up to the appropriate floor. I'm still early, but I have to get off the sidewalk where people can watch me. And that's when I realize that maybe I hadn't thought this through quite enough: the receptionist hands me a clipboard with an aloof glare and instructions to fill out the paper and return it to her when I'm done. Her eyes are hard when she thrusts a pen into my hand.
Stop it, I chastise myself as I turn and find a seat. She has no idea why you're here. Just fill out the paper so you can get this over with.
At first, it's a welcome change, filling out the form, because it gives my mind something to focus on other than the distracting flashes of Frankie and the people I passed outside who wouldn't stop looking at me. But then, all too soon, I'm at the end of the form and I hand it back to the receptionist. When I turn around, there are three other people in the office with me and they share the same looks as everyone else I've seen so far today. I try to hide my face behind a magazine, but I can feel their stares burning through the cover.
This is ridiculous. You're being paranoid, the rational part of my brain argues. It's no match for the twisting in my stomach and the race my heartbeat seems to be running, though.
"Stella Bonasera," calls a young nurse in mint green scrubs. I stand without a word and follow her through a sterile hallway. Eventually, she stops at a door and holds it open for me. Unlike the rest of the building that I've seen so far, which looks more like a hospital than an office for a counselor, this particular room seems a bit more inviting. The walls are still a stark white, but it seems like every bit of furniture is a shade of blue, which I suppose is meant to be calming. At the moment though, it just makes me feel claustrophobic.
"Ah, Detective," a female voice from behind me makes my heart jump and my entire body recoil with surprise. I turn warily to see a pretty blonde in a pantsuit giving me a faraway smile and holding out the hand that's not clutching a manila folder. "Dr. Hedges."
The panic I've been feeling since last night that was just exacerbated by her sudden appearance prevents me from thinking of a coherent response.
She gestures to the blue upholstered couch behind me and takes a seat in a massive navy armchair with a matching footstool on which she props her heels and settles her folder on her lap. "Were you able to find the place okay?"
"Fine, thanks," I say shortly, just glad that I seem to be able to form coherent thoughts again.
"Good, good. We tried to make this place a little homier than it looks." Her eyes seem to bore into mine.
I seem to have lost all skill at small talk because I can only nod in response. I find it strange that I don't care much.
"Well Detective, I suppose we should get right into it then. I've looked through the forensic nurse's notes and, I have to say, I'm impressed that you've decided to start so soon."
"I suppose I wanted to be pragmatic about it," I reply flatly, suddenly feeling exhausted now that I'm not moving.
"You seem tired, Detective. Have you slept since it happened?"
"'Since it happened,'" I repeat, feeling my blood surge with energy again. "Go on, you can say it, you know. 'Since I killed my boyfriend.'" I stare back at her. God, does this woman ever blink?
"Is that what you believe happened?"
"It is what happened."
"Why don't you tell me what you remember? Maybe we can start from there."
"I went over this with the forensic nurse at the hospital and with Detective Flack. You really need me to repeat it?"
"I'd like to hear it from you directly rather than from a nurse's or another detective's notes."
"Fine," I scoff. "My boyfriend broke into my apartment and attacked me with a knife. He knocked me unconscious, tied me up, and then dragged me into the bathtub while he set out the take out that he ordered for dinner. When I freed myself and tried to escape, he took the gun from me, but the safety was on, so I took it back and I shot him." I forced my face to not wince at the pain in my chest as I rattled off the litany of what had happened that night for the umpteenth time.
"How many times?"
I suddenly have no more breath in my body again. "What?"
"How many times did you shoot him?" I can't tell if the look in her eyes is a result of morbid curiosity or if she's just trying to make a point. But she still hasn't looked away.
"Three," I say quietly.
"Detective, do you truly believe that the ruling of a good shoot was warranted in your case?"
"Are you questioning its validity?" I ask scathingly, feeling the breath return to me again. What the hell is happening to me?
"No, I'm questioning if you're questioning it."
"I'm not."
"Okay, but you still haven't answered my question about how you've been sleeping the past couple of nights."
"I sleep fine," I lie and twist my fingers in my lap tightly. Now instead of having no breath at all, I feel like there's too much.
"Detective, I understand why you're feeling hostile, but I can promise you that it won't make this go any faster. It's a natural part of processing what you've been through, but if you're behaving this way on purpose, it's not going to help at all. You don't have to do this on your own, but if you want my help, you're going to need to give me more than this. You have to let me help you."
"What, are you afraid I'll kill you too if I get too 'hostile'?" I sneer, my blood now positively boiling in my veins.
"Detective-"
"No!" I shoot up out of my seat. "No. Look, I don't need your help." Yes you do, my rational side argues. "What I need is to do this my way." Fuming, I turn on my heel and flee from the office, taking the stairs to the ground floor. When I push on the glass doors violently, they give a satisfying squeak on their hinges and I stomp through them, finally stopping at a bench and breathing heavily. I grip the metal hard, hearing the air forcing its way in and out of my body in gasps and wheezes. I realize then that I'm having a panic attack on the sidewalk, in the middle of the day. My face flames and I know I should find somewhere to rest, somewhere I can just stop, but my head is swimming, I can't move, and I can't get enough air. My hands are freezing, despite the warm temperatures of the spring day.
Slow down, my head says. Just slow down and think of somewhere you feel safe. Come on, you can do it.
I wrack my brain, force myself to think, as I grip the bench under my hands tighter. The last thing I want is go back to that hotel. I can't go to the lab and home is certainly out of the question. And then it hits me. Of course. I'm shocked I didn't think of it sooner. I'm at Mac's apartment before I realize it and I knock, wondering belatedly if he's already left for his tour.
But then the door swings open. "Stella," he greets me with a small smile and a hint of surprise.
Without any sort of preamble, I brush over the threshold of his apartment into the foyer. "She's a quack! I told you going to see her wouldn't do any good, but I went and she's a quack!"
"Who? The department counselor?" He closes the door behind us.
I'm pacing now, wringing my hands and nearly shouting. "Yes! She was sitting in her chair with her folder and her holier-than-thou attitude and she wouldn't shut up about helping me 'if only I'd let her'! And she was looking at me!"
"Isn't that her job, Stell?"
I barely hear him respond. "I know what she was thinking, just watching me and looking at me. It was that look. The one everyone gives me, like they can't decide whether they should be afraid of me or if they should pity me. 'Oh, poor, unfortunate Stella! All alone and incapable of taking care of herself. Look at how easily things go bad for her, how she just can't stop being the charity case'! You know that look, Mac!" I jab a finger at him like a threat.
"I'm sure-"
"That was the look! She was sitting there across from me, taking notes and looking at me. And then that awful hotel room!"
His eyebrows shoot up close to his hairline. "You went to a hotel?"
I throw my hands in the air. "God, it's atrocious! You've never seen ugly wallpaper until you've seen this crap! I mean, get someone who's not colorblind to decorate your hotel before you give people epileptic seizures! It's sickening. Really. It's a wonder any normal person gets any sleep in that place!"
"Did you?"
"What?" I ask sharply and I see relief flicker across his face briefly.
"Did you sleep when you were there?"
I open my mouth, still irate, but he holds up a hand. "Don't argue with me," he says so calmly that I actually feel my blood pressure begin to fall a bit toward normal. "Tell me if you slept."
The words catch in my throat as I feel the tears begin to burn again and I blink wildly to force them back. I settle for shaking my head.
"Okay," he says softly. Then he reaches to his belt for his phone and presses a number. "Yeah, hey Flack, it's me…No, we don't have a case that I know of, I'm just taking the day today…No, everything's fine. Something just came up and I'm not going to make it in…Yeah, pass the message around…Great, thanks. See you tomorrow." He reclips his phone to his belt and reaches out to me. I hate myself a little bit when I flinch away. He doesn't seem to take it personally though and tries again, laying his hand on the small of my back and guiding me to his couch. We sit, but I lean forward and bury my face in my hands, remembering with the sting on my cheek that I need to stay away from the stitches.
I can't hold back the sobs anymore. "I just want to stop, Mac. Can I just stop?"
His hand moves in comforting circles over my shirt. "Yes. You can stop. It's okay."
I sob into my hands as he keeps rubbing my back; his hand is big and strong and so very warm.
"You don't have to go back there tonight either," he murmurs. "You can stay here. For as long as you want."
I nod, but I wait until my throat clears to thank him.
He pulls me gently against his side and settles us against the back of the couch. I bury my head in his shoulder, letting his suit jacket catch the runaway tears that have slowed down, but haven't stopped completely. I rest my hand on his thigh and squeeze tightly against the pain in my chest. His hand covers one side of my head as his face turns in to the other.
"Whatever you're thinking about this, Stella, there's one thing I want you to know. It's not your fault. I know it's not your fault and I will remind you of that every day until you believe it." His voice is quiet, so quiet that, had I been crying any louder, I might not have heard him. But it's also deep and strong and so sure that, for the first time since I left for my apartment, I think I might actually be able to believe that I deserved the good shoot from IAB. I squeeze his thigh again, this time in gratitude, as the pain in my chest releases slightly.
His arm squeezes my shoulders as he reaches for the TV remote on his other side. The screen flickers to life to some game show that I know he keeps on for my benefit, even though neither one of us really cares about it, so I don't have to see stories like mine played out in the news or the crime dramas on daytime television that always get our jobs wrong. I can hear his heartbeat when I press my ear to his chest. The tears have stopped. And when I close my eyes this time, there's nothing there.
A/N: The title of this story was inspired by "Fire" by Delta Rae. Go check it out if you haven't heard it! P.S.- Happy New Year!