Clarke paced the length of the holding cell, the muscle in his jaw working. He was angry, so angry but when anyone came by he said nothing. A lesser man would take his anger out on his surroundings, but not Clarke. He was a good man, raised right. He had never taken anger out on someone who didn't deserve it, never hit a woman, never killed a man.
That was what bothered him the most. He had dedicated his life to protecting his fellow man and then they thought he was a murderer? It was outrageous! He couldn't wait until he was old enough to be a firefighter. He needed it as badly as he needed to breathe. Then when the time came, he jumped at the chance to serve. And he did so in some of the worst conditions imaginable. Yes, people have heard many stories, but words can never accurately describe what Clarke had seen. What he had felt. And finally he came back only to do it again in his own country.
A lot of people don't realize it, but fighting fire can be a lot like fighting a war. It creates casualties in the "civilians", in the brothers fighting beside you. It puts you in unthinkable positions, where there's no way out. You can find yourself completely surrounded by a hostile enemy only the enemy doesn't have any guns. It has rage, and heat, and it can kill you 20 different ways without needing a gun or a weapon of any kind. Sometimes you leave the station, ready to help, to save lives, and you show up, but there's nothing you can do. Then death follows you home on your shoulder and taunts you until you do it again. And you bear it all, quietly. You owe to those that you couldn't save to suffer quietly as they might have.
What have I done? Clarke hopelessly thought. I'm trying to protect Lisa and now look where it's gotten me. She hasn't even come to visit me...
Anger gave way to despair and he sat down on the hard cot provided for him. He cradled his head in his hands, and just stared at the floor, where there was a chunk missing from the cement. He tried to focus on anything else, but it was futile. He kept thinking about this mess.
In his head he keep going back and forth; it was like in the movies, a devil on one shoulder, an angel on the other. He didn't kill him, his ex did, but he couldn't let her go to jail. He would never work as a firefighter again (he'd be lucky to get a job picking up trash), but he loved her and he had to protect her. He kept at it, wearing himself thin and raw.
He stretched out on his cot, stretched out his weary limbs. His whole body felt heavy. This whole situation was taking a toll on him.
He tried to quiet his thoughts, or at least slow them down. It at least worked well enough for him to finally fall asleep.
He did so with one last thought: One decision changed my life.
Maybe with tomorrow he might find another one to set it back to normal. To clear his name. And his conscience.
