Things are different since the desert.
Gil still takes care of me, like he always did, like I knew he would continue to, but he has surprised me with his restraint. If situations were reversed, I'm not sure I'd be able to let him out of my sight for even the briefest of moments. Sometimes, even though it was me who was taken, I feel like it was Gil. Now, a spectre of separation seems to follow me round like a thick fog, ready to engulf me every time he steps out to get the groceries. An almost tangible panic that something will prevent him from coming back to me. But Gil, to his credit, hasn't tried to lock me away from the world, forever protected by four walls and two arms. He has given me the freedom to begin to heal the inner scars, encouraging me to be independent once more, to return to work, to get back to normal. But what is normal?
Things are different since the desert.
If I thought Gil would try to wrap me in cotton wool to keep me pristine and perfect, like a dead but beautiful butterfly that can no longer be hurt, then I was wrong about that too. A little over 3 weeks after I came home from the hospital we made love for the first time since the desert. Before, I imagined it would be a hesitant, tender act, scary in its vulnerability, but Gil handled me like a woman, like his woman. He held me and touched me, licked, sucked and fucked me with joyful exuberance that this second chance had been given to him. Always the gentleman, he was careful to make sure I came first, before he slid himself home. His thrusts were urgent, demanding. He revelled in the raw need of my body's desperate response, and my mind was free, temporarily, to bask in the bond that has been cemented between us. Of course, Gil was mindful of my arm, but not in an anxious way. He was confident. In himself. In me. In us. In this act of overcoming. But where before there was glorious afterglow wrapped up in warm bed sheets, now there was the white noise of silence that kept the room perpetually cold. It dawned on me that surviving is merely another form of losing. Perhaps a worse form.
Things are different since the desert.
With our relationship now public knowledge, I expected Gil to shy back into old habits to maintain his privacy, to hole himself up in his office watching one shift blur into another. We don't work together any more, and we both miss that connection. There's no substitute for it, the stimulation of pushing each other to the limit professionally, allowing the flow of ideas to stream uninterrupted between us, with the adrenaline of a high-profile case jumping between us like electricity between conductors. Now, though, shifts seem to finish on time more often. Gil sets aside time for us as if it was second nature to him, taking the phone off the hook with a wicked grin before leading me to the bedroom, or just cuddling up and watching bad forensics shows on TV, laughing over the mistakes. I never thought I'd be the one who missed the intimacy of our relationship being known to just us, to no one else in our circle. It used to feel like it was Gil and I against the world. Now though, he has re-entered the world, and left me behind, still trapped in the bubble we created for ourselves.
Things are different since the desert.
Cases don't affect me any more. Where before the worst cases, or those that had similarities with my own childhood experiences would haunt me, now the numbness is equally as horrifying. It's like watching a knife pierce your skin, knowing how it should feel, knowing the damage it's doing, but not experiencing the smallest amount of sensation, let alone pain. Gil sees it, I know he does, but he has no more idea how to make it better than I do, so he continues desperately down the path of normalcy, as if when we 'get back to normal' I'll suddenly snap out of it, and be the Sara he fell in love with as she maxed out on overtime every month and listened to the police scanner in her free time. Maybe that's what happens when your job is your life; something like this happens and you're left with nothing, no life to get back to, just the faces of all the ghosts you ever knew.
Things are different since the desert.
Those three little words that I used to crave, that I would have to coax, trick or just plain beg Gil to say, seem to spill from his lips several times a day. I know they should make me happy. I try to say them back, but every time I feel the ominous silence after the words. Gil doesn't see it, but each time it feels like I'm saying 'I love you too, but…' But what? I don't even know. I do love him. He is my home, the only one I've ever known. I need him so much it scares me, so I hold him at arm's length, because then I have a reason to feel scared, to feel this… Even though Gil does everything right, somehow I'm still wrong inside.
Things are different since the desert.