The Heart that Holds On
A/N: I wanted to try something like this out for a while, but I'm not good at prose that doesn't contain much dialogue. Angst (is that even the right word?) is still something I'm experimenting with, but hopefully this has come out okay. Just a random one shot I thought of whilst working on the next chapter of my other fic. Hope you like. I intend on doing more like this (not all so downbeat and sad, don't worry!)
Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, just borrowing the characters.
She could still see the blood, pooling around her, spirals of crimson, glistening on the hardwood floor in the light coming in through the open blinds. She buried her head as tight into his shirt as she could, just so she wouldn't have to see the blood. It was ridiculous. They worked with blood every day, but this… this was different. Knowing the blood was her own. It made her sick to the stomach. Or was that the pain? She couldn't tell anymore. Her mind was trying to block it out. She tried to move herself into a seated position, and failed, losing control of her limbs. He swept her up in an instance, like a limp rag doll, and she nestled close into his shirt again, closing her eyes. He told her not to. He whispered 'don't let go' in her ear, and she felt the stubble of his chin rub against her skin, his warm breath sending shivers over her body.
Sweat dripped off her forehead, a tiny drizzle rolling slowly off her nose and onto the sky-blue cotton of his shirt. She'd been with him when he bought it; it was her favorite. A color that complimented his eyes perfectly. He'd been hesitant, but she'd persuaded him to take it to the check-out. He wore it to make her feel special, to show that he loved her. Or at least that's what she imagined. He only wore it on special occasions. Today was supposed to have been special. How it had all gone so terribly wrong, she couldn't quite understand.
Her mind told her that this was what she deserved. She deserved it for being the survivor, for attempting to live happily ever after when they couldn't. She did deserve it, didn't she?
He was carrying her out of the restaurant. People's faces flashed past, but her vision was too blurred, her eyelids too heavy for her to make them out. She could see concern in their eyes, hear it in his voice. He kept whispering the same words, over and over 'don't let go'. She didn't want to let go, her hands bawled around his collar, the material soft and fresh feeling under her clammy hands. It suddenly crossed her mind that she might be hurting him, but when she tried to unclench her fists, her hands didn't do as they were told. She needed their strength, the strength she was using to clutch onto him; she needed it to help her stay awake. Putting all her energy into releasing his shirt, her hands finally prized free, but then she found her eyes were drifting closed again and his voice was fading away, a distant buzz amongst the static in her head.
"Don't let go," he repeated one last time, but he knew it was too late.