Hey everyone, this is my first CSI story posted here, so please, it would be nice to get some reviews. :)
Disclaimer: I don't own CSI. CBS does.
PS. I'm not using it to gain money either.
A Candle Light for Two
We are effectively destroying ourselves by violence masquerading as love.
---R. D. Laing
For one of the many times of the minute, she looked back at herself in the mirror. She sneered, glaring at the figure that stood across from her own: Blonde hair array, blue eyes bleeding tears, and a heart shattered from impact.
The once-clean pressed white shirt she wore was covered in red. Fingernails were hiding a cove of DNA. Arms were viciously boasting the gashes and bruises that proudly bled onto her pink pajama shorts. Pale skin was tainted again in the ever-familiar shade of life and death.
She had also noted that the woman gawking back had blood dripping from her lip, and an angry black eye, all too familiar. Slowly, she raised her hand to the glass, wanting to make the swelling lower.
It was hard to believe it was her.
She was strong. Damn, she was an officer of the law! Yet, somewhere in the back of the mind, she was nothing. She was nothing compared to him.
The man she loved was burly; one of the reasons she was attracted to him. He had seen the sun, and walked in the rain. He had, at one point, saved her from herself. But all of it was gone.
Their good luck was intertwined with patience. When the strings ran out, the heads rolled.
Unfortunately, a twine of anger had been left, it's long frayed thread weaving its poisonous vines around him, and strangling who he was.
Somehow, it wasn't appropriate to call it anger though. She still believed that it was going to get all better. The good wasn't gone. The bad wasn't there.
And it wasn't his fault. It was life, and she knew that for sure.
What she didn't know was that it was too deep. Love ran through her veins, not hatred. It was hard enough to make the switch from someone who solves the puzzle to someone brings in the loose pieces. But to hate someone she loved with all her heart was impossible.
She winced in pain as her palm made contact with her reflection. Carefully lifting her hand to examine her palm, she saw a large slash. Blood was now smeared on her mirror, meandering down in red streaks, hiding her face behind a veil of her life line.
It took time for her to make the dinner downstairs perfect. Her heart had told her it was the right thing to do. Now, because of listening to the voice in her soul, she had marks of anger imprinted on her being and on their relationship, which was dangerously fraying at the seams.
Abruptly, the door clicked into place from downstairs, its heavy pound leaving a trace echo.
He had left, perhaps to quench his appetite for the alcoholic beverage that never ended. But she was sure he wasn't going to be home until the morning.
She sighed, she couldn't remember what happened during the feast for two. Everything whirled around her, the pieces to the puzzle long gone. Somehow though, something kept telling her that she didn't want to remember.
Ignoring her state of mind, she turned on the faucet and placed her hand underneath, cold water beating out in painful strikes, turning the water an ugly red. The bleeding continued; her efforts to stop it useless. Just like arguing with him, she gave up.
Almost sluggishly, she shut off the tap, contemplating where the wraps were.
They were downstairs in a cabinet in the kitchen.
She unlocked the bathroom door, and exited, leaving the door slightly ajar, careful not to use her injured hand. Light poured onto her, bathing her in a golden yellow.
She was sure she didn't leave the light on…
The stairs were right in front of the washroom, and, as she stepped down the first few steps, she heard footsteps, and one very familiar voice.
"Greg, you take the upstairs."
It was an immediate match. But why were Grissom and the team here?
Perched on one of the higher steps, she saw Greg wearily climb the white steps.
"Greg, what're you doing here?" She asked, shocked. "You guys didn't even knock." She found silence from him as he continued to ascend the steps. "Greg?" He continued to ignore her, grimacing as he brushed past her.
Why wouldn't Greg speak to me?
"Greg!" She cried louder, reaching to tap him on the shoulder.
He turned around, even before she could touch him, and stared blankly at her.
"What the hell Greg? What the hell are you doing in my house?" She screamed, mad that he didn't acknowledge her the first time, and lowered her hand.
Greg scrunched his face in bewilderment, obviously confused. "Did I…?" He incoherently said out loud. "No, that's not possible… is it…?" He turned on his heel, kit in his right hand, shaking his head rather feverishly. "Greg Sanders does NOT have physic abilities…"
She stood where she was, shocked, eyes still set on Greg, who turned into the bathroom. Maybe it was just something wrong with Greg, not her.
Maybe Grissom would have some answers…
As she descended from the last few steps, she saw Grissom, and what looked like Catherine, Brass, and Nick standing by the kitchen.
She was still covered with blood from the cuts, but maybe she could pretend it was all paint…
"Grissom?" She called out, shuffling towards the corner.
"What a horrible thing to happen…" She caught from who seemed to be Catherine. She paused, listening intently to the team.
"You never think its gonna happen to you…" A Texan accent most likely belonging to Nick replied.
Brass stood tall, his composure wavering in front of his colleagues, but the look in his eyes was firm. "…But it has, and I'm gonna take that son of a bitch down."
She flinched at the words Brass said. Something must have really upset him…
She turned curious, and her eyes wandered aimlessly at the site.
It was amazing to see that the lone white candle had still remained lit, it floating in a pool of shallow water. The blue china, silver utensils, and wine napkins, still lay where they were placed as well. Only the two glasses filled with red champagne, and a bowl of carbonara was out of place. One was lying haphazardly on its side, the beverage pooling on the floor. The other was shattered, the deep red drink stagnant on one of the plates. And the bowl containing the noodles had a big crack jutting from its side, noodles now stiff and cold.
From beyond, she could tell that something wasn't right, and, with what she saw, she scrunched her eyebrows together in disbelief.
A body was on the kitchen hardwood, back facing the ceiling, fingers clawed onto the floor, stained in crimson added to the threatening look, she noted. There was also spatter on the misty blue walls, and pools smeared from the island table, which hid the identity of the person.
She gasped. How had there been a body in the house this whole time? She asked herself, still transfixed on the lost soul.
She turned the corner, expecting a shock from the team. "Grissom?" She repeated.
Grissom stared down, his eyes glazed with sadness. He was at a loss for words, and at a loss of breath. His back heaved ever-so-slightly as Catherine snapped pictures, and Nick picked up evidence.
It was wrong to wreck a crime scene. She knew that by heart. It was the only reason she stayed at a distance.
"Grissom!" She called louder, only to be ignored by David, the assistant coroner, walking in.
"I'm sorry to hear." He muttered, kneeling by the body. "I just—it's hard to believe…"
"Don't apologize, you didn't kill her." Catherine retorted, eyes boldly holding back tears.
So the body was a 'her'. Could it be that my husband was having an affair? But more importantly… why did everyone ignore me? I'm standing right here, shouting, and they don't even look up!
Her thoughts skipped back to the body, which appeared to be more feminine then before.
She leaned in closer, wanting to get a good look at this 'femme fatale'.
David sadly lifted the body, so that the face was upwards and as she opened her mouth to gasp, she screamed in sheer terror.
Blue glassy eyes, one surrounded by a black eye, stared straight back at her like a broken porcelain doll. Red lips dabbed in blood stained her pale skin. Blonde hair matted in the familiar blood framed her gauntly face.
It couldn't be… it couldn't be… her...!
Brusquely, she felt a sharp pain to her chest, it twisting and turning into her heart. She put her hand to her heart for a flutter of a moment, and lifted it up to her face. Her bloodied hand stared back at her, grotesquely dripping invisible crimson onto the floor.
"Sofia suffered a… stab wound that punctured… the lower aorta." David stuttered, lifting up her hands. "But she put up one hell of a fight…"
Her knees hit the floor with a clacker, pain wrenching her soul away, tears burning her face.
"It shouldn't end like this." Brass whispered, a tear running down his rosy cheek.
It wouldn't end like this.
She had so many plans.
She had so many dreams.
And they faded away by a candle light for two.