Hi there!
This is just a one shot based completely on Beckett. Set somewhere in season 5 or 6, nothing Completely specific. And since it is a one shot, let me know if you want more like this, or if I should have a story feed that is just one shots, prompts provided by readers. It would be much appreciated!
Enjoy!
It's been six months since her life changed. She goes through the motions day after day, trying as hard as she can to find a rhythm, know structure, have a life. But as hard as she tries, her efforts are no match for the blow that the tragedy dealt her. Now, all she can do is pick up the shattered pieces of her world and carry on; but you can never pick up every single piece. She's like a plane on autopilot. She starts at point a and ends at point b. She knows the road she's traveling, but never the destination. She somehow arrives where she needs to be, one way or another.
Anything and everything that was comfortable, that she grew to know as normal, has been stolen from her, ripped from her grasp. It's not fair; one minute she's happy, the next, she's hit with news of twisted metal, squealing tires, blood loss, unconsciousness, flat line. The blink of an eye and it happened like that. It didn't care that she was happy. It didn't care that she was in love. It had no sense of emotion or loss or hurt. It was time, and time rules the world and it's people.
She's numb and blind. Numb to feeling and feelings. Numb to her own thoughts. Numb to coming to terms. She's blind to the world around her, what's happening, and who's trying to get to her. She's blind to his family. She's too terrified to look at them, hear them; they're too much like him. She's blind as she walks down the street, the newspapers, magazines, and bookstores still plastering him everywhere. She turns her head. They have no right to grieve, they didn't know him, they didn't really care about him. She can't even feel bad for anyone else because she can't even deal with her own grief. She's numb and blind; it's the new normal, it's comfortable.
As much as she hates seeing him in public, the world thinking they deserve to mourn, she keeps his picture hidden in her apartment. They're candids if him that she had taken in the loft. They were once just silly snaps of him that now meant so much to her. There's one on the coffee table, one under her pillow, and one hidden in her desk drawer, all face down. When she's feeling brave, she'll lift the corner to reveal parts of him. The paper is worn by now, this action having taken it's toll. Then, she'll flip it all the way over and hold it with both hands, looking at his smiling face, his beautiful eyes. She runs her finger of his face, wishing so desperately that he was there with her, that she could see him in the flesh. But she knows she's being unrealistic, so she stares at the picture trying to remember the good times and laughter, not his last moments. But trying to remember the good leads her to the bad. Did he suffer? Was it painful? Did he think of her? That's when she flips the picture back over, returning it to its upside down position, not wanting to think about it anymore.
The pain in her chest never really goes away. It's there, always. Like a hollowness of her entire body, with a flaming center. It's the only way she knows how to describe it. She can ignore it during the day. With the distractions of working and interacting, surrounded by people that give her concerned glances and words of understanding. The spark is gone, though. The job gets done, but the feeling of accomplishment and triumph of doing what she does best have long since left her body. Without her partner in crime, what's the point?
The pain is the worst when she is alone. As soon as her key fits into the lock of her own, quiet apartment, the pain nearly suffocates her. It takes everything she has to make it into her home, her fortress, her walls. It's not until she has reached the bedroom that she lets it completely consumer her. It hits her like a brick wall, nearly knocking her on her ass. It's hard for her to stand sometimes, so she sits on the floor, knees to her chest, to try and smother it, but nothing really helps. She screams and cries, pounding her fists into the ground and shoving pillows in her face to muffle the sound. She knows her neighbors hear her but her sense of self pride vanished with the rest of her a long time ago.
By the time she wills herself to stand, she's exhausted. Her throat hurts and her eyes are puffy. Her body tingles from curling in on itself. She stands and walks to the kitchen, knowing she has to eat something. It's never anything more than a handful of dry cereal or something delivered. She loses her appetite as soon as she starts to think about him again.
She lays in bed at night too exhausted to cry any more. She clutches one of his old T-shirts, willing her nose to pick up on his scent. She has three left that she's kept tucked in his drawer. Only three. The rest have long since lost him, just like she has. Once those last three shirts leave that drawer, in her eyes, he's gone forever. Her body relaxes, but that's when her brain finally turns on and leaves her sleepless night after night. She never really knows what she's thinking about. It's a jumble of memories, confusion, and anxiety. She drifts in and out of unconsciousness, and that's when the nightmares start. She used to dream of him every night, and for a long while. She enjoyed sleeping, just so she could see his face, hear his voice, know that he was once something concrete. Now, his appearance is less frequent, accompanied by a crash. He'll yell for her to help him, but no matter how hard she tries, her feet are cemented into the ground, preventing her from even trying.
It leaves her gasping for air. Her heart broken all over again. There's nothing she can do, and that kills her. She's swarmed with guilt, then, thinking about what she could have done. What she didn't do. She wasn't on the scene, she could have been with him. She hadn't given him an extra kiss before leaving that day, she could have told him how much she loved him. She let him leave without an extra cup of coffee, it could have been avoided. And she was unaware. Nothing could have warned her that this would happen, but she curses the world for not giving her some sort of sign, one that she would understand, and insist that he not leave the loft today. And if that would have happened, she would be happy, and he would be alive.
She is struck, though, with something she's never truly felt before; fear. Yes, she has been scared, antsy, uneasy, but she has never truly felt fear until now. Fear that she will never be the same. Fear that she will never know herself like she did before. Fear that she will forget everything that he was, everything that he embodied, everything that made him, him, and her, her. Everything that was them. Fear that she will never return from the state she's currently trapped in, that she will never know how to live without him. She knows she can function, or she wouldn't be in so much pain. But she doesn't feel normal, and she doesn't know if she will, or if she even wants to.
Because he's gone, and he's never coming back.
Please review!
xoxo