A/N: For this short one-shot I used a lot of quotes. Just because those quotes really explained what Jane is going through the past 8 years, and I wanted to write a story with those quotes and a bit of imagination... Yes, I may have made up a few things about Angela and Charlotte... BUT! We've never seen them (if you have, please say it!), so I didn't knew if they were blondes, or brunettes, or something else...
Anyway, please read it!
Disclaimer: The Mentalist is not mine.
Love is difficult because it comes not from the head but from the heart. If it came from the head only smart people would love – obviously not the case. No, Jane was not smart. Not smart at all. Otherwise he would've still had Angela and Charlotte running around him, warming him with their smiles, tickling him until he couldn't breathe. He always wanted too much. Less wasn't enough for him. God, how he wished he'd never had met Angela. That would mean that Angela at least would still be alive. But Charlotte wouldn't be there... He remembered one quote. On the funeral of Angela and Charlotte, there was this old lady, and she saw Jane's misery and agony. So she stood beside him and whispered in his ear: An Angel in the book of life wrote down your baby's birth. And whispered as she closed the book: "too beautiful for earth." He had loved it. He had repeated it all over and over again, just to try not to forget it. He wrote it down eventually.
He sat up straight. He was not alone for the first time in hours. But it didn't do good to his thoughts. Though he laid on his couch all day, his mind kept wandering around his past, going through it like you do in a big house. It opened all the doors, the doors that were locked because it was too painful what was hidden behind it. But also doors to happy memories. The birth of Charlotte, for example. He had never been so surprised and confused in his life. How could such a big baby girl come out of a body like that? And he kept looking at Charlotte. With those beautiful green eyes she got from her mother. And a few weeks later, he could still not stop looking at her. He was addicted to his own daughter. He closed the door and continued walking through the hall his mind created, opened each and every door until he found what he didn't wanted to see. The letter on the door, bracing himself for what he would find behind it. Bracing himself for the life filled with misery that would follow. A life without true emotions, without affection, without love. Love. It was a strange word. He'd never used that words in years. Most likely because he'd told himself he would never ever fall in love again. He would always be in love with Angela and Charlotte, and that would never change.
Next door. First day at CBI. A certain black-haired lady cop made him feel like strangling. Never had someone tried to stop him, never had someone actually cared for what he did. But she did. Lisbon always did. Lisbon... She sometimes cared more about him than she did about herself, and made him worry. No one, absolutely no one, should be worried about him. He was perfectly fine.
No! Of course he was not! He knew that as well. If he was 'perfectly fine', he wouldn't freeze each time a daughter got killed. Or whenever there's something about Red John.
Sorrow you can hold, however desolating, if nobody speaks to you. If they speak, you break down. And that was exactly what everybody did. Talking. Talking about everything he has been through, repeating it over and over and over again. Just to let him realize what a stupid jerk he had been. How stupid he was to hunt down a serial killer without any help. Like he thought it would stop when he mentioned it. Of course not. It wouldn't help a bit, it would only make the beast angrier. Until it snaps and does stupid things. Like killing someone's family, someone that made you look bad in the news. Someone that just tried to help, but instead now needs help.
He laid down on his couch again, not knowing what to do next. Today, it was the eighth anniversary of Angela and Charlotte's dead. Not something you would throw a party for. Eight years... It was hard to believe that it had already been eight years. Eight years since he died. But his soul could not find any rest. His soul was still there, tortured by its cover, its cover that reminded the soul of the husband and father he used to be. Eight years...
He closed his eyes, trying to get a picture of Angela. And he saw her, dressed in a beautiful white night gown, her blonde hair waving behind her, following her body virtuously. And she said something, but he couldn't really make out what she said. And he focused, really heard, and then, finally, he heard it. It was the sentence Angela once had spoken, a few days before their life ended. And she spoke, with her soft, warm voice:
"And if I go while you're still here… know that I live on, vibrating to a different measure behind a thin veil you cannot see through. You will not see me so you must have faith. I wait the time when we can soar again, both aware of each other. Until then, live your life to its fullest, and when you need me just whisper my name in your heart…I will be there."
And he whispered. Whispered from his heart.
A/N: For some reason, I'm kind of proud of this story... Most of the time, I push away the thoughts, bury them in the sand to lose them, and when I want them, I can't find where I buried them... Anyways, review please! Only with your criticism, I can improve my stories to make you happier! (L)