Sixty Five Roses
Disclaimer: I don't own Flashpoint or any of its characters. Lyrics are from Nickelback's Lullaby, the song that helped me through the hardest months of my life.
Warnings: Rated T for violence. This fic deals with depression and grief.
A/N: I've tried to include as accurate an account a portrayal of depression and grief as I'm able to, based on my own experiences. If it seems a little abstract in places it's because depression itself is an abstract thing, so try to go with it :)
Dedication: In loving memory. I wish CF was a person so I could have kicked its butt for you – it would have looked a little something like this. This one's for you Pete. Breathe easy, mate.
"That's $7.90 love," the taxi driver told his passenger with a glance over his shoulder. She nodded, and rummaged around in her bag until her fingers closed around the object she was seeking, and pulled it out. The driver's eyes widened as they took in the gleaming blade in her hand.
"What... what are you doing?" he stuttered, eying the blade nervously. After all, who pulled a knife on someone for $7.90?
She reached round the headrest and jammed the knife against his neck.
"Put your hands on the wheel and face forward."
He nodded just slightly, immediately complying. He'd been a taxi driver for fifteen years: this wasn't the first time he'd been robbed. First time he'd been robbed by a woman though. Maybe that's why her eyes looked so wild, such a contrast to her innocent face.
The knife came away from his neck and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and reminding himself that he just had to stay calm and wait it out. As soon as she had the money she'd been gone. That's all she wanted, all they ever wanted. It was nothing personal; he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
With his eyes shut he didn't see the woman draw her hand back. Pain exploded against the side of his head, and he slumped against the wheel, unconscious.
"Team one, armed abduction in progress on Virginia Drive."
"Winnie, we're five minutes away," Ed responded into his headset. Wordy nodded and swung the vehicle around, cutting easily through the early evening traffic. Greg had called patrol night and the team were split into two man groups. On the plus side, it meant Ed and Wordy could get there quickly and contain the situation. On the down side, it meant they would be doing it without the rest of their team by their side.
"Copy that, Ed," Greg replied. "We're five minutes behind you."
The rest of team one called in their locations and ETAs as Wordy raced to the scene, and Winnie filled in the blanks.
"A neighbour saw a woman drag an unconscious male from the front of a taxi and into number 382; she believes the woman had a knife."
"Did she recognise the subject?" Wordy asked.
"That's a negative."
"What are you thinking, Wordy?" Greg asked.
"A residential street seems like an odd place to take someone at this time of day – that's a lot of potential witnesses."
"So either our subject isn't thinking far ahead, or she doesn't care about being caught. Tread softly, there might be something else at play here."
Wordy brought the car to a halt behind the abandoned taxi, and swung open his door, grabbing his weapon as he climbed out, half a step behind the team leader.
"Winnie, we've got the abandoned vehicle, registration ANLL 629," Ed called in. "Let's see if we can get an ID on the hostage."
"Copy that."
They crossed the gravelled driveway rapidly, the small stones crunching beneath their feet. When they reached the door they separated by silent agreement, Wordy taking one side and Ed the other.
"In position," Ed advised the rest of the team.
"There's no sign the lock was forced," Wordy said. "Looks like she had keys."
"Copy that. Winnie, check who owns the property. It'd be nice to know who we're dealing with."
Inside the house, the driver leaned back against the wall, gasping. His hands were bound behind him, and his head was bleeding where he had been struck with the hilt of the knife. The woman pulled back her boot and slammed it into his ribs again. The man bit back a scream, his jaw clenched in pain. The woman lifted her arm and backhanded his face, splitting his lip. She smiled in bitter satisfaction but it lasted only a moment before it slipped from her face. His pain was only a feeble echo of her own, a parody of the suffering he had caused. She lifted her foot again.
"Please, stop!" the man implored her. "What do you want?!"
Her face twisted into a snarl in response.
"I want-" Kick. "You to answer-" Kick. "The question!" Kick. The driver screamed in pain, and the woman drew back, panting. He screwed his eyes shut and leaned his head back against the wall.
"Look at me!" Her foot thudded into his side again, and his eyes flew open.
"Why didn't you stop that night? What was so important that you couldn't stop for TWO MINUTES to call an ambulance?" Spittle flew as she shouted her demands at him, hatred distorting her features. "How could you leave him there, dying?!"
Well, I know the feeling
Of finding yourself stuck out on the ledge
And there ain't no healing
From cutting yourself with the jagged edge
I'm telling you that, it's never that bad
Take it from someone who's been where you're at
Laid out on the floor
And you're not sure you can take this anymore
Outside, Ed's eyes narrowed as he heard the muffled shouting. Whatever the subject was doing in there, she was getting herself worked up. Without intervention, the crisis could reach a bloody – and fatal – conclusion.
"Greg, we're out of time," he advised the team sergeant.
"Copy that. Get in there. We're a minute away."
The two cops needed no further invitation. Wordy raised his weapon as Ed slammed his boot into the flimsy door, shattering the look. He burst through it, his weapon immediately finding the subject against the far wall, pressing her knife to the bloodied hostage's neck.
"SRU, SRU!" Ed shouted.
"Drop your weapon or we will shoot!" Wordy shouted.
"I don't care what you do to me," the woman said, not taking her eyes from the hostage.
"Okay, let's just slow it down," Ed said, lowering his weapon. Off to his side, Wordy kept his raised and ready. "My name's Ed Lane. What's yours?"
"I just need him to answer the question!"
"Okay, well, why don't you ask me?" Ed suggested. "Maybe I can help you work it out."
"I want him to tell me what he was doing that night that was more important than a man's life. I want to know why my best friend is dead."
"Winnie?" Ed muttered into his headset.
"The driver's name is Colin Fraser. He was cleared of death by dangerous driving last week. The victim was thirty year old Logan Sparrow of 382 Virginia Drive. No other residents listed at that address."
382 Virginia Drive. So that's why she'd bought him here. She wanted him in the home of his victim.
"Looks like we have our motive," Greg cut in. "We're outside, but right now the subject is highly unstable. If we come in she's going to escalate. Ed, keep talking to her – find common ground and get her focus off Fraser."
"I heard about what happened to your friend, and I'm sorry. I know what it's like to lose someone, and never get the chance to say goodbye."
So just give it one more try to a lullaby
And turn this up on the radio
If you can hear me now
I'm reaching out
To let you know that you're not alone
Oh, what she wouldn't give to have been able to say goodbye, what she wouldn't do to trade their last banal exchange for something more meaningful. If only she'd known would it would be the last time she would speak to him, how different it would have been. There was so much left unsaid between them, and he would never know how many times he had saved her. And when it came to it, she had been so utterly powerless to save him. It was just so damned unfair.
She smiled bitterly to herself. If there was one thing she knew, it was that life wasn't fair. And now this earnest cop was telling her that he was sorry, as if sympathy would make it all better. But it wouldn't. Couldn't. There was only one thing left for her: to punish Logan's murderer. She watched the cop warily from the corner of her eye, wondering whether he could shoot her before she ended Fraser's life. She knew she wouldn't get the answers she wanted now, but it didn't matter. One quick movement of the knife, and it would be over for both of them. No more emptiness, no more pain, no more nothing. She took one last breath, and started to press on the knife.
And if you can't tell, I'm scared as hell
'Cause I can't get you on the telephone
So just close your eyes
Oh, honey here comes a lullaby
Your very own lullaby
Ed saw the resolution form in the subject's eyes, and knew he had only a split second to either engage her, or pull the trigger. He took a step forward, and the woman's eyes flicked involuntarily towards him. He started speaking before she could focus on the hostage again.
"You must've cared about him a lot, to make you come back here and risk losing everything like this."
The woman shook her head, her attention fully on the cop now.
"I've already lost everything that matters. There's nothing left to lose."
"Winnie, we need an ID on the subject," came Greg's voice over the radio.
"Copy sarge, I'm on it."
Ed nodded his head sympathetically. It was hard to convince the subject that she had something worth holding on to without knowing anything about her: a wrong suggestion could send her over the edge. But if he wanted to get her out of there alive, he had to get her talking.
"You guys were close, huh? Why don't you tell me about him?" he invited. It was a risky subject: if the woman became too focussed on what she had lost, she could decide to take her own life or that of her hostage. But Ed knew he had to buy some time for Winnie to dig up some information on the subject; there had to be something they could use to talk her down.
"He was the most stubborn, bull-headed person I've ever met," she said with a sad smile. Ed mirrored her expression encouragingly and held her eye. "He cared about everyone – cared too much. Every waif and stray that crossed his path. Even me."
The knife slid away from Fraser's throat slightly, and the woman broke eye contact with Ed, her gaze sliding to a garish painting of a monkey with piercings and creepy green eyes. The cop watched her watching it, wondering what memories it held for her.
"But now he's gone," she said, jamming the knife ferociously against Fraser's throat. "Because of this piece of pond scum. And he can't even tell me why."
"Shoot her!" Fraser shouted, struggling to pull away from the knife.
"Sir, please be quiet and stay still," Wordy instructed him, his voice level. The hostage stared at him in disbelief, breathing heavily as the woman jarred the knife back against his throat.
"Okay, take it easy," Ed told her, keeping his weapon lowered and letting her see his calm expression.
"I just want to know why."
"I know," the cop told her. "I know. But can I ask you something? Do you think anything he says is going to change how you feel? Because deep down, I think you know that lashing out isn't going to make your pain go away."
"Tell me why!" she shouted, jarring the knife against the driver's throat, and drawing a thin line of red.
"It was an accident! The court cleared me. It was just an accident!" the driver shouted back at her.
"Making a wrong turn is an accident. Breaking a vase is an accident."
"Hey, stay with me here," Ed said, trying for eye contact.
"Running a man down and driving off is not an accident. You made a decision to leave him to die. You could have saved him, but you didn't!"
"I was scared, okay?! I was scared."
"Okay?" she snarled. "No, it's not even close to okay. YOU were scared? How do you think HE felt, lying there, fighting to breathe?! He never hurt anyone! He didn't deserve to die."
The weapon shook in her hands and she looked away from the driver as tears filled her eyes.
"He didn't deserve to die."
"No, he didn't," Ed agreed, drawing her attention back onto him. "But what you're doing here, this can't change that."
"I just thought that if I knew why, if I could just understand why-" she broke off and wiped her hand across her face.
Ed nodded sympathetically.
"Knowing why doesn't make the pain go away. I'm sorry. I wish it did." He took a slow step towards her. "Come on, it's time to put the knife down now."
"I owe it to Logan to see this through," she said.
"No," Ed said, shaking his head softly. "You owe it to Logan to do the right thing, to be who he would have wanted you to be. Would he have wanted you to throw your life away like this?"
"No."
"No, he wouldn't," the cop agreed. "And right now you haven't done anything that can't be undone. But if you use that knife, that's something you can't take back. So why don't you just put it down?"
She pulled the knife away from the driver's throat and backed away from him, keeping her fingers wrapped around the weapon. Ed stayed with her as Wordy moved in rapidly to recover the hostage. He pulled out his knife and cut the man's bindings, but placed a hand on his chest, warning him to stay where he was.
"That's it," Ed encouraged the woman. "Just put it down."
Please let me take you
Out of the darkness and into the light
'Cause I have faith in you
That you're gonna make it through another night
She shook her head and kept backing away until she reached the corner, then slid slowly to the ground and tucked her legs up against her chest. She looked down at the knife in her hands, and traced the tip lightly over the veins in her wrist, wondering what it would feel like to open them and let the blood flow out. Would the pain penetrate the fog that had surrounded her for so long? Would it take her long to die? How long had it taken Logan to die, she wondered, and what thoughts had run through his mind? He wouldn't have given up; he was stronger than she had ever been and he would have fought until the very last breath. She wished vehemently that she could believe that there was something more than this, some hope she could cling to that beyond death there was something more, but she knew in her heart of hearts it was just a lie, an empty promise used to soothe children. It didn't matter, she would welcome an end to the constant cycle of pain and nothingness, and never knowing which was worse.
Stop thinking about the easy way out
There's no need to go and blow the candle out
Because you're not done
You're far too young
And the best is yet to come
"I've spoken to Diamond Taxis," Winnie's voice sounded in Ed's earpiece. "The name she booked under is a dead end, but the cell she called from is registered to a Carley Charlton."
"Carley?" Ed said. The woman looked up sharply, the knife freezing in place.
"It's okay, I just want to help you. My name's Ed, remember?"
He lowered himself onto the floor, making sure he was well out of range of the knife. He knew that she didn't want to use it – not on him, anyway – but if she threatened his safety, the team wouldn't hesitate to neutralise her. The five foot between them kept everyone safe.
"Come on, Carley. It's time to put the knife down now."
"I can make the pain stop."
"You told me earlier that Logan wouldn't have wanted you to throw your life away."
"It doesn't matter now. He's gone. And all I have left of him is a bunch of facebook messages that I can't even bring myself to read."
"This isn't the way. I know it doesn't feel like it now, but it does get easier, I promise."
"You said before..." Carley started, then stopped. Ed waited patiently, letting her find the words. "You said you knew what it was like."
The cop nodded.
"A couple of years ago, a friend of mine, a colleague, was killed. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't wonder if I could have done something differently and saved him."
Well, everybody's hit the bottom
Everybody's been forgotten
When everybody's tired of being alone
Yeah, everybody's been abandoned
And left a little empty handed
So if you're out there barely hanging on...
She listened to the sincerity in the cop's voice, and wondered if that would be her life now: wondering every day what would have happened if she'd been there with him, wondering what thoughts went through his mind as he lay there alone in his final moments, reliving those awful moments when she'd found out he was gone. Grief bubbled up inside her again, threatening to drown her as it ripped through her chest with a burning intensity that drove the air from her lungs. She groaned and banged her head against the wall behind her, wishing that physical pain could distract her from the agony inside for just a moment, but the burning would not be ignored.
"Hey, easy," the cop urged. "Look at me, Carley."
She lifted her head obediently and stared in his direction but his face was an indistinct blur that she couldn't find the will to bring into focus. She could see his lips moving but his voice was drifting in and out, dreamlike, as though he was speaking to her from far away.
"Need you to...
"...do anything that..."
She resigned herself to the distance as it settled around her again, because really, was else was there beside resignation? The black fog weighed more than any person could lift alone, and she didn't have the strength to try. Logan had been her sun, penetrating the fog and gently illuminating the world around her. Now there was only darkness left: darkness and this burning in her lungs, her throat, her stomach that made her want to scream, but screaming didn't help, and anyway making any sound felt like coughing up razor blades as she forced them from her uncooperative throat. Far better to sit silently in the darkness.
The cop's lips were still moving, she saw, and she stared at the shapes they made as he formed words she couldn't focus on. Her attention drifted Fraser, and the other cop who stood guarding him, staring at her along the barrel of his vicious looking weapon. She wondered if he would fire it – a bullet would be faster than a knife, a bullet would mean she wouldn't have to summon the energy to tighten her grip on the knife hilt and drag it back and forth across her wrist. No, not back and forth: up and down – vertically was the fastest way; horizontally was a cry for help. As if anyone could help her. No-one who suffered from depression would ever truly be fooled into believing there was anything that could help. The gun, that was the best way.
In slow motion she saw Fraser moving and a warning shouted in her head, but her jaw felt disconnected, as though it belonged to someone else. She tried to reach through the fog of her mind to open it but the effort was too much so she watched in silence, caring but not caring, as Fraser lunged forward and snatched the weapon holstered at his guardian's hip, shoving the man away from him as he did.
The two cops turned as one, one pivoting as he recovered his balance, and the other rising from the floor with fluid ease, each raising his weapon to target the new threat. Carley watched this new development without interest whilst playing the blade across her arm.
"Drop the weapon!" the cop called Ed shouted.
"Put the gun down!" the other ordered.
"Shoot her!" Fraser yelled at them, raising the weapon.
"Sir, put the gun down," Ed warned him.
Carley watched as Fraser's finger tightened around the trigger, and realised that she didn't care. It didn't matter who pulled the trigger; either way she would welcome the release, the end of this hated burning emptiness that constantly gnawed at her. There was a certain beauty that she would die by the same hand that had killed Logan.
The gun barked once, but she felt no pain. It had been a long time since she'd felt anything physical. She looked down for the blood and saw none. Frowning, she looked across at Fraser, and saw her own confusion mirrored on his face. As she watched, a dark red stain spread across his chest. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, and then his legs crumbled from beneath him and he thudded to the ground.
Her confusion deepening, she turned to the gaunt cop and saw a thin wisp of smoke leaking from the end of his weapon.
Just give it one more try to a lullaby
And turn this up on the radio
If you can hear me now
I'm reaching out
To let you know that you're not alone
"Subject neutralised," Ed muttered into his ear piece.
"Copy that," Greg replied.
He kept his weapon aimed at the downed taxi driver as Wordy moved in to reclaim his weapon and check the man's vitals, though Ed knew he had made a killing shot. He took a breath and pushed it from his mind. There would be a time to deal with the ramifications of his actions, but that time wasn't now.
"Carley, look at me," he said, watching the girl closely as she struggled to refocus on his face. He unclipped his helmet and pulled it off so she could see his face more clearly. He knew she could be going into shock and she was already struggling to focus.
"It's over," he promised her. "Just let go of the knife and we'll get you out of here."
She shook her head resolutely and clutched the knife until her knuckles turned white. Ed exhaled slowly and nodded.
"That's okay, there's no rush," he said, lowering himself to the floor again. He heard Wordy updating the rest of the team through his earpiece but kept his focus on the girl in front of him.
"You, uh, you take that knife from your kitchen?" he asked. If he was going to get her out of there alive he needed her to start communicating with him.
She nodded without looking up.
"I guess today didn't go quite how you planned."
She shook her head.
"Boss, I've just spoken to Carley's employer," Jules said. "He says her work has been suffering – she looks scruffy, she's constantly tired, she turns up late and when she's there she's just going through the motions.
"Drugs?"
"I'm thinking depression."
"And this started after the accident?"
"No, the employer says it goes back a couple of years: sometimes she's the model employee, sometimes... not so much."
"Do you remember when you first started feeling this way, Carley?"
She shrugged. Ed knew she wasn't being evasive – most people with depression found it hard to remember a time when it hadn't played a part in their lives.
"It's okay not to feel okay," he told her softly.
She looked up at him for the first time since he'd pulled the trigger.
"He used to say that," she said quietly.
Ed knew he had her attention. Depression suffers were often told to stop feeling sorry for themselves, or to snap out of it, that they'd feel better if they just made the effort, but Ed knew the reality was very different, and that that attitude only made sufferers feel even more isolated.
"You don't have to go through this alone, Carley."
She broke eye contact and looked back down at the knife in her hands. That was okay, Ed knew she was still listening to him, he could still reach her.
"I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but it does get better, I promise you. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but one day soon it's going to get better and you're going to see how amazing life can be – friends, family, kids... don't throw all of that away."
And if you can't tell, I'm scared as hell
'Cause I can't get you on the telephone
So just close your eyes
Oh, honey here comes a lullaby
Your very own lullaby
The cop's words fell around her like rays of sunlight breaking through deep fog. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Maybe he was right, maybe there was something else, maybe there was... hope. Her fingers unclenched from the knife's hilt and it fell to the floor, discarded.
Oh, honey here comes a lullaby
Your very own lullaby