"Cross My Heart"
Shakespeare's Lemonade
Rating: M for suicide themes, graphic violence
Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Drama/Friendship
Summary: He always said he believed what was in front of his face, but this seemed too much to believe. As he felt his partner's pulse stop beating under his fingers and saw the blood on his wrists, he asked himself what went so wrong that he thought he had to do this.
Pairings: Chin/Malia, others TBA
A/N: This was sort of inspired by a small part of AZGirl's "The Choice" (which is a great story). Many thanks to her for all the well-considered feedback, honest criticism, and invaluable insights. Also thanks to Riter's Fury for giving me another perspective on this and encouraging me to go ahead with this story.
Warning: This is about a character contemplating an attempting suicide. It deals extensively with that topic and includes graphic violence. I know that a lot of people will be uncomfortable with this, so I encourage you to move on to another story if that is the case.
Also, I am aware that a lot of people might not like this story as a matter of preference. I completely understand that and don't expect everyone to like it. I welcome constructive criticism, and I won't take any review lightly. I ask in return that readers do not take this story lightly.
"Cross my heart. Hope to make it out alive
Their helping hands look more like suicide
If I don't make it out, remember that I tried
Cross my heart. Hope to breathe this time."~Nevertheless
Prologue
It wasn't a full funeral. He didn't expect it to be. After weeks of investigation, it was clear there was no way it was anything than what it appeared to be. No one wanted to believe it, least of all him. Everyone tried their best to find some other answer. But there was none.
He stood there in his dress uniform watching the casket being lowered into the ground. That was it then. It was over. But it wasn't. Life would go on. He had mounds of paperwork to do and stuff to go through.
Grace was crying. Kono was crying. Chin was too. Hell, he was even tearing up now, which was strange because he'd lasted this long.
Surprisingly Governor Denning showed up, though it was probably expected politically. He still looked angry.
Everyone he called friend, as well as some of those he used to work with showed up. If only he'd known.
The officers who investigated were there: #1 and #2. He'd never bothered to learn their names. They really were decent guys. He should have had them over for a beer to thank them for all their hard work. But he didn't.
He looked down at his hands, rough and calloused from years of carrying a gun. For a second he saw the blood seeping between them, staining the sand red. The image was gone as soon as it came.
But he'd never forget. He'd never stop wondering why. He'd never stop thinking he should have known.
There were letters. No final letter, but in each one the same sentiment ran throughout: I'm sorry. I can't lose you too.
They were all addressed to him. HPD had gone over and over them, trying to find some inconsistency. Handwriting analysis tried and failed to prove that he didn't write them.
He did write them, and now he was dead. There was no evidence that someone set it up because no one did. He killed himself, plain and simple.
Only nothing was simple anymore. All he could do was wonder how the hell this happened, how he didn't see. It was so easy to look back and note the long sleeves rolled down, the one-word answers to baiting questions.
But he didn't see how much his friend and partner was dying on the inside. He'd never really been able to see past the layers of exterior he put up. Now it was all over, and he never would. Still the questions and guilt never stopped: why, why; should have, should have...
He knew there was no answer; there was no reason. He knew that in spite of what he should have done, there was no way to ever make atonement for this. He failed his best friend because he couldn't see past himself.
He saw now. He'd never assume anything ever again. If the strongest man he knew could come to this, what might the rest of those he loved do? He knew it wasn't like that, but he couldn't help thinking it.
There had been no end to the madness. Doctors, cops, lawyers... all the people you never want to see. They found out that he cashed out his life insurance. He'd willed everything to his partner. It wasn't like he had any family left anyway.
Only he did. He had Five-0 and all their friends. He had Grace. Not anymore. He had nothing but a pine box buried next to the rest of his family in the earth of the island he loved so much.
One week earlier...
He holds the knife at just the right angle and ghosts it over his skin. He's contemplated many times how easy this would be. It's not really fair that he should have to do it himself. He could have died on a mission years ago and been spared all this pain, could have been in the car with his mother and been spared any pain at all, could have died in prison. That would have been better than this, honestly.
But he didn't die, and now has to make that choice for himself. All the joking about having a death wish isn't far from the truth at all. It's exactly the truth.
Why the knife, he wonders. Knife's cleaner. Just blood. And I'll do it outside so they won't have anything to clean up.
No brain matter splattered on the model cars and football trophies. No blood staining the hardwood floor so deep he's never been able to get it out.
He does this countless times, like people read before bed, he traces his veins with the point of his knife, decides not to one more time, and puts the knife away and goes to sleep.
He never sleeps well. He's used to that.
In the morning, he gets up and does it all over again, hoping he might forget his flack vest or get shot by one of the many people who want him dead. It's ironic; people want to kill him, and he wants to be dead.
He wonders if things were different if he might want to live. If there weren't so many people out to get him, maybe he would see meaning to life. But it's so easily snuffed out. The people he loves are in danger every moment as long as he's alive. That's the most compelling reason.
He knows he'll do it eventually. It makes it harder to look Danny, Chin, or Kono in the eye as the days go by, but he's good at compartmentalizing. He can actually go an hour without thinking of it. Sometimes.
The time comes, and it feels sudden, but he knows it's not. He's thought of everything. He knows it will be hard for all of them, but he's put it off too long. He's known for a long time he would do it.
So, he empties his pockets of everything but the knife, takes off his shoes, and walks out to the beach. He doesn't write a note because the desk is full of them, and someone will find them soon enough.
He feels the sand under his feet and wonders how the hell he can do this. He hasn't stopped asking himself since the idea first occurred to him. That's why it's taken so long for him to decide it's time.
He lies down in the sand next to one of the chairs and takes the knife from his pocket. He thinks of all the enemies he's used it on, and recognizes the irony of using it on himself. By now, he just wants it to end. He's seen so much death and lost so many people he loves that he doesn't see a reason he should keep prolonging his and others' pain.
He relaxes against the lumpy sand. His mind goes back to nights on the beach with his family. This was where they lived, really lived. This is a fitting place for him to die.
He brings the knife to his left wrist. There are other scars from times he's almost done it before. After this, everyone will see them and know he'd thought about it for a long time. Danny will read the letters and understand why he has to do this. He's sure of it.
He clears his mind. He knows he cannot bring images to mind of his family or friends. He has to do this alone. As he draws the blade across his arm with the precision of a surgeon, he hears a familiar car pulling into his driveway. Switching the knife to his other hand and much more quickly, he grunts at the pain and makes the same cut, though considerably less precise. Dropping the slippery knife, he experiences a deeper sort of pain and can almost feel the life rushing out of him. He wonders, briefly, where it will go.
And as his consciousness fades, he hears himself whisper, "Sorry, Danno."