This short futile story was inspired from two sources. A great Spanish film, 'The Devil's Backbone' and a song by The Fray, 'Enough For Now'. Warning: No dialogue, and this is for mature readers only.
Everyday that passed was another day he grew even closer to insanity. With every moment that he lived he grew older, drowned by an acient fatigue that haunted his daily life. The truth was, Patrick Jane - insomniac, fraudulant, self pitying, murderer - feigned to be sane, for the sake of his loved and dearest. His wife of four years now, and ex-boss back at the days he used to work at the California Beuro of Investigation, was retired in her greying years.
The cruel reality was that she'd waited, fifteen long, brutal and crucial years in her life, when she was younger and fertile. Everyday she's convinced herself that he loved her despite the harsh truths that the psychopath only loved her company. She was his rock, his stability, and even though she loved him he couldn't find it in his heart to feel deeply; long for her. She sat with him during the day, sometimes went to fetch the shopping, or do a bit of tidying, and by night, well...they didn't sleep in the same bed.
Sixty years of Patrick Jane's life had resembled the burning furnace of hell, only six years had been happiness. Those were the years his bereaved bouncy blonde curled daughter would bound up to him chanting 'Daddy! Daddy!' over and over again like a mantra. He would pick her up and spin her round, and then bath her before bedtime. When his first wife, Angela, had become pregnant, after years of longing for the presence of a child, he'd desperately wanted a boy; someone he could teach his wiseness to; someone to pass down the family name. Although, the more days that passed in his fraudulant and bribing career, the less he wanted his name to be passed down through the future generations of 'Jane's'.
Then came his years of deepest sorrow. The years he longed to kill and torture the man who had cut - treated them no more than mere voodoo dolls - and slashed his family to pieces.
When the murdering bastard had finally been put to death, in the most unpleasant of ways, he'd clung to the only source of comfort he knew.
Lisbon.
Nightime came and Lisbon, Teresa, would sneak not so quietly out of the house, and seek release from another source. It pained him, deeply inside that he could not love her in the way a man should love their wife. The fact was that he just couldn't.
He didn't have any more children after Charlotte-Ann (which at the time was an obvious statement of his guilt as a charlatan himself). Even if he wanted to...there were many complications.
It never suprised him that Lisbon had stuck solemley by his side throughout his nineteen years with her; even if she did stray, it was human nature, he concluded. To him, she deserved to be loved in every way possible. She was an amazing woman, but he couldn't give her anything.
Time passed, people passed, love passed, but still Patrick Jane lived on. He lived longer than all of the people he knew, including Lisbon, and moved himself into a Care Home in fear of dying cold and alone. He grew into a bitter old man. He lost faith in everything, and everyone that ever touched his life. The only faith he had was in the future; he hoped that no one else from the younger generation would make the same mistakes he made.
Old age did not come gracefully to Patrick Jane. It came with deep insanity, memory loss and irritation.
But Patrick Jane lived on; leaving nothing behind, except an old dusty room, that sat at the top of CBI.
He deemed it his until the day of his death. His only belonging...belonged to law enforcement. The one thing in life he was brought up to hate; ironic, huh?
Thank you for reading this! I have no idea why I wrote it.