Author's note: Hi all,
If anyone recalls (or cares), back when I was working on Misplaced I had mentioned that it was because I needed a break from all the angst I had been writing. Well, I never got around to posting said angst, mostly because I wasn't completely satisfied with how it was turning out. Anyway, now I'm starting to hear rumors on the internet about the big two-part upset that CSI is brewing in November... and I'm getting that nervous feeling that it might resemble this story,which I wrote last spring and which has been sitting on my computer ever since. I'd feel like a chump if I spent all that time writing and couldn't post it because it was similar to an actual episode. Plaigerism really isn't my thing, so my new plan is to get the jump on 'em by posting my story, or at least the first few chapters of it. Hopefully I'll untangle the ending before the November sweeps roll around. Here it is, for better or worse.
Disclaimer: If they were mine, I probably wouldn't live in a studio apartment.
Genetic
By nova A
Prologue
She stood and watched from a few feet away, still gripping the knife in her hand.
She watched, and she waited patiently.
Waited until the blood stopped flowing, until his chest didn't move anymore, not even a slow, labored rise and fall. Until the faint gurgling coming from his throat ceased. She waited until his eyes glossed over and his limbs relaxed, perfectly still against the stained mattress.
Only then did she pick up the phone on her beside table and calmly dial 911.
She never noticed the small peaked face that peered, eyes frozen wide with terror, around the half-open bedroom door.
I.
Lights twirl and flicker against the night, blue, red, white, creating unsettling patterns on Sara's face, the sidewalk and nearby houses. The sirens are off now. Sara has always found it odd that such a shattering cacophony of light can be so silent. Her fingers are numb. She thinks that the uncontrollable quaking coming from deep inside her might actually be shivers; the night is chilly, and she didn't put on her coat before she went into the house. She figured it would be warm inside, so she just wore her CSI vest over a wine-colored T-shirt. Now she stands alone, an island on the sidewalk, cold but not really feeling it, trying not to feel anything. Her gut is a mass of knots, like worms are crawling over each other, writhing and twisting. Her body quivers. Phrases tattoo themselves on her brain, thumping steady as her own heartbeat.
Sara killed someone tonight.
beat.
She killed someone.
beat.
She took a life.
beat.
She's a killer.
The words continually rearrange themselves, cascading through her in sickly adrenaline-fueled ripples. She's trying to resign herself to this, fit it into the self that she knows, the self that will never be the same again. She's tipped over the edge, over to the other side. Across a thick well-defined black line, to a place that has always been reserved for other people. Bad guys. Murderers, psychopaths and suspects.
Her mother.
But not her. Never Sara.
Police swarm around her, interviewing witnesses and talking amongst themselves. The paramedics have already left. There wasn't really anything for them to do. The Coroner's van has replaced their ambulance. David glances at her, then looks away as he helps load the black-bagged body. The cops nearest her break their huddle for a moment to look her way, then go back to talking. Sara cringes, wanting to shrink in on herself, feeling her throat tighten. She had almost forgotten the feel of those hard stares, how it was when people looked at her that way. She doesn't want this label, this way of being. Desperately doesn't want this to become one of the things that defines her. Sara Sidle, daughter, sister, friend, criminalist. Killer.
I don't believe that genes are a predictor of violent behavior.
Oh, how desperately she'd wanted to believe that he was right.
And suddenly she feels a gentle touch on her back. She gasps, glances around wildly to find her jacket being slipped over her shoulders. Sara's startled eyes meet wide blue ones in a pale heart-shaped face framed by long, slightly mussed blonde hair. There's a shallow but nasty-looking scrape on Sophia's chin, and another one streaked across her cheekbone. The space around her left eye is darkening fast to a mottled purple-blue. She holds out a steaming paper cup.
"I thought you might want some tea," Sophia says softly.
Sara swallows and pauses for a moment, sizing the other woman up. The blue gaze is steady and solemn. Sophia holds the white cup carefully, like a chalice, a peace offering. Her own puffy coat is zipped to the very top. Within the shadow of her collar Sara can barely make out more developing bruises, ringing Sophia's white throat like a morbid necklace.
"Thanks," Sara mutters finally, accepting. To her credit, Sophia pretends not to notice the way Sara's hand trembles when it closes around the cup. They stand together silently for a moment, not looking at each other. Sophia is a little closer then Sara would normally find acceptable. But tonight, just for right now, Sara decides she will not think of how she feels about this woman. Or more importantly, how Grissom feels about her.
"I called Gil," Sophia says in a low voice.
Sara blows on the tea. It's scalding. She wonders where it came from.
"He's on his way," Sophia continues almost absently.
Sara takes a sip and swallows, burning first her tongue and then her throat. She reaches her other hand up and adjusts her coat, holding it capelike around her shoulders. Her gaze follows the Coroner's van as it slowly makes its way through the crowd of pajama clad looky-loos and professionally dressed local newscasters. It disappears around the corner and Sara shuts her eyes. The police lights flash on, finding their way through the skin of her eyelids. She feels them reverberate off the back of her skull.
beat.
flash.
She took a life tonight.
beat.
flash.
She's a killer.