Was it real? Was it a dream? The air felt thick and heavy, what had happened? The blood...It was everywhere. It was flowing from between his fingers, from under his nails, from his tear ducts as he cried. The rusty scent of it made him gag and vomit. The life secreting from his body, he looked up at the wall. The pool of blood spread out and crawled up the wall forming a smiley face with tendrils leaking upwards still past it. The face laughed at him.
"You're too late...too late..." He heard himself whispering. "Too late, too late, oh..." He bit down hard and closed his eyes so tight that tears leaked out of the corners. He collapsed to the side, still holding himself for comfort, and sobbed. It couldn't end this way...he couldn't have been the one that caused this pain, this river of blood that flowed across the floor. He couldn't...he couldn't have. Could he? Did he do this? Was it he who cut open his wife and child? Who smeared their blood on the wall to where it looked smugly upon all who saw it? He caused it. He knew he did. He may as well have bore the knife himself. He had real blood on his hands... he didn't know whose blood it was. He didn't know anything. Who was he? What was he doing here? Why did he hurt so badly? Why couldn't he breathe? Or stop crying even when the snot from his nose clogged his mouth and throat? The world was pain and hurt and anger and guilt. Why? What had he done...
It took three days for Patrick Jane to be considered missing. Three days of not showing up for work. Three days of nonexistence before anyone thought to question his mysterious disappearance. When the police eventually did knock on the door of the psychic's house, they were met a with a horrible surprise. A bloody handprint on the window next to the front door. With this, they could legally enter the house. Officer Michael Andrews was the first in the house, followed by four others, guns drawn. There appeared to be no one home. They searched the downstairs, then migrated upstairs. What they saw first was horrible: The horribly lacerated bodies of Patrick Jane's wife and daughter, and the bloody smiley face on the wall. What they saw next was almost worse. In the corner of the room, crying, was Patrick Jane. It was clear that he had taken leave of his senses. He growled at the officers when they approached him or the bodies. And he had bite and scratch marks all over his own arms, presumably self inflicted. He was gaunt looking, obviously hadn't eaten for a few days, and his lips were chapped. His eyes were watery, and looked scared more than anything. Officer Andrews had seen Patrick Jane on TV. He remembered the cheerful, outgoing man that he had seen. This was not Patrick Jane. This was a shell of a man filled with sickness. This man was destroyed. Red John was not to be fooled with, and Patrick Jane had obviously learned the lesson.
When the men in the white coats arrived to remove Jane from the scene, he heard the man scream as if he was being mutilated.
"Nooooooooooo!" He howled like a man possessed. "Don't leave me! I did it I'm sorry don't...leave me." Jane passed out as he was injected with tranquilizers. The doctors shook their heads.
"This one...he's horribly compromised. We'll do our best but there's a chance he'll never be sane again."
As Jane's eyes closed, Andrews saw all the hurt subside, followed by peace. For a little while, the man can be as normal as anyone else. While he slept.
A line from and old play popped into Andrew's mind:
"by a sleep to say we end, the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir too..."
"Goodbye Patrick Jane," Andrews sighed in grief as he watched what used to be a great man be carried off. "Goodbye, poor sinner."