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NCIS isn't mine, that song isn't mine (it's Blue October's Black Orchid), only that little Fic is:
I don't really know why I wrote this, it's a bit strange, as it's something like a depressed interior monologue with a song playing in the background. While you read this try and listen to a depressive song :-) perhaps it gets you into the right mood...
I've always thought that there is more to Tony, than the childish attitude the series is showing us, and therefore my Fics mostly revolve around Tony in depressed moods. Perhaps my reason for writig these thingies is simply, that I am a bit of a negative person myself and can't imagine anyone who hasn't got any depressions :-) Certainly not Tony, because he has enough reasons to be depressed!
And if anyone's reading this, please notice that English is only my third language, don't be disappointed and review it anyway...
Tony's POV:
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HAVE A LOOK INSIDE
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The glass was empty. Not half full, not even half empty, just empty.
There was nothing in it anymore, not a drop. Of course there hadn't been anything in it for a long time now, nothing to drink at least. Dust perhaps, some cobwebs clinging angrily to the glass. And perhaps some memories he had tried too hard to forget.
have you ever been so lonely
there's no one there to hold
just pull me in or disown me
and then
climb inside
my arms are open wide
have a look inside
The song was so fitting; just who wrote that damn thing anyway? He'd never heard of the group before even if he liked the name. The voice was gently floating through his apartment, not too loud but not really silent too.
The soft tones of the piano clung to his skin, dripping over the couch and perhaps something of the song ghosted over the glass and filled it up with that soft melody for a little while.
He hoped some of it would stay there.
What was there to look at inside of him? There was nothing, was there? And he wouldn't dare to ask anyone to look inside of him, because he was afraid they would say the same he was telling himself: 'I would like to, thank you very much, but there is nothing there, Tony. There is nothing to look at, don't you know?'
He knew.
It is not that I am scared to learn
just why I'm empty inside
just hold my hand to show some concern
if I live or die
my eyes are open wide
help me look inside
He already knew.
The reasons why he couldn't fill that glass again, the reason why the liquor remained inside the cupboard. The reason why he was empty inside. So many reasons - so many lies.
If there were something inside of him, perhaps it would be love. Love: unreachable, denied and lied about. But at least he would feel, would want to be with him, want to kiss those lips again, want to hear his voice like the one singing now; hear it caressing him, filling him up, smoothing out the wrinkles in his conscience, echoing inside of his soul.
Perhaps he would care about that empty glass, would want to fill it again with more than just dust specks and bleak thoughts. Perhaps the song was telling the truth and he wanted to be filled again, wanted to feel something, anything. Perhaps he really wanted to help himself.
But how did he know, if there was nothing inside of him?
If someone were able to look inside of him, they would perhaps be shocked to realize he didn't really care. If someone would see what was inside of him, they would perhaps help him to look as well, help him create something to look at.
But did he want to see himself for what he really was? He already knew what had been inside of him once... And what he was showing the world, what was outwards, wasn't very nice either: childish, stupid, arrogant, chauvinist.
‚Yes, mother, you could have raised me better if you'd just lived a few years longer. If you'd let father drive on the way back, perhaps... Perhaps everything would be better now if I had driven that damn car myself.'
He didn't really know what he was alive for anyway.
the thought of ending it soon
I hear the water drip from the faucet
it's sweetly falling into
who knows
I'm gently closing the closet
and I fall to the floor
and crawl to my room
just let me sleep in my room
Perhaps everything would be better. It wasn't as if anyone cared... enough.
Even the thought of killing anyone was too much, he couldn't kill himself. But if he could just go to sleep for the rest of his life, that would be nice. Warm and oblivious to everything going on in the world. Oblivious to his own faults.
Oblivious to the emptiness inside of him.
If there were something inside of him, he would know, wouldn't he? But it was, as if anything, that had ever been there had been washed away by unnecessary tears.
Every time, he'd felt something, he'd put it in that glass, to give his life some sort of sense. To give himself a direction to take, an aim to keep reaching for.
But now that glass was empty once again, and only some transparent memories still clung to it, barely; desperately trying not to be drowned in the still rain.
Or the tears.
Perhaps his mother had been right to declare him as her only fault. Perhaps his father had been right to say, he'd been the one to kill her. Perhaps Gibbs had been right to call him the shallowest person alive.
Perhaps...
Perhaps it was okay not to know why he felt anything anymore. Why there was anything still left inside of him, even if he couldn't see it. Perhaps it was okay to cry for once. If only... If only he knew why.
hear me crying...
cry
cry
The song was right there, always one step behind him. Or one step in front; protecting him, while telling the truth? The melody seemed to float around his every teardrop, casting some sort of spell around him, trying to catch his fall into the past.
Perhaps the soft voice was only singing for him, only singing to make him see the truth, make him feel.
Making him have a look inside of himself.
no, I hear a knock at the front door
don't come in
I try to look at you but I can't stop shaking
leave me alone just go away
mother I'm so scared
I'm so scared
If it were only the truth.
If someone were there, to knock at his door. If he were there, to help him through his fears, his tears, his life. And someone to know that there was something else than the emptiness, that there had been something, once. Before everything.
If there would be something except this emptiness, it would be okay. Something except those memories.
But there was no one knocking at his front door, there were only memories knocking silently at his heart's gate. Memories of him. Of feelings.
Memories, of not being empty.
But he didn't know if those were enough to fill him.
an empty bed but all of my sheets
are gone
they're wrapped around me and you
all is quiet but the drop of my gun
'cause I...
I want to belong to someone
It had been too good for him. He should have known, it was only for one night, should have known that everything was just a game. He should have known, that as soon as he took out the only thing, still in his soul, it would be washed away. As soon as his words hit reality and his dreams were inside the clear glass, there would be a storm cloud of angry words, and lightening blinding him.
As soon as he spoke those words, words of love. Words of belonging...
As soon as he said 'I love you', his emptiness was complete. Because it had become real, it had become something substantial, to touch and to push aside.
There was nothing to look at anymore now. But perhaps it was okay.
He still didn't want to kill himself, and he didn't take out the gun. Even if the words, caressing his closed eyelids told him so. The syllables clinging to his lashes and lips, seemed to whisper of the gun, of a deadly weapon. The fingers, stroking the piano, seemed to ghost over his neck, pressing down on his pulse slightly, breathing death into his ear with a hot breath.
But it was enough to move his body until he was lying down on the couch, so he could watch the glass fall down, as he lifted one hand to the table. Perhaps it was enough to feel the shattering in his soul, watching as the shards spilled all over the room.
He closed his eyes as the glass fell.
There were shards in his heart now, cutting into his flesh from the inside. He hoped the pain he felt was enough to go on for.
maybe life's not for everyone.
"I'm sorry..."
A quiet whisper, on the other side of the town, somewhere. A whisper between silent tears, rolling inside the body, not daring to touch the skin covered in sawdust. A whisper made with the mouth pressed against forgiving wood. A whisper of an unforgiving soul.
"I'm sorry..."
Perhaps he really was.
But there was nothing to be sorry about. Not anymore.
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FIN
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