Days like today make me hate my job.
I mean, I admire and love what I do, but this has to be my least favorite part of the job. A pedophile who lured six year old boys into bathrooms in Wal-Mart and sodomized them had skipped town the day we planned to arrest him almost three years ago. Three days ago, a head on collision occurred on one of the major bypasses of the city of Las Vegas.
The cause? A man, driving a stolen SUV, had a condition called epilepsy, a disease that usually keeps people from driving. But this man decided to risk his life and drive, a stupid decision because he had a seizure, drove his car into an oncoming lane of traffic, and was killed instantly. The man? The pedophile and kiddie rapist I had tried to arrest all those years ago. His car crashed into the rental van of Unleaded, an up and coming rock band that was starting its new tour that night in Vegas. This added the press' interest in the case, making it high-profile.
I got to work a high profile case that helped me catch a man I had been looking for for more than three years. So how could any of this make me hate my job? Because I had to walk into a young man's hospital room and let him know that he would most likely be the only person involved in the accident who would be able to walk out of the hospital room in under a month's time.
I had gotten a call from Dr. Finnley, the victim's doctor, earlier in the day telling me that his patient, a Gregory Sanders, had been drifting in and out of consciousness all morning and should be ready to talk to me by around five that evening. I arrived at Desert Palm at about four and met with the doctor, who gave me a run down about what was wrong with his patient, the others involved in the wreck, and a folder full of his medical history. He wasn't awake yet, the doctor said, but he would be up and ready to talk within the hour.
So I sat on the blue padded sofa in the waiting room and . . . waited. The waiting room, like almost everything else in the hospital, was an off-white color; staring at the walls too long burned my eyes. A small wooden, and by the looks of it, cedar table directly in front of my chair was piled with stack after stack of old magazines, which I rifled through for about the first thirty minutes.
After that became almost unbearable, I started looking over the information the doctor had given me. Compared to the others involved in the accident, the one that I was talking to made it out quite easy. His list of injuries, though not life threatening, was long in number - three cracked ribs, broken arm, shattered kneecap (which would require surgery within the 24-hour time period), twelve stitches on his torso and seventeen across his face. It would be telling him what happened to his friends that would make me hate days like today - - two were in critical condition, one paralyzed, one almost as lucky as Gregory Sanders, and one dead.
After another half an hour, I moved onto his medical history from hospitals in San Francisco, New York, and now Las Vegas. Gregory Mitchell Sanders - born, May 7, 1975 in San Francisco Medical University, which would make him seventeen now. I immediately began to wonder why this boy wasn't at home, living off of his parent's cash and flunking school like most seventeen year olds I knew.
Gregory Sanders stayed pretty much out of hospitals until getting his tonsils removed at the age of eight. After that though, a string of incidents followed, all from New York Medical. At eleven, he suffered a broken arm, two broken fingers, a broken nose, twenty-seven stitches on his right arm, and a broken collarbone. By his fifteenth birthday, he had broken both his radius and ulna in each arm twice, broken his nose two more times, cracked his jaw, had two concussions, seven cracked ribs, a punctured lung, smashed hand, and broken femur. That was a hell of a lot of injuries for a seventeen-year-old to suffer and one word immediately popped into my head, summing up the whole situation - - abuse.
I didn't have time to dwell on my suspicions before the doctor finally walked back out into the waiting room, his white coat matching the wall color perfectly.
"My nurses informed me that your victim is awake. I talked to him when he first woke up at around seven, but he was on a morphine drip so I doubt he remembers much of what I discussed with him. You might have to explain everything to him."
That wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear, but I stood up from my seat and replied with a sigh, "I suspected as much," before the doctor led me to Gregory Sanders' room. He left me at the door to enter the room alone.
I'm not sure if you noticed, but I despise hospitals. It's just something about them. Maybe it's the overwhelming smell of disinfectant that seems to coat every object you touch, or maybe it's the fluorescent lights that make that low hum that at times can drown out every other thought in your head.
But what probably bothers me the most about hospitals was the feeling you got when you entered one; the feeling of thousands of individuals hoping, praying for a miracle and the truth that almost none of those prayers will be answered. It's the lost souls, waiting in a hospital bed for their time to die. Maybe that's why I like my job so much; I get to help the people whose prayers have been denied and try to give them some justice. Justice - wasn't that what it was all about?
Everything in Gregory Sanders' hospital room was that stark shade of white that I hated so much - the walls, curtains, bed, and sheets. Minus the bed, television, and chair in the corner, the room was completely bare. He had no personal items in the room at all - - not a single flower.
After I had analyzed every other piece of the room, my eyes finally fell on the occupant of the room. Gregory Sanders was pale, almost as pale as the room itself. His almost shoulder-length dark brown hair stood out drastically against his pillow as did the neon green cast on his thin arm. His eyes, dark brown in color, and so big that they didn't look as if they fit his face, were sunken, his skin giving off a jaundice appearance. That, combined with his thin frame, gave him the look of a user, but that could have just been from his stay in the hospital. If I had been unconscious for more than three days, then I suppose I would look like an addict as well. The silver streak in his hair and the piercing on his chin were the only signs of his band status. A white bandage had been taped to almost the entire left side of his face and, although I couldn't see it, I could almost guarantee that his chest and leg were wrapped up as well.
I walked over, dodging various machines that had been hooked up to him, and sat in the white chair opposite his bed, and trying to give him my most soothing smile. His huge eyes never left my face.
"Gregory Sanders? My name is Gil Grissom and I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I came here to ask you a few questions."
"Ask away," he stated, his eyes hardening over with the viciousness of the statement. I could understand his anger; hell, I'd be mad too if the first thing I heard after waking up from unconsciousness was 'I'm going to ask you a few questions.'
"But first, I suspect you would like to know why you are here." He nodded, as small smile visible on his pale lips, as I continued. I felt immediate pity for him. He wanted to know about the wreck and if his friends were ok, but he didn't realize that the answers I would give him would not be the ones he wanted to hear.
"The man in the truck that hit you was having a seizure and lost control of the wheel," I began to explain in what I hoped was a calm, steady voice. "He died instantly upon impact. Three other cars slammed into the back of your car before traffic finally stopped. The driver of your car, " I had to stop and check the folder for the man's name, "a Price Matthews was smashed in between his seat and the dashboard. He broke the seventh vertebra in his neck and has been proclaimed paralyzed from the waist down. Other than that, he suffered minor cuts and bruises to his arms, torso, and face from the smashed windshield. He's awake and in a stable condition."
I tried to deliver the news as sensitively as possible, but it seemed the faster I spat out the words, the sooner this would all be over. "Tony Nash suffered extreme internal damage to his heart, lungs, kidneys, and other various organs. He is awake, but in very critical condition."
"What - "Gregory began, but cut off as his voice cracked. I could feel the reality of this whole situation starting to hit him. "What are his " He couldn't bring himself to say the words.
"He has a 25% chance of making it to tomorrow." As soon as that statement left my mouth, his world looked as if it had been shattered, the glass walls of his perfect world breaking around him.
"Zack Davison suffered minor injuries to his face and torso, three broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a fractured jaw. He was released two days ago." Finally, some good news. Well, I know it seems weird to call a punctured lung and fractured face good news, but it had been the best thing he had heard all morning.
"Lydia Bell had severe nerve and tissue damage to her right leg and had to have it amputated just below the knee. She received profound head trauma and has been in a coma since the accident with no signs of brain activity.
"Kevin Bell was thrown from the car during the impact. My guess was that he wasn't wearing a seatbelt?" Greg nodded. "His neck snapped in his collision with the pavement. He was killed instantly."
"So what you're telling me is that out of the six of us, one can't breathe, two can't walk, one's about to die and two are basically already fucking dead? And there is nothing you, any of the hospital staff, or I can do to help them?" He demanded, almost hysterically screaming out the words, his brown eyes meeting mine, piercing them. After pausing a few seconds to catch his breath, he continued, now completely subdued.
"Mr. Grissom, do you know why Kevin wasn't wearing a seatbelt?" I stared at him, wondering where this was going.
"I said, do you fucking know why he wasn't buckled?!" He was back to screaming now, voice cracking as tears streamed down his face.
"No, I - "
"We were going out for ice cream because Zack and Tony were stoned and suggested it. I offered to pay, because I got paid for the first time that day and had more money than I ever thought I could have. On the way over there, I had out my wallet, counting my cash, when Price gunned in through a yellow light and it flung out of my hands. Kevin unbuckled to - " Hysteria finally overtook the poor boy and he couldn't make out the rest of his story, but I knew the rest of it anyway.
So there I sat, in a hospital room with a stranger who had just lost everything and I didn't know what to do next. I never was good with people; I don't understand or like most people anyway. But this kid was different. He had run away from a life of nothing and made something of himself, only to fall back into that nothingness that he had originally risen from.
Therefore, I did the only thing that I thought fitting for this situation - took a box of Kleenex and a cup of coffee from down in the hospital lobby and brought them back up to Greg. When I walked back into his room, he had stopped crying. I handed him the coffee and put the tissues on the table by his bed.
"This coffee fucking sucks." He began, his eyes dancing at the confused look on my face. Whatever happened in the few minutes I had left him, sure left a lasting improvement.
"Morphine." He answered my question as if reading my mind and grinned a zany grin before his eyes began to droop, thinking to himself that morphine probably wasn't the best thing to give a recovering heroin addict. I decided this would be my moment to leave and walk out of this kid's life forever. But it seemed as if destiny had some other plan.
Around six months later, after I had almost forgotten about Greg Sanders, I received a call from Catherine Willows, a friend and coworker who was inviting me out for dinner with her and her husband, Eddie. We were going out to celebrate Catherine's promotion to a Crime Scene Investigator level three, which tripled her salary.
Catherine and Eddie, you see, never really got along. And by that I mean they hated each other. Eddie was always in a constant slew of affairs and didn't even bother trying to hide it from Catherine. She always stuck by him and I don't think I'll ever understand why.
But tonight the couple was all smiles. As we were walking towards the restaurant, Eddie had his arm around Catherine, who was resting her head on his shoulder. I hung back as the two entered the restaurant, giving the couple some time alone. I wandered around the outside of the Italian place Catherine chose for dinner, finally stopping once I was behind the building, and lit a cigarette.
It was a warm night, which really wasn't a rarity in June, but a small breeze was blowing, hopefully a sign of rain to come. It had been an extremely dry summer, even for Vegas. Everything was dying, water prices were raising, and there had been more heat related deaths in the last two months than in the last two years combined. The moon had been swallowed up by two huge clouds, making the night seem just that darker. It was the kind of night that I dreaded most - - the eerie nights when it seemed as if anything could happen.
As I turned, heading back into the restaurant, I noticed the frail form of a person, sleeping in the back of an adjacent alley. I don't know what it was that made me decide to approach this person. Maybe I just felt sorry for them or was it the overwhelming sense of loneliness that had smothered me that night? Regardless of reason, I still walked over to the sleeper. He awoke as he heard my footsteps proceeding towards him and recognition flashed on his face. I knew immediately that something was wrong with him. He was not the boy I met in the hospital six months previous.
"I remember you," he stated, his voice a scratchy whisper, a small smile surfaced as he sat up. He had lost about twenty pounds since the last time we met and now was so thin that he looked on the borderline of death. "Detective...uh," he looked around, as if my name would magically appear. His eyes, red with pupils the size of pinpoints, were scaring me. "Grissom!" he yelled with a triumphant smirk.
"That's right. How have you been, Greg?"
"Pretty good." It took him a while to respond, like he was having trouble speaking. The cut on his face had faded to a very visible scar, the only physical memento from the accident that I could see.
"Lydia died, Detective Grissom." His face screwed up in an attempt to hold back tears that were threatening to fall. I slid down to a sitting position on the ground beside Greg and placed my arm around him. I was searching my brain for something, anything to say, but before I could come up with something Greg had fallen asleep in mid-sentence. "A typical symptom," I said aloud to no one, my eyes falling on the strange, yet recognizable, lines on his arms. Herion was a very scary thing.
Hello
Is there anybody in there
Just nod if you can hear me
Is there anyone home?
Come on, now
I hear you're feeling down
Well, I can ease you pain
Get you on your feet again
Relax.
I need some information first
Just the basic facts:
Can you show me where it hurts?
There is no pain, you are receding
A distant ship's smoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
You're lips are moving but I can't hear what you're saying
I can't explain, you would not understand
This is not how I am
I have become comfortably numb.
Ok.
Just a little pinprick
They'll be no more
But you may feel a little sick.
Can you stand up?
I do believe it's working, good
That'll keep you going for the show
Come on, it's time to go
There is no pain, you are receding
A distant ship's smoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
You're lips are moving but I can't hear what you're saying
When I was a child, I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye.
I turned to look but it was gone.
I cannot put my finger on it now.
The child is grown, the dream is gone
I have become comfortably numb.
Greg stayed with me in my townhouse for about a week. He opened up and answered many of my questions; I learned about him. What I learned are things I just can't share with you, they're too personal. At the end of the week I checked him into rehab, and said my goodbye.
That was six years ago and I haven't heard from him since.
Whenever I think of that week that Gregory Sanders stayed with me, I feel a little less lonely; there are always people whose lives are worse than mine.
AN: A/N: The song in this chapter is the classic Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd (the greatest stoner rock band out there!). The next chapter of The Agony of a Stalker, my greg/sara (kind of) story should be finished and posted by the end of next week. I was supposed to wait until then to post this but I have no patience.
I mean, I admire and love what I do, but this has to be my least favorite part of the job. A pedophile who lured six year old boys into bathrooms in Wal-Mart and sodomized them had skipped town the day we planned to arrest him almost three years ago. Three days ago, a head on collision occurred on one of the major bypasses of the city of Las Vegas.
The cause? A man, driving a stolen SUV, had a condition called epilepsy, a disease that usually keeps people from driving. But this man decided to risk his life and drive, a stupid decision because he had a seizure, drove his car into an oncoming lane of traffic, and was killed instantly. The man? The pedophile and kiddie rapist I had tried to arrest all those years ago. His car crashed into the rental van of Unleaded, an up and coming rock band that was starting its new tour that night in Vegas. This added the press' interest in the case, making it high-profile.
I got to work a high profile case that helped me catch a man I had been looking for for more than three years. So how could any of this make me hate my job? Because I had to walk into a young man's hospital room and let him know that he would most likely be the only person involved in the accident who would be able to walk out of the hospital room in under a month's time.
I had gotten a call from Dr. Finnley, the victim's doctor, earlier in the day telling me that his patient, a Gregory Sanders, had been drifting in and out of consciousness all morning and should be ready to talk to me by around five that evening. I arrived at Desert Palm at about four and met with the doctor, who gave me a run down about what was wrong with his patient, the others involved in the wreck, and a folder full of his medical history. He wasn't awake yet, the doctor said, but he would be up and ready to talk within the hour.
So I sat on the blue padded sofa in the waiting room and . . . waited. The waiting room, like almost everything else in the hospital, was an off-white color; staring at the walls too long burned my eyes. A small wooden, and by the looks of it, cedar table directly in front of my chair was piled with stack after stack of old magazines, which I rifled through for about the first thirty minutes.
After that became almost unbearable, I started looking over the information the doctor had given me. Compared to the others involved in the accident, the one that I was talking to made it out quite easy. His list of injuries, though not life threatening, was long in number - three cracked ribs, broken arm, shattered kneecap (which would require surgery within the 24-hour time period), twelve stitches on his torso and seventeen across his face. It would be telling him what happened to his friends that would make me hate days like today - - two were in critical condition, one paralyzed, one almost as lucky as Gregory Sanders, and one dead.
After another half an hour, I moved onto his medical history from hospitals in San Francisco, New York, and now Las Vegas. Gregory Mitchell Sanders - born, May 7, 1975 in San Francisco Medical University, which would make him seventeen now. I immediately began to wonder why this boy wasn't at home, living off of his parent's cash and flunking school like most seventeen year olds I knew.
Gregory Sanders stayed pretty much out of hospitals until getting his tonsils removed at the age of eight. After that though, a string of incidents followed, all from New York Medical. At eleven, he suffered a broken arm, two broken fingers, a broken nose, twenty-seven stitches on his right arm, and a broken collarbone. By his fifteenth birthday, he had broken both his radius and ulna in each arm twice, broken his nose two more times, cracked his jaw, had two concussions, seven cracked ribs, a punctured lung, smashed hand, and broken femur. That was a hell of a lot of injuries for a seventeen-year-old to suffer and one word immediately popped into my head, summing up the whole situation - - abuse.
I didn't have time to dwell on my suspicions before the doctor finally walked back out into the waiting room, his white coat matching the wall color perfectly.
"My nurses informed me that your victim is awake. I talked to him when he first woke up at around seven, but he was on a morphine drip so I doubt he remembers much of what I discussed with him. You might have to explain everything to him."
That wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear, but I stood up from my seat and replied with a sigh, "I suspected as much," before the doctor led me to Gregory Sanders' room. He left me at the door to enter the room alone.
I'm not sure if you noticed, but I despise hospitals. It's just something about them. Maybe it's the overwhelming smell of disinfectant that seems to coat every object you touch, or maybe it's the fluorescent lights that make that low hum that at times can drown out every other thought in your head.
But what probably bothers me the most about hospitals was the feeling you got when you entered one; the feeling of thousands of individuals hoping, praying for a miracle and the truth that almost none of those prayers will be answered. It's the lost souls, waiting in a hospital bed for their time to die. Maybe that's why I like my job so much; I get to help the people whose prayers have been denied and try to give them some justice. Justice - wasn't that what it was all about?
Everything in Gregory Sanders' hospital room was that stark shade of white that I hated so much - the walls, curtains, bed, and sheets. Minus the bed, television, and chair in the corner, the room was completely bare. He had no personal items in the room at all - - not a single flower.
After I had analyzed every other piece of the room, my eyes finally fell on the occupant of the room. Gregory Sanders was pale, almost as pale as the room itself. His almost shoulder-length dark brown hair stood out drastically against his pillow as did the neon green cast on his thin arm. His eyes, dark brown in color, and so big that they didn't look as if they fit his face, were sunken, his skin giving off a jaundice appearance. That, combined with his thin frame, gave him the look of a user, but that could have just been from his stay in the hospital. If I had been unconscious for more than three days, then I suppose I would look like an addict as well. The silver streak in his hair and the piercing on his chin were the only signs of his band status. A white bandage had been taped to almost the entire left side of his face and, although I couldn't see it, I could almost guarantee that his chest and leg were wrapped up as well.
I walked over, dodging various machines that had been hooked up to him, and sat in the white chair opposite his bed, and trying to give him my most soothing smile. His huge eyes never left my face.
"Gregory Sanders? My name is Gil Grissom and I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I came here to ask you a few questions."
"Ask away," he stated, his eyes hardening over with the viciousness of the statement. I could understand his anger; hell, I'd be mad too if the first thing I heard after waking up from unconsciousness was 'I'm going to ask you a few questions.'
"But first, I suspect you would like to know why you are here." He nodded, as small smile visible on his pale lips, as I continued. I felt immediate pity for him. He wanted to know about the wreck and if his friends were ok, but he didn't realize that the answers I would give him would not be the ones he wanted to hear.
"The man in the truck that hit you was having a seizure and lost control of the wheel," I began to explain in what I hoped was a calm, steady voice. "He died instantly upon impact. Three other cars slammed into the back of your car before traffic finally stopped. The driver of your car, " I had to stop and check the folder for the man's name, "a Price Matthews was smashed in between his seat and the dashboard. He broke the seventh vertebra in his neck and has been proclaimed paralyzed from the waist down. Other than that, he suffered minor cuts and bruises to his arms, torso, and face from the smashed windshield. He's awake and in a stable condition."
I tried to deliver the news as sensitively as possible, but it seemed the faster I spat out the words, the sooner this would all be over. "Tony Nash suffered extreme internal damage to his heart, lungs, kidneys, and other various organs. He is awake, but in very critical condition."
"What - "Gregory began, but cut off as his voice cracked. I could feel the reality of this whole situation starting to hit him. "What are his " He couldn't bring himself to say the words.
"He has a 25% chance of making it to tomorrow." As soon as that statement left my mouth, his world looked as if it had been shattered, the glass walls of his perfect world breaking around him.
"Zack Davison suffered minor injuries to his face and torso, three broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a fractured jaw. He was released two days ago." Finally, some good news. Well, I know it seems weird to call a punctured lung and fractured face good news, but it had been the best thing he had heard all morning.
"Lydia Bell had severe nerve and tissue damage to her right leg and had to have it amputated just below the knee. She received profound head trauma and has been in a coma since the accident with no signs of brain activity.
"Kevin Bell was thrown from the car during the impact. My guess was that he wasn't wearing a seatbelt?" Greg nodded. "His neck snapped in his collision with the pavement. He was killed instantly."
"So what you're telling me is that out of the six of us, one can't breathe, two can't walk, one's about to die and two are basically already fucking dead? And there is nothing you, any of the hospital staff, or I can do to help them?" He demanded, almost hysterically screaming out the words, his brown eyes meeting mine, piercing them. After pausing a few seconds to catch his breath, he continued, now completely subdued.
"Mr. Grissom, do you know why Kevin wasn't wearing a seatbelt?" I stared at him, wondering where this was going.
"I said, do you fucking know why he wasn't buckled?!" He was back to screaming now, voice cracking as tears streamed down his face.
"No, I - "
"We were going out for ice cream because Zack and Tony were stoned and suggested it. I offered to pay, because I got paid for the first time that day and had more money than I ever thought I could have. On the way over there, I had out my wallet, counting my cash, when Price gunned in through a yellow light and it flung out of my hands. Kevin unbuckled to - " Hysteria finally overtook the poor boy and he couldn't make out the rest of his story, but I knew the rest of it anyway.
So there I sat, in a hospital room with a stranger who had just lost everything and I didn't know what to do next. I never was good with people; I don't understand or like most people anyway. But this kid was different. He had run away from a life of nothing and made something of himself, only to fall back into that nothingness that he had originally risen from.
Therefore, I did the only thing that I thought fitting for this situation - took a box of Kleenex and a cup of coffee from down in the hospital lobby and brought them back up to Greg. When I walked back into his room, he had stopped crying. I handed him the coffee and put the tissues on the table by his bed.
"This coffee fucking sucks." He began, his eyes dancing at the confused look on my face. Whatever happened in the few minutes I had left him, sure left a lasting improvement.
"Morphine." He answered my question as if reading my mind and grinned a zany grin before his eyes began to droop, thinking to himself that morphine probably wasn't the best thing to give a recovering heroin addict. I decided this would be my moment to leave and walk out of this kid's life forever. But it seemed as if destiny had some other plan.
Around six months later, after I had almost forgotten about Greg Sanders, I received a call from Catherine Willows, a friend and coworker who was inviting me out for dinner with her and her husband, Eddie. We were going out to celebrate Catherine's promotion to a Crime Scene Investigator level three, which tripled her salary.
Catherine and Eddie, you see, never really got along. And by that I mean they hated each other. Eddie was always in a constant slew of affairs and didn't even bother trying to hide it from Catherine. She always stuck by him and I don't think I'll ever understand why.
But tonight the couple was all smiles. As we were walking towards the restaurant, Eddie had his arm around Catherine, who was resting her head on his shoulder. I hung back as the two entered the restaurant, giving the couple some time alone. I wandered around the outside of the Italian place Catherine chose for dinner, finally stopping once I was behind the building, and lit a cigarette.
It was a warm night, which really wasn't a rarity in June, but a small breeze was blowing, hopefully a sign of rain to come. It had been an extremely dry summer, even for Vegas. Everything was dying, water prices were raising, and there had been more heat related deaths in the last two months than in the last two years combined. The moon had been swallowed up by two huge clouds, making the night seem just that darker. It was the kind of night that I dreaded most - - the eerie nights when it seemed as if anything could happen.
As I turned, heading back into the restaurant, I noticed the frail form of a person, sleeping in the back of an adjacent alley. I don't know what it was that made me decide to approach this person. Maybe I just felt sorry for them or was it the overwhelming sense of loneliness that had smothered me that night? Regardless of reason, I still walked over to the sleeper. He awoke as he heard my footsteps proceeding towards him and recognition flashed on his face. I knew immediately that something was wrong with him. He was not the boy I met in the hospital six months previous.
"I remember you," he stated, his voice a scratchy whisper, a small smile surfaced as he sat up. He had lost about twenty pounds since the last time we met and now was so thin that he looked on the borderline of death. "Detective...uh," he looked around, as if my name would magically appear. His eyes, red with pupils the size of pinpoints, were scaring me. "Grissom!" he yelled with a triumphant smirk.
"That's right. How have you been, Greg?"
"Pretty good." It took him a while to respond, like he was having trouble speaking. The cut on his face had faded to a very visible scar, the only physical memento from the accident that I could see.
"Lydia died, Detective Grissom." His face screwed up in an attempt to hold back tears that were threatening to fall. I slid down to a sitting position on the ground beside Greg and placed my arm around him. I was searching my brain for something, anything to say, but before I could come up with something Greg had fallen asleep in mid-sentence. "A typical symptom," I said aloud to no one, my eyes falling on the strange, yet recognizable, lines on his arms. Herion was a very scary thing.
Hello
Is there anybody in there
Just nod if you can hear me
Is there anyone home?
Come on, now
I hear you're feeling down
Well, I can ease you pain
Get you on your feet again
Relax.
I need some information first
Just the basic facts:
Can you show me where it hurts?
There is no pain, you are receding
A distant ship's smoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
You're lips are moving but I can't hear what you're saying
I can't explain, you would not understand
This is not how I am
I have become comfortably numb.
Ok.
Just a little pinprick
They'll be no more
But you may feel a little sick.
Can you stand up?
I do believe it's working, good
That'll keep you going for the show
Come on, it's time to go
There is no pain, you are receding
A distant ship's smoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
You're lips are moving but I can't hear what you're saying
When I was a child, I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye.
I turned to look but it was gone.
I cannot put my finger on it now.
The child is grown, the dream is gone
I have become comfortably numb.
Greg stayed with me in my townhouse for about a week. He opened up and answered many of my questions; I learned about him. What I learned are things I just can't share with you, they're too personal. At the end of the week I checked him into rehab, and said my goodbye.
That was six years ago and I haven't heard from him since.
Whenever I think of that week that Gregory Sanders stayed with me, I feel a little less lonely; there are always people whose lives are worse than mine.
AN: A/N: The song in this chapter is the classic Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd (the greatest stoner rock band out there!). The next chapter of The Agony of a Stalker, my greg/sara (kind of) story should be finished and posted by the end of next week. I was supposed to wait until then to post this but I have no patience.