I.
The first time he remembered hearing those words (it's over) he was in his mother's arms. Four years old and sweating profusely, shaking and clammy all at the same time. The nightmare had been the same as all the others---the faceless monster, its hundred hands, its thousands claws and teeth and tongues. When he was young, Nick thought that the worst monsters had no face, that the enemy to truly fear was the one that was most inhuman. As he got older, Nick was no longer so sure. By the time he got to Vegas, Nick had stopped believing in things like ghosts and vampires and boogeymen. . .but he still believed in monsters. He had seen too many things not too.
II.
He hadn't dreamt of the faceless monster in nearly three years, but the night The Babysitter came, hands sliding down his skin, his face, his pants, Nick is reminded of the monster because it's easier to think of her that way. He doesn't want to see her as a person but a thing, because if she's a person then she has thoughts and feelings and he doesn't want to have to understand them.
Nick's teacher, Mrs. Engle, often comments about his great empathy---this is something that will be haunting him for the rest of his life. But Nick doesn't want to empathize with the . . thing . . .that is doing this to him, so instead he thinks of her as The Babysitter the same way he would think of The Boogeyman. He closes his eyes as his underwear slide off and waits for it to be over.
Minutes---too many of them, they seem more like hours or decades---go by, and then The Babysitter is pulling Nick's underwear back up for him. Nick wants to do this by himself; he wants those hands to be off of him now, but his own hands are shaking too much. He feels useless and pathetic and clammy again as The Babysitter smiles at him, slowly caressing his cheek.
"There, there," The Babysitter says as Nick tries to cringe away. "There, there. That's all over now. That's all over."
Nick wants to say something then, some idea that he can't quite articulate (it might have to do with the idea of 'over' or maybe the idea of 'wrong' or 'trust' or just 'get the FUCK off of me') but he can't seem to move his mouth, so he says nothing. The Babysitter laughs and leaves him on his bed where he curls on his side and brings his knees close up to his chest. His breathing is frantic and fast and terrified and he tries to remember the things his mother has said (it's over, it's over) but these are the things The Babysitter said and he's not sure he can believe in them. He tries anyway, though. Mom will be home soon, Mom will be home soon, it's all over now, Mom will be home soon.
But by the time she does get home and The Babysitter is gone, Nick no longer wants to tell her what happened. It's embarrassing and it's humiliating and isn't it supposed to be over? Nothing good can come of talking. Some things are better left unsaid.
He begins having nightmares again though, and this time his mother can give no comfort. He reminds himself daily, it's over, it's over, but now it's even harder to believe that such a thing could ever be true.
III.
Years pass the way years do, and somehow Nick goes from a child to a fratboy to a man, then to a man of Las Vegas, a CSI under the Gil Grissom. Nick has spent a long time admiring Grissom, of watching him and studying him and needing him to be proud---this had never happened, of course. Gil Grissom was only proud of his bugs. But Nick survived anyway, the way he had always done, and he lived his life and did his work and then---I am one who am I I am one who am I---he's beyond a two-way mirror looking at his stalker, Nigel Crane.
Nigel babbles and Nick watches, seeing other sights (dead Mr. Pearson), hearing other words (I sometimes forget what's yours and what's mine)---and then Sara, from somewhere behind him, says the words. "25 to life, Nick. It's over."
It's over.
And he feels some stirring at that, some need to explain what he had subconsciously understood at the age of nine, because he knows it's not over, not for him, not for anyone who lived to survive the crime. There is no such thing as 'over', no such thing as an 'end'. Resolutions only come to those who are dead.
Nick needs them to understand this, needs them to understand what it's like to be stalked and invaded and violated, so he says, "It's not over for me. It's over for Jane Galloway." And there's a silence and a quick exit and Nick knows that they just don't understand.
IV.
"So," Grissom says, "it's over."
From an outsider's point of view, Nick can understand (empathize) Grissom's point. He can understand why someone would think it's over: Walter Gordon is dead, his accomplice is dead, and Kelly Gordon isn't dead but she will be soon enough. . .Nick will be the only left. The only survivor. The last man standing.
It should be over. But it never is.
It wasn't over because the nightmares hadn't stopped. It wasn't over because people still gave him those looks. It wasn't over because he could see it in their eyes---they had seen him in that Hell, and they would never forget. It wasn't over because he couldn't forget either. He was never going to forget. He would always be forced to remember.
But from a scientist's point of view, from someone who understood cockroaches more than people, it was over. The evidence was logged, the suspects were dead, the case was closed. There was nothing left to say, not to the Gil Grissom.
So he just says, "Yeah, it's over," and if some small part of him expects to get called on it---expects some kind of milk-milk-milk and silk-silk-silk test to reveal that things aren't as fucking over as they should be---well that part's disappointed because Grissom says nothing. Grissom doesn't believe in monsters---he doesn't know that they can't die. Grissom can't know, so Nick just leaves.
And later that night, after Kelly has died, Nick's home and alone with a beer in one hand. He thinks about getting drunk out of his mind and gives up on the notion halfway through the bottle---the solace of booze is temporary at best. He watches TV without really seeing, thinking of monsters and The Babysitter and the coffin and it's over. When the phone rings, his Caller ID tells him that it's Sara, and he considers screening it because he knows what she'll say. On the fourth ring, he picks it up. She's heard what happened to Kelly. She wants to know if he's okay.
"I'm okay," he says. "It's over."
Then he has to put her on hold, and he laughs until he cries.