Disclaimer: Own nothing but the plot, also don't own Doritos
Author: Jollification
Rating: T for dark/suicidal thoughts/actions
A/N: My first CSI fic! Sorry if the characters seem out of character. And on the topic of suicide: don't do it.
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Slip
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"Greggo…you in there? Hello…Greg? GREG!" someone yelled, snapping the CSI out of his trance, pulling his consciousness back into the room. He was sitting at one of the many desks in the Crime Lab, going over some surveillance videos of a robbery gone bad. Greg turned to the man sitting next to him, who had snapped him out of his ponderings.
"Jeez man, you really zoned out," Nick Stokes stated, eyebrows raised in worry. "I had been calling you for like, a minute, snapped my fingers at you and everything…anything on your mind?" The Texan questioned, eyeing his friend.
"N-no, nothing. Just a little tired is all," the younger CSI quickly answered. In all honesty, he was tired, he hadn't slept in days. He would stare at the ceiling of his bedroom, thinking of nothing in particular, except the cases that seemed to be flooding the Crime Lab as of late. Murders, rapes, beatings, kidnappings…the usual. It wasn't the cases themselves that bothered Greg, and it was that in itself that bothered the man. Since when had the murders of innocent people and the kidnapping of young children started rolling off of him with ease, not even causing him to flinch or give a second thought? When had he become so unfeeling?
"Man, I hear you. It's been a long day," the senior CSI agreed, quickly chalking the younger man's moment up to sleep deprivation. "So, what do you got for me?" Nick asked.
Glad to have the focus shift from him, Greg brought his attention back to the bright computer screen. "Well, you can see the vics pull up in the green van; everyone in the van gets outs…" As if on cue, the side doors of the green van slide open, two blonde children, a mother, and a father get out, stretching their tired muscles in the gas station parking lot. The children playfully push each other, and the mother, walks up to her stretching husband, giving him a hug. After a quick kiss from his wife, the man proceeds into the store. "The father, as you can see, gets into the store, but is shot after what appears to be a confrontation between two men previously inside," he enlarges the image, showing the blur of action inside the gas station store. "One of the guys runs out, and seeing the rest of the family, shoots them," he adds. The man in the video turns from the three bodies, unaware of the camera filming him.
"Try to get his face right there," Nick points to the screen. After a couple of clicks of the keyboard and mouse, a pixilated picture of a face fills the screen.
"Let me see if I can get it any clearer," a few more clicks "there, that's as sharp as I can get it" Greg states. The face of a young man greets them. The printer is already spewing out an enlarged copy of the boy's face.
"Man, he can't be any older then 16," Nick states "what kind of kid would just shoot some innocent family buying gas?" he questions, the sadness and shock evident on his face.
Greg doesn't answer. He doesn't know the answer. What kind of people did any of the things that came through the lab? Innocent children gunned down in some idiot teenagers attempt at robbing a gas station, the only thing the kid would have got were some Doritos and a couple of lottery tickets. Pointless.
"Thanks Greg, I'll tell you when we get anything," the older man gets up to leave, patting Greg on the back as he heads for the door. Before he reaches the door, he stops and turns back towards his friend.
"Well, all we have to do is get the kids name, there's nothing else you can really do, you should ask Grissom if you can clock out early, I'm sure he'll say yes once he sees your face," the CSI says, remarking on the dark bags hovering under Greg's eyes. "You look a wreck man, try to get some sleep…and don't try to let the cases get to you so much," he explains, giving Greg a pitying look. Even though Greg's problem was almost the exact opposite, he tries to put on a smile. It feels heavy and foreign on his lips.
"Thanks, I'll try," Greg says, watching the man walk down the hallway. He turns his attention back to the computer screen, blankly staring at it. It was quiet now, the only noise filling the room is the low-monotonous drone of the lights overhead. He rewinds the video of the shooting, watching the boy run out, seeing the mother and children getting shot. He should be feeling something, sadness or anxiety, but he feels nothing. He rewinds the image again. Nothing. He watches the few moments of shock flitter across the mother's face as the realization that a gun is being pointed at her children quickly dawns on her. Nothing. He felt absolutely nothing from watching this.
How could this not faze him at all? What had he become? How had he become such an unfeeling person? Any normal human would feel a sliver of grief run through them seeing the look on the women's face in the video. Yet here Greg sat, feeling nothing.
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Grissom walked down the tiled hallway, tired after a hard day's work. There had been a lot of cases filling the Lab lately, and he was eager to get home and temporarily get his mind off of them. Maybe he would watch a documentary on the mating habits of the mosquito or maybe he would watch the newest…
Abruptly stopping, he turned to the open doorway to his right, glancing inside. His eyes fell upon a tired looking Greg Sanders, staring at the computer screen in front of him.
'Odd, I thought his shift ended two hours ago,' the man thought, thinking he was the last one leaving the lab. Taking in the appearance of the young CSI, Grissom wondered if something was wrong with the young man. Something definitely seemed off. For starters, Greg was simply staring at the screen, doing nothing. The man hadn't even looked up to acknowledge Grissom stepping into the room.
'Maybe he fell asleep with his eyes open?' Grissom thought. Could Greg do that?
Deciding to break the silence, Grissom worded his thoughts.
"Greg, are you awake?"
Nothing. Odd.
"Greg, I thought your shift ended a couple of hours ago?" raising the volume of his voice a little higher.
Still nothing.
Stepping forward, Grissom reached out a hand to tap Greg on the shoulder. Greg jerked in his seat, as if he had been deep in thought.
"W-what's goin' on?" the man questioned quickly, glancing up to who had tapped him on the shoulder.
"Greg, how long have you been staring at that screen? Your shift ended two hours ago," Grissom stated. Greg had always been eager to get out of the lab as early as possible, this obvious disregard for time was something Grissom had never seen before in the young man. "Are you feeling alright?" he asked, the worry evident in his tone.
As if the situation was just hitting him, Greg snapped into reality.
"Yeah, I'm fine, just zoned out a little," he quickly spoke, adding a little laugh to the end of his sentence. Grissom found this hard to believe.
"You zoned out for two hours?"
"Uh, no, I-I had just been looking over these videos and, uh, time just got away from me," Greg mumbled, glancing quickly at his superior.
Grissom smiled. He too, had often become so interested in a case that he spent more time then necessary going over the clues and facts. But Greg looked tired; the dark bags under his eyes a testament to the man's lack of sleep.
"Maybe you should go home and get some sleep, it's been a busy day," Grissom suggested, noting the dark look that briefly flashed over Greg's features at the mention of sleep.
'Maybe the cases are getting to him?' the older man wondered. It had been busy lately…Grissom couldn't have a sleep deprived CSI going into the field. They had enough manpower to get along without Greg for a day or two; he should give the kid a break.
"How about you take tomorrow and the next day off? Catch up on your sleep?" Grissom questioned, ordering more than asking. The younger man looked up, mouth opening to say something, but Grissom cut him off.
"See you in a few days Greg," he said happily, patting the younger man on the back before leaving the room, and a very tired CSI behind.
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He didn't want to go home. The only thing waiting for Greg at home was a bed that had been untouched for days, an immaculately clean kitchen that had not had anyone eat in it for a week, and lonely silence. He slowly noted that his music, which he once blared in his lab, had not been touched in months. Was that how long it had been…months since he started not feeling? He didn't want to go home because the only thing he would do is sit on his couch in front of his TV and stare at the screen, not really watching it.
It was a recurring theme.
He walked up the stairs to his apartment door, his legs feeling heavy and strained. He fished the keys from his pocket, hearing the tingle of metallic hitting metallic, and tiredly inserted the key into the lock. The door slowly swung open, the creek of the metal hinges welcoming him into his dark home. Stepping in and closing the door, he ran his hand along the wall, searching for the light switch. The hallway light crackled to life, the sound of electric humming steadily streaming from the bulb. Walking deeper into the apartment, he threw his keys onto the nearest kitchen counter, the clang of the keys reverberating briefly before giving way to silence. Stepping into his den, he threw his jacket onto the couch, and took his shows off, these acts in themselves seeming to suck the energy out of him. Making his way to his bedroom, he opened the top drawer in his dresser and fished out the closest comfortable pants and shirt.
Walking past the unused kitchen without a second thought, he plopped onto the sofa, turning the TV on. Bright, vivid cartoons and loud comical noises filled the room, the bright light from the television dancing across the floor. He just watched. The small trivial thoughts he had been thinking leaked out of his consciousness, and he just stared at the TV, feeling nothing. He didn't laugh, he didn't smile.
Nothing.
How would he be able to do this for two more days? The thought of sitting around and staring at the TV, for two more days seemed impossible. Morning light started filtering through his curtains. At least he had wasted some time.
Maybe he could try and get some sleep.
He got up of his couch, the twang of unused muscles accosting him. He took a step and winced. His right leg had fallen asleep. When had that happened?
He hobbled down the hallway leading to his bathroom. He flicked the light on, and the small white bathroom came into view. The cool tile met his feet, and sent a small shiver up his spine. He headed over to the cabinet above the sink. Glancing in the mirror of the cabinet, he abruptly stopped what he was doing.
A ghostly figure stared back at him. Who was that?
A pale hand reached up to his face, feeling his own cool skin under his fingers. He touched the dark circles under his eyes.
"When did this happen?" he questioned out loud.
This thing staring back at him through the mirror…was him? His skin was pale, to say the least. Dark bags hung under his eyes, the side affects of so many sleepless nights. His face seemed dull, lifeless. How long had he been looking like this? How long had it been since he had seen himself in the mirror? He looked like the walking dead. It was a wonder people didn't think he had walked out of the Crime Lab's morgue. How many people had seen him like this?
A few more shocked seconds of staring, and the reason he had come into the bathroom in the first place dawned upon him. Sleeping pills. Left over from his lab accident long ago. It was a wonder in itself he still had them, would they even still work? The dark letters of the prescription glared at him, reading: "One tablet 10 minutes before bed, take with food". He popped the orange container open, dropping two pills into his mouth. Putting the pills back into the cabinet, and not looking into the mirror, he walked out of the bathroom.
Making his way into his kitchen, he flicked the light on. The clean white kitchen greeted him. He frowned. What was the last thing he had eaten? He couldn't remember.
Moving over to the fridge, he grasped the smooth handle and opened it, cool air meeting his face. Greg surveyed the contents of the fridge, or better yet, the lack of contents. There was no real sustenance in the fridge, only the necessary things such as butter and ketchup. He frowned. So much for food.
"Oh well, it won't kill me," he stated out loud to no one.
Something dawned on him…
"Won't kill me…" he muttered. No. This was ridiculous.
"Shut up Greg," he scolded himself. Great, now he was scolding himself.
Burning realization tingled up his spine, hitting his skull. How long was he going to have to live like this? No eating, no sleeping. How long would it be until he just dropped dead at work?
Dead.
The word was heavy in his mind. Suddenly, the room seemed darker for some reason. Confused, he glanced at the clock above his fridge. The hands read 6:23.
Judging from the purple hue of light dancing across the cream carpet in his den, it must be around sundown. He was confused…hadn't it just been morning? He walked over to the window, parting the curtains. The setting sun glowed on the horizon, casting pink and purple rays in the sky. He felt utterly bewildered; he could have sworn that it was morning just a few minutes ago. He was missing hours of his life. Hours had slipped past him in the blink of an eye.
Where had the whole day gone? How long had he been standing there? Had he taken those pills hours ago or minutes ago? Did he fall asleep standing up? His mind flew past the possible explanations of his current predicament.
"What the Hell is wrong with me?" he asked himself. Fear tingled in his limbs at the realization that he no longer knew his surroundings as well as he thought. It was like he would lapse in and out of consciousness, yet it was streamed all together into one minute. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation…or maybe it was the lack of food? He didn't know, but he was getting anxious. He needed to get some sleep. Now. Greg didn't like this whole time warp feeling. He quickly made his way back to his bathroom, flinging the cabinet open with such force, the mirror in the cabinet shattered, littering the ground with jagged slivers of silver. He didn't stop. He grabbed the neon orange bottle, popped the top off, and poured the pills into his hand. There were eight pills left.
Without thinking he threw the pills into his mouth. Maybe now he could get some sleep.
He looked at the mirror slivers on the floor blankly, not caring to clean them up. He threw the empty pill bottle on the floor, watching it bounce off the tiles and roll to a stop in the corner of the bathroom. The empty bottle stood in sharp contrast against the white tiles, it screamed the finality of the situation.
A small voice in the back of Greg's sleep deprived mind screamed at him, 'You just took that WHOLE bottle! Their not supposed to be taken like that! You are going to die! Call an ambulance you idiot, while there's still time!' the little voice screeched. The first smirk in months graced Greg's face as he realized the little voice in his mind must be his logical thinking. 'So much for logic now,' he bitterly thought.
He walked out of the bathroom, turning the lights off as he left. He chuckled his first chuckle in weeks at this, turning the lights off when it didn't really matter, lights would never matter again in a few minutes. He laid down on the couch, stretching his legs across the length of the sofa. He flipped the TV on, muting the volume, watching the cartoon's mouths close and open in silence. He tried to imagine what they were saying.
Greg involuntarily shivered; it was getting a little cold in the room.
He turned his attention back to the screen, watching blankly. He heard something muffled. He stopped to listen. The light on his den phone console shined a brilliant blue, indicating someone was calling him. That was odd…had he muted the phone too? He stared at the phone briefly, wondering who would be calling him. He shivered again. It was really cold in here. His thoughts slowed down to an eventual halt, he had to focus on his breathing now. Greg's chest felt heavy, like there were rocks nestled upon his chest, causing pressure to build on him. He checked to make sure there were no rocks on his chest. Nope, no rocks. He was relieved.
He made a move to grab the remote, to shut the TV off, but his arms felt heavy. He attempted to reach the remote, his arm stretching out shakily to grasp it. He hit the remote, and it fell to the ground, making no noise, not even a dull thud.
He didn't care, it could stay there…he would get it later. His slowing attention was brought to a dull pain reverberating from his chest. A swell of pain would flood from his chest and float to his arms and legs, echoing back to his chest and repeating the process. He was pretty tired.
Finally.
His eyelids fluttered, and he fought to stay awake…but he was really tired. He tried to yawn, but the air wouldn't come and his mouth wouldn't open up. He was just so tired. Maybe if he just went to sleep for a little while, he could do it later when he woke up. Yeah, he would just take a little nap. Pleases with this idea, he shut his eyes. The flicker of images passed through his mind. There was an old man, was that his Papa Olaf? He would figure it out later. Images of a man and women flashed by him, they reminded him of himself. The smiles of a group of people met him. They were all wearing dark vests that had white letters on them…they seemed happy to see him. He couldn't read what the letters said, he would figure it out later.
He was just happy to finally get some sleep.
His eyes closed.
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Grissom's brow furrowed. Greg's shift had started 45 minutes ago, and the younger CSI wasn't one to be late, at least he would have called in to say he wasn't coming in to the Crime Lab.
Grissom sighed.
'Maybe he forgot he had a shift?' he thought. He dialed the man's house phone, after four rings, Greg's answering machine beeped to life.
"Hey! I couldn't get to the phone, but leave me a message and I'll get back to you!" the CSI's cheery voice greeted him. There was a long beep.
"Greg, you may have forgotten, but your shift started almost 45 minutes ago, contact me as soon as you can," the boss directed. Grissom decided to try the man's cell phone, which according to Lab policy, had to be on at all times. Grissom dialed the number, and was met with the same thing. Ringing. He didn't bother to leave a message.
Odd. Greg always had his cell phone on him, it was practically attached to his hip. Grissom shrugged off the feeling that something was wrong. Most likely, knowing Greg, the younger man had partied too much and passed out on his couch…or some bar. He would probably come in later, drowsy and tired, commenting on how sorry he was for being late, and make up some funny excuse for his tardiness.
Grissom smiled, he could practically see the scene playing out in front of his eyes.
Brass leaned into his office, papers in hand.
"We have a 419 behind a bar on the strip, apparently pretty bloody," the older man informed Grissom. Grissom raised his eyebrows. Things never get boring in Las Vegas.
"Let's go"
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Guess what Grissom? Greg isn't answering his phone because he's DEAD. I feel bad for killing Greg, I don't think I wrote his death good enough. I also think I didn't express his feelings enough. This is my first dark/suicide fic, please tell me what you thought (if it was any good) or if you have any tips, I'm always up for better ways to write tragedies.