Hi everyone. I've been working on this story for a while and finally decided to take the plunge and publish it. I hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: Castle and the recognizable characters are property of the folks at ABC and their creators who make a lot more money than I do. This is for pure entertainment purposes
Chapter 1: The Power of Words
Castle once told us that words can be the deadliest weapon of all. I don't remember the exact details of when we had the conversation; I think it was after a case we had just finished and were sitting around having drinks at the Old Haunt. What I do remember is that exact phrase "Words can be the deadliest weapons of all." Until now, I hadn't really thought about it. To be sure, I've had my share of experience with words being weapons; I've said stupid, hurtful things, and had them said to me. But until now, I haven't really known the truly devastating effect that words can have. Now though, I realize that Castle wasn't just being poetic, he was spot on. Words can be some of the deadliest weapons in the human arsenal. They've caused wars, heartbreaks, and untold misery. As for me, they might have cost me the closest friendship I've ever had.
I'm sitting in the worst of all possible places; a silent hospital room. Well, not exactly silent. There are noises, sounds I wish I didn't have to hear. The beep, beep, beep of a heart monitor, the machine helping him breathe and others doing God only knows what else. The doctor explained it a while ago, but I didn't care enough to pay attention to those sort of details; my focus was elsewhere, on the figure in the hospital bed.
Everyone else left an hour ago, leaving the two of us alone. The City is cloaked in darkness, with only intermittent flashes of lightening to illuminate the sky. Rain lashes against the windows and the rumble of thunder echoes through the night. Appropriately enough a thunderstorm has kicked off outside, as if New York City herself is angry that something this bad could happen to one of her sons. And the City has plenty of reason to be angry; he's in that awful no-man's land between life and death that science has designated as a coma.
As for me, I'm nursing my own terrible wounds. None are physical; those hurt for a time, but they heal. I've been beaten up, shot at, even tortured, but I'd gladly take each and every one of them over what I'm experiencing now. The wounds I have now are emotional wounds, the ones that tear open your heart and sear your soul, leaving permanent scars. I'm in my own personal hell. Riddled with the worst type of guilt, I can't do anything except sit here and engage in well-deserved self-flagellation, knowing that this is all my fault and that if it hadn't been for me, none of this would be happening.
I can't even look at him it hurts so much. I'm so sorry. It's a pathetic word really, sorry. Intent on making things better and setting things back the way they should be, right now it is the most useless word in the world. And it is so inadequate. I could say sorry every day for the rest of the time I'm on this earth, and it still wouldn't be enough.
I grab his hand and hold it tightly in my own. Normally he has a firm, reassuring grip, but now it is limp, devoid of any of his usual strength. It's wrong. All of this is so very wrong. Because he shouldn't be here. He should be up and around, doing what he does best; protecting and serving. But no, he's lying here in a coma.
All because of me.
Sitting here, waiting for something, anything to happen, I've gone through a whole gamut of emotions. I had some times where a burning rage filled my every being. When that happened, I wanted to shout, throw things, curse out the world, and hit something. Other times it's been a deep sadness. Those episodes have sometimes been accompanied by tears, and the most overwhelming sense of loss I can imagine. I wouldn't wish these feelings on anyone, with one notable exception; the bastard responsible for this, aside from me. Then, there are times like this, where I'm not sad or angry, just completely hopeless and feeling utterly useless. Its times like these that give way to brooding introspection, letting me relive my mistakes.
The others in our unconventional family tried to tell me otherwise, that I couldn't have known or predicted it or any of that. They are comforting words, but also total bullshit. This is my fault, all of it, and I don't need them offering me false comforts. What I need, more than anything, is for him to wake up, for him to be alright. I don't need his forgiveness; I don't deserve it and I'm not going to ask him for it, but I need to know that he's going to be okay.
I replay the events leading up to all of this a hundred times in my head, going over every detail, every facet of what happened. Every time, the same facts, the same series of events come to the forefront. Our argument, the yelling, shouting, and the cruel words we hurled at each other; I would pay any price to take them back. Then, the time after our argument and before he was shot; all it would have taken was one simple phrase; the now useless "I'm sorry" and things would be better. Could it have prevented what happened? I don't know, but at the very least I would have said it before everything did happen. Then there are the awful moments right before it happened, which play like a slow-motion video in my head. The shot, God the shot. I flinch every time I hear it, and I've heard it many, many times. I think of a hundred different what ifs; I listen better, move quicker, anything and everything that could have somehow changed the outcome. Of course, not one of them these things happened. The shot was fired and from there, it all becomes a fast-moving blur; a dizzying array of sights, sounds and emotions. Each time, it seems that I remember something different; a new smell or sound or a new snippet of conversation. In the end though, that doesn't matter; the journey always ends up in the same place. I'm sitting here in his hospital room, waiting.
Grow up, can't you say anything to him I question myself harshly. I struggle mightily to come up with the right words. What can I say? What can I possibly tell my partner? Swallowing heavily I look back down at him. Just looking at his face, I'm transported back to the scene; him lying there in his own blood and me begging him to stay alive. And I remember everything leading up to it; the harsh words, the shouting, the smoldering rage, all directed at him. It's too much, all of it.
"Javi." I manage to utter his name, but everything else I intended to say dies on my tongue.
Oh God, what have I done?
Good? Bad? Otherwise? Whatever your feelings, thoughts or ideas, please don't hesitate to leave them and let me know. Even if I don't get the chance to respond to everyone, know I read and appreciate every review I get. Chapter 2 will be up soon enough.
