Friend –
Noun – a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.
I don't have any friends. Sure, I have people I socialise with, laugh with, but I don't have a friend. A friend was someone you can talk to about anything and everything. Someone you can call in the middle of the night, for no reason in particular. Someone you can say absolutely anything to, and they aren't offended. No, I certainly don't have any of those, and I doubt I ever will.
Sure, there are the other detectives from work, but my opinion is that you shouldn't mix work and personal life. Ever.
There are all my ex-wives. Most of them donn't ever want to see me again though, and I think it's best to leave them in the past.
Sure, I'd love someone to talk to about the stress in my life. About how after every case I can't solve, I feel responsible. About how proud I am of how far I've come. About everything. The truth is, the only person I talk to about that is the bartender at Maloney's and considering everyone tells him stuff like that, I don't think he really counts.
I look over the city lights, from the roof of our squad room. It's beautiful. Just like Jane. I wanted to help her, I really did. I felt an attachment to her case that I had never felt about any other case. Honestly, who bashes a 6-year-old every day of her life? I guess I'll never know the answer to that, considering she's dead now, and I did nothing to help the poor, innocent thing.
I struggle not to cry. If I had a friend, I'd be able to let it all out by telling them. Since I don't, however, that's out of the question.
Suddenly, I feel a hand on my back. It's Olivia. We stand there for a while, I don't know how long. The silence is comfortable though. I like it.
"John, it's not your fault. You did all you could. There are some bad people in this world, like the bastard who killed Jane. You're not one of them. You're one of the good ones, who stops that sort of shit. Don't take it out on yourself."
She speaks so softly, so kindly, that I almost forget the image of the rag-doll girl, covered in bruises head to toe. We stand there a little longer; again, I'm not sure of the length of time.
"Who would do that to a little girl?" I ask.
"Some people on this planet never cease to amaze me," she replies, turning to look at me. "You did your best. At least you can sleep at night, knowing you did all you could to help the little girl. I bet whoever did it to her is lying in bed right now, tossing and turning."
"I can't get the image out of my head. Her just laying there, oblivious to what was going on around her," I reply, sadly.
"Me either," she replies. I put my arm around her small frame, and she rests her head on my chest. We stay there for what feels like hours, when I feel her shiver.
"It's getting cold," I say softly. "We better get inside," I turn, my hand on her back, leading her down the stairs.
Tomorrow will be another day, one where I feel like I do have a friend. I'm starting with one; maybe it will earn me a few more.