Hi there!
Author's note at the end.
Enjoy!
She's only doing this because her therapist told her to. Said something about helping deal with the incident. She can't say shooting yet. It's still too fresh in her brain; the sounds, the panic, the colors, the pain. They all swirl in her vision until she can't think straight. If it weren't for him treating her like a child, she wouldn't be forced to do half the shit he's told her to do: Describe how you feel. How does that make you feel. What are you feeling? If she was being honest, which she rarely was, she was feeling lost and scared and alone. She's confused and hurt and angry and in so much damn pain. She would never admit that, though. That's weakness. But that's why she was being forced to do this. He saw right through her. Not many people did, but he did; it was his job. He knew that she wasn't ready to face the world just yet. She still needed some time.
So she's going to write these letters, pour her heart and soul out onto the paper, and then seal them up, addressed to no one. But as she continues to realize how stupid that sounds, she knows who she's going to write them to. The only person that's been on her mind every second of every day since it happened, since her life was almost taken away from her. He'll never get them, but having a name, a face, a voice to imagine, makes it more real. Makes it easier to see this as having a purpose, because most of this had no purpose other than to make her look weak and bring her to tears. She'll just scribble his name across the front and then bury it in the desk drawer; no one will ever know, it will be her own little secret. Because if no one knew, then she wasn't breaking down, right?
She still hasn't seen him. She doesn't know if she's ready. Doesn't know if it will send her running, because she's done hiding things from him. She justifies the letters to him as a step in the right direction, a way to finally understand her own feelings. Once she understands what she's feeling, she could dive in and understand someone else's, and then understand a life of dynamic; a dance with two people. It was hard for her, harder than she ever wanted to admit. But she's hopeful, and that's a start.
She doesn't have his way with words, though. Lacks the creativity and fluidity that comes so naturally to him. He has the ability to tell a story and leave people wanting more, hanging on every last word. He creates new human beings with flaws and quarks and problems and triumphs. He writes a backstory to a human that's never seen the light of day, a family that's never been, a love story never told. But he tells that story and makes it better than anything that could ever be humanly possible. He can express emotions like they're a physical object that can be explored, turned around and around in the palm of your hand. The sky is bluer, the grass is greener, and everything in between takes on a persona of absolute bliss. It still amazes her to this day.
She doesn't have the ability to create a life. She can't conjure up the words to describe love and passion, to set a scene better than anything she's already seen, to tell a story that's already been. But she's going to try her best to make this more than a therapeutic exercise. She wants it to mean something in the end of it all. She doesn't do things that don't give her results. That's a waste of time. She didn't want to waste any more time. She'll never send them, never let anyone see the emotion she'll allow to seep onto the paper. But Kate Beckett never does anything half assed. If she's going to do this, she's going to do it right. She needs to get better. She can't stand being so dependent of others. Walls weren't supposed to be shaky. A person had walls to show their strength; she was still strong, or getting back to it.
So she's going to write these letters, one every week or so at her own pace, to help her along in coping with the pain and memories and torment that she now feels radiating not only from her physical wounds but from deep within her soul and from the thoughts that cloud every aspect of her mind. Maybe by doing this, everything won't be so cloudy. Maybe she'll finally shed some light on what she needs to do next. Maybe she'll pull the good from the bad. Even though she was trying to be optimistic, she still thought it was stupid as hell. But she would be damned if she gave up; no way.
As she sat at the big oak desk in the cabin nestled in the woods, away from the city she protected, away from him, she breathed in before addressing six individual envelops. His name flowed naturally from her fingers. She took her time, making sure it was straight and neat and perfect. She stacked each on top of the other and placed them out of view, hoping no one would ever find them. She grabbed a fresh sheet of paper, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the blankness that the page projected. It was intimidating, the thought of expressing herself. What if she couldn't handle it? What if she panicked and ran out and away like she so often did? No, she couldn't, not this time. So she started the only way she knew how. Starting at the top of the paper, with her quick, blocky handwriting, she began with one simple word: Castle
I'm back! I thought of this and liked the idea. Since I didn't get much feedback on a one shot feed, I thought that this could serve as a reoccurring one shot. I'm doing exactly what the prologue says; writing six letter pertaining to the shooting over several weeks. They won't necessarily be the longest stories I've ever written, but I want to explore this aspect of the show that I never have before.
It's going to be rated T, because of language. I love writing angst even though I'm a happy person, but I want this to be more angry than sad. It won't all be angry, though. I'll try my best to make each letter unique to the character and what I think, she felt.
I'm still open to one shot ideas! So please, please, please, if you have an idea do not hesitate to let me know!
Please review and let me know what you think.
xoxo