AN: Well this is my first foray into the world of Mentalist fan ficiton...reviews would be greatly appreciated! Enjoy!
Disclaimer- I do not own The Mentalist or it's characters, however, I do wish I owned my own Jane...but then again, don't we all?
Sometimes Patrick Jane thought his heart had died along with his family. Stilling in his chest, refusing to beat in their absence. Extinguished- just like them.
Sometimes he thought that his heart had burst into a flame of retribution- goaded by a smiley face on the wall- imploding in on itself and burning to ash. Smoldering with rage and the desire for vengeance.
Sometimes he thought perhaps his heart had been ripped from his chest- extracted violently- leaving a hollow bleeding cavity that ached and refused to heal.
Sometimes he thought it might have simply vanished, vaporized from his chest. Leaving behind an empty man who could now be as heartless in his pursuit of revenge as the monster he was hunting.
Or perhaps it was frozen solid. Stilled by the icy fingers of regret and guilt, never to be melted. Punishment for his sins.
Of course he knew, logically, that his heart continued to beat- pumping blood through his veins- keeping him alive.
But not living. No. He couldn't really call himself living.
His heart might not have vanished, or burned, or frozen, but he could not feel it. As if it simply didn't exist. If he pressed his fingers to his chest he could feel the dull thud beneath his fingers, but he couldn't feel his heart. It didn't race with excitement or fear. It didn't clench in sympathy or sorrow.
He was dead inside. He couldn't feel his heart.
Except...
Sometimes he thought he might detect a flicker, a soft but strong vibration of something beneath his ribcage. He always noticed when it happened because it was such a stark contrast to his usually silent chest.
A paper frog and a startled laugh
Green emeralds and green eyes
Ponies and prom
Spice Girls and strawberries...
A pinch, a clench, a tremor...
His phantom heart murmured in his chest.
It was these moments when Patrick Jane thought that maybe he did have a heart. Maybe it did beat, and maybe it was healing. Maybe it was just dormant- hibernating- drawn out by only a very particular provocation. Laying in wait for a reason to beat.