Lost Along the Way
A/N: Please see my profile for an additional disclaimer and some insight into my inspiration for this piece. And, of course, please review.
Spoilers: Booth's past (The Soldier on the Grave)
Disclaimer: I don't own Bones, or "Lost Along the Way" by John Nordstrom
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He turns off the light, and all around him is dark. The night-lights are off, since his son is not there to remind him to turn them on. He is accustomed to his home, can manage his way to his bedroom without a light. His feet pad quietly down the hall, yet not so quietly that he can't hear the creak of the floorboards beneath. When he was young, maybe Parker's age, he would tiptoe through the house in the vain attempt to avoid being caught out of bed. He always feared that the floorboards would give him away. At any shift of wood he would go still mid-stride, eyes wide as a nauseous feeling would creep up his throat. His worst fear back then was being caught. Now, he no longer lives in his parents' home. He is a man, not a boy any longer. When he was young, he believed his parents to be the most courageous people in the world; lacking fear. He believed it would come to him in adulthood, becoming a man.
And yet, as he approaches his bed he feels a familiar trepidation. He slips between the sheets, knowing as always what to expect. He hopes that sleep will come easier than it usually does. But even when he has been exhausted by a long day, it's never easy. It is not right for a man to be afraid to go to sleep. But he steels his courage, as he does every night.
He closes his eyes.
Darkness pervades every recess of his mind as his fears, doubts, concerns finally invade. And they are led, invariably, by his memories. The memories creep slowly in, much like the darkening sky that foretells a storm. As a child, he could feel the fear strum through his chest at that sight, or the sound of thunder. As a man, he feels it again with his nightly entrapment in a personal purgatory.
He has seen the life extinguished from a man's eyes. He has been the Reaper. And for what better end? His missions did not allow for humanity. He was meant to disregard life for the greater good, this was what his superiors told him he was fighting for. But now… now their words are not enough. His eyes remain closed as he desperately tries to think back to his past. Did he think of the life? Were they men to him, or merely targets? Like the paper men through which his own bullets tear now… Did it matter to him, then? Did he care?
He remembers the boy whose father he shot in front of him. He always imagined the boy shaking the man felled by one small piece of metal, anguish etched into the wide eyes of youth. Calling his father, calling him by the only name he has ever known for the man. Frantically wondering why he isn't waking up. His tears hit red dirt, an entirely different liquid rust than the one that flows between his fingers from the hole in his father's body. For the former sniper, each tear falls to the ground with an echo. It is slow. It is the final beating of a heart. The small body crumples next to the bigger, shaking with a pain that the boy should never have had to feel. And it was he who pulled the trigger.
The truth stares at him, his past inescapable. In these memories, there are always shadows that remain. And in the shadows he sees a dark figure. A monster.
He sees himself.
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