Fandom – CRIMINAL MINDS
Title – And That's Why He Couldn't
Summary –Funeral, game, ice pack, brace, gun. Photo. The Photo is what saved Derek Morgan. Warning: This fic is NOT unicorns and glitter!
Rating – M
Summary - Ok folks, this is a pretty dark fic. I was getting caught up on episodes online and I just now got to the end of season 5. What Morgan told Detective Spitzer in 5/23 Our Darkest Hour made me think of Morgan's confrontation with Buford in 2/12 Profiler, Profiled. "We all have people in our lives. Some are good, some are bad. But they shape us." Oh, and Derek's dad's name is never mentioned in the series, so I made it up. If "Mr. Morgan" actually has a name and I'm wrong...sorry, I'm too lazy to go in and change it.
"As many live because they are afraid to die as die because they are afraid to live."
-Charles Caleb Colton
THURSDAY.
The north wind blew harsh and bitter on that Thursday afternoon. It had taken two months. Two months after the young "Jon Doe" died in that secluded vacant lot, he was finally being laid to rest under a gravestone marked only with a date. He would have just been another wooden box in a field of forgotten corpses had it not been for the compassion of one boy; fifteen year old Derek Morgan.
Standing there in the cemetery surrounded by his mother and sisters dressed in the best church cloths his lower-middle-class family could afford holding his mothers hand, Derek felt as though he himself was the forgotten corps. Not forgotten by man, but completely, absolutely, eternally forsaken by God.
Derek looked up from the casket to look around the crowd. There were mostly somber faces, a few tears from children and older women. In the small crowd of mourners, one face stood out. One face held virtually no expression. One face was simply frigged. It was the face of the man who hade made Derek's life a living hell for so long, the man who had stripped away his trust, his faith, his innocence, his happiness, and his hope.
Carl Buford.
Derek's jaw clenched and a wave of fire shot through his veins. Every muscle in his body tightened with anger and he inadvertently squeezed his mother's hand. Fran Morgan squeezed back in a manner that was meant to be reassuring. Derek barley felt it.
The preacher asked everyone to bow their heads in prayer.
Prayer? Every night for two years he had prayed and prayed for an end to his pain to come. It seemed that the harder he prayed, however, the worse things got for him, for his family.
Today was the last straw for Derek. There would be no more time wasted on futile prayers that accomplished nothing. God, wherever, whoever, whatever he was could not possibly be a just God, could he? If a boy as young as the one being buried today could be completely abandoned to the point where no one even knew his name, if a boy as young as Derek could be expected to carry a weight that would make a grown man weak, then what was the point in prayer anymore?
This dead boy…God probably didn't even know his name.
So Derek did not pray. He only pressed his chin into his chest and shut his eyes as tightly as he could, all the while feeling a cold gaze upon him.
FRIDAY
Friday evening, Derek's mood had improved greatly. Loneliness and anger were replaced by pride and excitement. This would be his first junior varsity home game, and he was the starting quarterback. He thought of his mother and his sisters in the stands cheering him on, and for a fleeting moment he felt sad that his father could not be there to witness his big day.
"At least you have a positive male role model. He really has taken you in like you were his own son."
His mother's words echoed in his head.
DAMN HIM!
Somehow Carl Buford always managed to snake his sick little way into all of Derek's thoughts and every aspect of what was left of his life. Even his one joy, his one release was contaminated. His own coach was his tormenter.
Plans were already made for after the game. Carl was going to come over while his mother cooked for them all. They would all sit at the table and eat, talk, and laugh like one damn big stupid happy fucking family. It made him so sick that he just wanted to scream, "Mama, how can you just sit there and treat him like family. He RAPES me for Christ's sake and you let him sit in Dad's spot!"
But he couldn't. Carl had made it very clear to Derek that if he ever told a soul, no one would believe him and he could kiss his chances at a football scholarship goodbye. Then how could he ever take care of his family? Without football, it would be right back into the gangs for him. He would end up dead or in prison, leaving no one to take care of mama and the girls like he promised his father he would.
Derek had to do what he had to do for the three most beautiful, wonderful, amazing girls in the world. And that's why he couldn't tell on Carl.
o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.
After the game was over, Derek sat on a bench in the locker room, his "coach" Carl Buford knelt on the floor in front of him.
"It isn't broken, but you shouldn't put too much weight on it. We'll put more ice on it when I take you home," Buford told Derek as held an ice pack on to the boy's swollen ankle. Derek got tackled in the last play of the game and twisted his ankle when he went down. His team lost by three points and Derek was sure that if he would have passed the ball, they would have scored that last touchdown and won. If he wouldn't have hesitated, that is.
Why did I hesitate?
"You okay?" Carl asked. Despite the terrible things Carl did to Derek on a semi-regular basis, Carl did at times seem to be genuinely concerned for the young quarterback's well being, a fact that confused Derek to no end.
"Yeah, Coach," he replied dryly.
Carl gently placed his hands on the boy's knees.
No, not now! Anything but that right now, please Carl!
"So why did you hesitate on that last pass?" There was no sternness in his voice, only curiosity.
Derek shrugged and kept his eyes on a chip in the stained white tile floor below him. "I don't know."
Carl slowly moved his hands up Derek's legs, stopping at about mid-thigh. "Yes, you do," he said with a tenderness that sounded like venom I Derek's ears.
"No, I don't, Carl."
No I don't know why I hesitated. No I don't want you to touch me. No I don't! No, NO!
Carl quickly and roughly squeezed Derek's legs. It hurt. It was meant to hurt. In public Derek was to call him simply "Carl." At practice, games, or in the locker room it was "Coach." But in situations like this, it was always "Sir."
"No Sir, I don't know why I hesitated."
"Yes you do, Derek Morgan!" the sick man insisted.
"No,"
I hesitated because I got nervous.
"No, Sir,"
I hesitated because I can't be confident in myself.
"No, Sir, I don't know why…"
I hesitated because I though if I wasn't your star you wouldn't want me!
Carl sighed and shook his head. "We don't have to talk about this right now. Right now," Carl stood, meaning that his hands were mercifully removed from Derek's legs. Unfortunately they were still on him, this time resting heavily on his shoulders, "Right now your mother and your two lovely sisters are waiting for us."
Carl extended his hand to help Derek stand, but the injured teen silently insisted on standing. He was unable to prevent Carl from holding his arm to steady him as they walked, even though he would rather have limped than have Carl's repulsive hands on him for one more millisecond.
Derek endured the man's "helping" hand until they reached the parking lot where Fran Morgan and her daughters Desiree and Sarah were waiting for them.
"Well there he is, the star of the game! Come here Baby." Derek was relieved when the nauseating grip of his coach was replaced with the comforting embrace of his mother. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he could see Carl giving Desiree a one-armed side hug. He knew that his sisters were technically "safe" from this monster, but the sight of them interacting in such a way still made his blood boil.
"His ankle is a bit swollen, but if he stays off of it, it should be fine in a day or so."
"Oh, Baby, you hurt your ankle?" Fran asked, worried.
"As a matter of fact," that man just could not shut up, "It just occurred to me that I have my old ankle brace that might just fit him. Why don't you let Derek come home with me? I'll get the brace on him and bring him home so we can all enjoy that wonderful cooking of yours."
No, mama!
"Oh, that would be wonderful," Fran replied. "Thank you so much, Mr. Buford, I don't know what-"
"Please," Carl raised his hand and interjected, "Just call me Carl."
o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.
The walk to Carl's van and the ride to his house were all a silent blur. Once they were not-so-safely in Carl's living room, Derek was hyper-alert. He knew that look in Carl's eyes all too well. Even so, it was difficult to read the tone of his voice when he spoke.
"Have a seat in the couch, Derek. I'll be right back."
Carl vanished from the room before Derek had sat down.
Sit down.
No, run.
Sit down.
No, RUN!
Sit. Down!
Hesitantly, Derek sat on the edge of the black leather couch. He closed his eyes and inhaled a shaky breath, taking in the scent of popery and stale beer as he tried in vain to ignore the footsteps re-entering the living room.
"Found the brace," Carl said in a way that was almost…cheerful. Disgusting.
Stop pretending that's why you brought me here, you bastard.
Derek removed the shoe and sock from the injured ankle while Carl settled on the floor in front of him. Pain shot from the offending joint all the way up his leg. "Man, you sure it's not broken?" he mumbled.
Carl chuckled as he pulled the velcro strip tight. "Not, broken, Derek, just sprained. The brace will help, though."
As much as he hated to admit it, the brace did help.
"Now, then," and then the hands were back on his legs, higher up his thigh than Carl had dared to do in the locker room. "Your mother won't have dinner ready for a while. What do you say we kill some time here?"
I say you can go to hell!
And the hand moved higher still, making Derek instinctively move back in futile attempt to put greatly desired distance between himself and his perverted coach. "We'll only be a few minutes. We wouldn't want to worry your mother and sisters, would we?"
Who's "we?"
Derek never said a word. He let Carl pull him to the floor and move himself on to the couch to where Derek now knelt in front of Carl.
Let him.
Fight him.
Let him.
FIGHT him!
Let! Him!
Derek so desperately wanted to fight, verbally, physically, anything. But he didn't. He never had and he never would. He knew that to refuse Carl's ministrations would be to refuse Carl's help with football, with the police, with everything that Derek had thus far paid so dearly for. And that's why he couldn't fight Carl, that's why he couldn't tell him "no."
SATURDAY
It was the Saturday after the game after the horrible night with Carl Buford, and Derek Morgan was home alone. His mother and Sarah were grocery shopping and Desiree was at choir practice. All three of the "worrisome women" as Derek called them had insisted he stay home and rest his injured ankle.
He had slept in the brace Friday night. As much as it helped keep him from straining his ankle, it still retained the essence of the man who had given it to him, making it almost impossible to sleep. The brace, after all, belonged to Carl. When Derek felt the brace, he felt Carl's hands.
Carl's hands snaking up my legs, up my body. Carl's hands whipping the tears from my face. Carl's hands grabbing my hair pulling my head towards him when he…
Derek screamed in furry as his fist collided with the wall, showering him with the chalky white plaster.
It didn't even occur to him to try to cover the gaping hole in his bedroom wall. He was too infuriated. He stormed out into the hallway, kicking everything he could find, including the coffee table full of pictures. The pictures fell to the floor, breaking the glass of the frames.
The table itself shook and the drawer opened slightly, just enough to see the contents: a .38 revolver. His mother kept it in for home defense. They were, after all, in gang territory.
Derek's tirade stopped abruptly when he saw the gun. Sure he had always known the gun was there, but he had never actually seen his mother's gun. He knew how to use one though. His old gang had shown him.
He knelt down in front of the open drawer, his knees crunching the glass into the carpet. He didn't think, he barely felt. He just moved. He took the gun and one bullet out of the drawer. Carefully, he slid the one bullet into the chamber and snapped it closed. He looked up at the textured ceiling feeling as though there should be some sort of final prayer in his heart, but there was nothing of the sort.
I could end this.
Before he realized what he had done, the cool metal of the barrel was pressed against the hot, sweat-drenched skin of Derek's forehead.
I could fucking end this!
He didn't see his life flash before his eyes. He didn't think about writing goodbye to anyone. All he could see through his closed eyes were Carl's malicious eyes. Over the ringing in his ears he could just barely hear Carl's venomous voice whispering his name.
Derek's eyes snapped open suddenly, and he gasped for air, now realizing that had been holding his breath from the time he first touched the gun.
Now he had made it through the hardest part. He had survived his first suicidal breakdown. But even as clarity set in, he still found comfort in holding the gun to his head. But could he really pull the trigger?
The suffering teenager looked around the hall and down at the mess he had made. The pictures that had moments (or was it ages) ago been so neatly arranged were scattered on the floor, along with a large amount of broken glass.
One of those pictures that was now on the beige carpeted floor surrounded by it's own broken glass was the one of his father. And that was painful. More painful than an object of harassment from the Chicago Police Department, more painful than the thought of losing football, more painful than anything Carl had put him through, more painful than the contemplation of suicide, was the image of his father distorted through cracked and broken glass and knowing that he himself had caused such damage. Robotically, Derek's arm that held the revolver lowered to his side.
Derek, who was just as shattered as the glass on the floor, carefully removed the photo the frame with one hand, the gun still in the other. It was the last picture that his mother had taken of him and his father before he died. Bryan Morgan was in full police uniform, minus the hat, which Derek wore; only it fell down in the eight-year-old's face.
"Dad," he whispered.
"You're the man of the house now, Derek. I'm so proud of you."
"Dad, don't…"
"Take care of the girls, son."
"Dad, no! Dad, get up! Please, Dad. Don't die, don't go!"
"Dad," Derek's voice cracked, and for the first time in a long time, he finally let himself cry. It was not just a few tears that trickled down his face, but a flood of tears that erupted from his eyes, and the sobs came freely and uncontrollably.
He didn't need to control the sobs, though. He let himself cry knowing that the fact did not mean that he was weak, but that he was strong enough to survive. He let his thoughts escape and he simply let…
Himself…
Cry.
"Take care of the girls, son."
He had to take care of the girls. He was the man of the house now. His family needed him. He had to be strong and he had to survive. No matter the torture he had to endure, he would not let his father down by making his mother discover the body of her son on the hallway floor, he would not let his father down by abandoning his sisters.
He would not let his father down.
And that's why he couldn't pull the trigger.
"The most authentic thing about us is our capacity to create, to overcome, to endure, to transform, to love, and to be greater than our suffering."
-Ben Okri
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You may be surprised at what I am about to tell you, but I'm not secretive or ashamed of any of it anymore.
I recently revealed to a family member that I had attempted suicide. This happened at my grandmother's house (both the confession and the attempt(s), actually). She lives across the street from where the man who molested me lived. Every time I visit, I have to look at that house, even though the man doesn't live there anymore. This story is dedicated to all of those who have felt helpless for any reason, and to those who fight the battle between life and death within themselves each and every day.