The Only People You Care About Are Dead
A/N – Do not read until you have finished watching the entire series. Spoilers! I am thankful for all the talent that brought this wonderful television production to life, Kudos!
Disclaimer: I make no profit from this writing; all rights are those of "The Killing" copyright owners.
=Sarah Linden, Vashon Island, Washington=
"The only people you care about are dead." Stephen Holder's words echo in your mind. Over the hours that follow they circle and circle. His dark eyes, usually warm and expressive, now cold as the lake where Rosie Larsen died. Years ago now. Years of working together, summed up by a partner you'd begun to care about. Someone you trusted. "The only people you care about are dead."
You accused him. Your partner! "You took the shell casing." You fear that what he knows he has revealed to save himself. You shake as you think about it. Holder. How could you? How could you stay when I told you to go? And now … how can you go when I need you to stay? The trembling goes deep, a chill.
Cut them out. Everyone. They always leave. "Care about?" Meaningless. Who can care when you might be snatched from them or they from you? Who cared about you in the foster homes? Who managed your life? You did. Only you. Scratched your way through their deceptions of caring, their constant lies. "I couldn't keep you." "You're so pretty, if only you weren't so distant." "Why do you keep putting me off?" "I guess it's off then." They leave by dissolving out of your life. Trying to care when you frustrate them at every turn.
But it's your job, it's your job to care about the dead and justice and ending the terror and fixing the wrong where possible.
And fuck their trying to care about you. Fuck it! "You were a lousy social worker!" The words flew out of your angry mouth and hurt Regi; she's known and cared about you for much of your life but you have to cut everyone out. Cut them out.
They leave in the worst way possible, choking to death by hanging, a slow, torturous death administered by the state. You witnessed it to give him dignity, this killer who was not guilty this time. You worked to help him, right up until the hour of his death. But it wasn't enough. And you were drained by it, after. After he saw your strength and drew on it in his desperation, you fell into hurt.
You can't let yourself hurt.
And some leave by the ultimate betrayal, by being the thing you cannot imagine. They leave because they preyed on your trust, and you trusted them and they knew you were helpless to stop.
They convinced you they loved you, and you loved them back. They knew how lonely you were. How you lived for the job. Being on the job. Being the job.
They leave because you can't manage being a human being with other human beings.
They leave because they need a nurturing environment, not hotel after hotel, not a mother who works 'til all hours. They leave so they can grow up like a normal—
You sob then, breath catching hard as you think of Jack, safer in Chicago with his dad.
You let the tears run down your face and swipe them away with the back of your hand. Your son pities you. You're so lonely. He loves some girl now. He's grown up without your looking.
You only hurt them. You damage everything you touch.
Cut them out. Then leave them.
Tell her. The one who bore you: "If anything happens to me … Jack has no one."
And walk out.
Walk away.