Please, don't skip the warning. Read it—even if you think it won't apply to you, it might.
Warning:
I originally wrote this story for my eyes only. I was taking a criminal psychology class—serial killers, to be specific—and I was feeling extremely weighed down and overwhelmed by all the gruesome information in my head. I needed to fictionalize it by putting it into a story. It might sound strange, but it helped me cope with it. It takes a lot to upset me, but I was deeply disturbed by the information I had learned, and I'm extremely hesitant about sharing it on this site.
I decided to post this because it shows a side of Barry's character we don't ever see—a huge part of what drives him to be the Flash and a huge portion of his life that is overlooked in the show. Before you read this, I need to tell you that the case Barry is working on in this oneshot is very real. It happened in a murder case in 1974. I don't want to disturb people by telling them it's more than fiction, but I also didn't want anyone to assume I thought of something so sick on my own. It's deeply disturbing, and the fact that it's real makes it even harder to process.
**I encourage people not to read this story if you think it may be too much for you**
I probably shouldn't have posted this, but the purpose of all my stories is always to delve deeper into the characters, and that's what this oneshot is meant to do. If you decide to read it, I hope it shows you a part of Barry's life that the family-friendly show can't delve into for obvious reasons.
Science
(If you skipped the warning, go back now and read it! This stuff messes with your head)
Joe took a deep breath before cautiously knocking on the door to the forensics lab. Barry rarely ever closed it during the workday, but Joe wasn't surprised to find it closed today. In fact, he would have been more surprised if it was open.
The door didn't open after he knocked, and Joe held his hand up to knock again, his knuckles inches away from the hard metal. He paused then, deciding not to knock again—deciding to speak instead.
"Barry?" he asked sadly through the door, "Are you in there?"
No reply.
Joe sighed and opened the door himself. It wasn't locked. Barry never locked it. He simply closed it when he didn't want visitors in the lab—when he needed to focus or to be alone. Everyone in the precinct knew that when that lab door was closed, it was wise not to bother the otherwise friendly CSI. Everyone but Joe knew to stay clear.
When Joe walked cautiously into the lab, it was to find Barry right where he had expected him to be—hunched over his microscope.
"Barry," Joe said softly.
Barry didn't turn to look at him. Instead, he moved over to his computer and started typing frantically, ignoring Joe. Joe sighed and walked up to him.
"Bar."
Joe gently laid a hand on Barry's shoulder. He was shocked when Barry jumped violently and sucked in a ragged breath, spinning around to look at him with wide eyes.
"Joe," he choked.
Joe stared at him, taking in Barry's shocked expression.
Barry hadn't been ignoring him. He hadn't even realized he was here. He had been too absorbed in his work.
"Sorry," Joe said gently, "I didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted to check on you."
"Why?" Barry asked, not looking Joe in the eye as he turned back to his microscope again.
Joe let out a heavy sigh.
"Barry, I know what we saw earlier affected you," he whispered.
"Of course, it did," Barry said darkly, not looking up from his microscope, "I'd have to be a pretty sick human being to not be affected by it."
Joe took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Barry was right. Everyone was affected by what they had seen, including Joe. It had been a while since anyone on the force had seen a case like this, and Joe knew it was hitting Barry particularly hard. Cases like this always did.
"Bar, I think you should take a break," Joe suggested, "You've been in here all day ever since we got back from the scene."
Barry shook his head and sucked in a painful breath.
"I can't, Joe," he said in a strained voice, "You know I can't."
Joe nodded sadly at him. Barry always did this. After seeing a particularly gruesome scene, Barry always holed himself up in his lab, immersing himself in his work. He couldn't stop until the case was solved and put away. Barry had never had a cold case. Most people assumed it was because he was a perfectionist. Joe knew otherwise.
"Barry, you know it's not healthy to do this," he said, "We go through training to prevent this exact thing. You're an amazing CSI, Bar, but you've always struggled with this part of the job. You need to learn to distance yourself from the—"
"You don't understand, Joe," Barry said quietly, finally turning to look at him, "I know we go through the same coping training, but…it's not the same."
"I was at that crime scene, too, Bar," Joe said sadly, "I saw what you saw. Of course, I understand."
Barry shook his head, his eyes darkening.
"No, you really don't," he whispered, "Yeah, you saw the same thing I saw, but you don't have to do the forensics on it. You don't have to understand the science of it all."
"Barry," Joe said in a strained voice, "I know what we saw was awful, but—"
"Joe, how long can you stay on your tiptoes?" Barry whispered.
Joe blinked at him, taken aback by the question.
"What?"
"How long can you balance on your tiptoes, Joe?" Barry asked darkly.
Joe shrugged, giving Barry a confused look.
"I don't know," he said, shaking his head, "Not very long."
"How about if your life depended on it?" Barry asked quietly.
Joe's eyebrows furrowed.
"What are you talking about, Bar?"
"You know, it's amazing what a person can do when their life is at stake," Barry said quietly, "I bet most people can last on their tip toes a hell of a lot longer than they think they can—given the right circumstances. An eleven-year-old girl would last an especially long time."
Joe's stomach clenched.
"What do you mean?" he whispered.
Barry's hands clenched into fists, and Joe could plainly see how badly they were shaking.
"The rope," Barry choked, tears filling his eyes, "It wasn't short enough. It was just long enough for her toes to touch the table. The killer intended for it to be that way. He wanted to watch her struggle. After the rest of her family was killed, she had to stand there, balancing on her toes to stop herself from hanging—until it was too exhausting and she had to give up. Five hours, Joe. That's how long it took her to die. And he…he watched."
Barry sniffed and wiped a tear from his eye.
"That's what the science does," he choked, "It tells us so much more about what happened. You and the rest of the force have to see the aftermath of it, but I have to analyze it. I have to put a story behind it. It's…it's not the same."
"Barry…" Joe whispered.
He hadn't realized it before—how much more Barry had to delve into the cases, the things he had to see that the rest of the force didn't. Joe had always thought Barry was lucky. He always thought Barry got to hide behind the science of it all. He never had to interview criminals or witnesses. He never had to get to know the victims or ask all the difficult questions. He just had to focus on the science.
But the science was the true curse.
"I can't take a break right now, Joe," Barry choked, "I need to get a DNA match. I need to catch this guy."
Barry turned back to his microscope again. Joe stared sadly at his back.
"You found DNA on the scene?" he asked hopefully.
Barry nodded without looking at him.
"Semen," he gritted, "The guy got off on it."
Joe felt his stomach twist. He could hear the disgust in Barry's voice—the hatred. It didn't sound right, coming from Barry. Barry was a lover, not a hater. Joe always hated seeing this side of Barry—the side that was forced out of him by his work. It wasn't right.
"Barry," Joe sighed, "I think you need to take a step back from this. I know you want to get to the bottom of this case, but—"
"I don't want any of this," Barry gritted, "I don't want to do this, but I have to. Being a CSI, it's more than just processing evidence. I have to get into this guy's head. I have to understand how he thinks—why he does the things he does. But I don't want to. I don't want to understand it. I don't want to solve cases. I want to stop them. I want to stop things like this from happening before they happen."
"I know, Bar," Joe said quietly.
God, did he know. He felt the exact same way. They could solve all the cases they wanted, but with each case they saw, they only felt more powerless. They could only help after bad things happened.
"I've always been interested in forensics," Barry choked, "I've always been drawn to the science, but now, after getting into the field, it's the science that I hate the most. I never thought about this part of the job—the bloodshed, the powerlessness."
"We're not powerless, Barry," Joe said firmly, "I know it feels that way, but we're not. We don't stop the crimes from happening, but we get these people off the streets. We prevent their crimes from happening again. And we help people. We help the victims' families find peace."
"They don't find peace," Barry whispered, "They get justice, but they don't get peace, Joe."
Joe's eyes saddened.
"Barry…"
"This isn't about my mother," Barry said immediately, looking down at his report.
Joe knew that wasn't true. It was always about his mother.
"Okay, Bar," Joe whispered, feeling his stomach churn.
Barry changed the subject then, not wanting to talk about it anymore.
"I'm going to be leaving town for a couple days," he said abruptly, "Cover for me?"
Joe sighed.
"Where are you going this time, Bar?" he asked tiredly.
"Starling," Barry answered, "There was a break-in at Queen Industries. I was going to go help out."
Joe gave him a serious look.
"Is this another 'impossible' case?" he asked in exasperation.
"Something like that," Barry muttered, "So, will you cover for me?"
Joe sighed but nodded.
"The captain will find out anyways, Bar," he warned, "He always does."
"Thanks," Barry said simply, ignoring what Joe had just said.
Joe didn't press the issue. Normally, he would, but he could tell Barry needed this. He needed to go to Starling. Maybe going there would help him clear his head.
Sensing that Barry wanted to be left alone, Joe sighed and started to head for the door. He stopped in his tracks, though, when Barry spoke.
"Joe."
Joe turned and looked at him. The sadness in Barry's eyes made Joe's heart clench painfully.
"Does it ever go away?" Barry asked him, "This feeling…does it ever go away?"
Joe smiled sadly at him.
"No," he said truthfully, "But it gets easier. It gets easier once you realize something."
Barry stared at him, and Joe let out a heavy sigh before continuing.
"We do everything we can."
The unsatisfied look on Barry's face wasn't new to Joe. He had seen it many times before—in the mirror. This was a hard field, one he had never wanted someone as soft-hearted as Barry to work in, and Joe knew his words weren't much of a comfort to him. But they were true. They did everything they could. There wasn't anything else the police department or Barry could do, and they just had to accept that.
And then lightning struck.
The killer in this case from 1974 was Dennis Radar. He nicknamed himself "BTK," an acronym that stands for "Bind, Torture, Kill." The murders he committed make my stomach churn, but it's the people who call themselves his fans that make my blood boil.
I truly am not a violent person. I don't like to hurt people ever. But when I saw a girl wearing an "I Love BTK" t-shirt with Dennis Radar's face on it, I walked up to her and punched her square in the jaw, telling her to never where the sick shirt again. She's lucky I didn't tear it off her right then and there.
I know my reaction was a little extreme, but I'm rather passionate about my distaste for people who glorify and idolize murderers. I don't want anyone to mistake this story for idolization. If anything, I hope it helps people see the sickness these people spread and helps them realize there's nothing "cool" about serial killers. I know I tend to sympathize with villains in fiction, but in real life, no amount of childhood trauma or mental illness justifies killing innocent children and families. Anyone who thinks otherwise is seriously messed up in the head.
I'm sorry if anyone found this story disturbing. I know I shouldn't have written it. I know I didn't have to make it so dark by using this particular case, but this case has been haunting me for eight weeks, and I needed to get it out of my head. The only way I know how to do that is to write.
Like everything else, I found a way to tie it to The Flash. I just couldn't help but think back to the season one scene, in which Barry says to Iris, "I'm lucky. I get to hide behind the science of it all." I wanted this oneshot to show just how untrue that really was.