A/N: This is mainly Calleigh-centric, but it has mentions of HCR. So if that isn't your thing, I don't recommend reading this. This is unbetaed, so all errors and mistakes are mine. If it's OOC, I apologize. CSI: Miami obviously doesn't belong to me.

This plot was based on an Anna Nalick song.

So I'm taking these pills for to fill up my soul
And I'm drinking them down with cheap alcohol
And you'd be inclined to be mine for the taking
And part of this terrible mess that I'm making
But you...you're the catalyst.
-Anna Nalick, Catalyst

Please read and review.

She's at the shooting range. It's her only retreat that doesn't involve chemicals. She relishes the sound of each round, of each soft ping she registers in the muffled din. She doesn't feel anything. The recoil doesn't even stun her anymore. All she can think about is what's waiting for her at home. But she can't think about it. She has the resolve. That's what she always believed. Mind over matter. But suddenly, her mantra isn't holding up in her own head anymore. And she stops, dropping the revolver onto a table. Her head is pounding as if all the membranes are colliding and sliding with friction beyond anything on earth. She knows how to solve this. She does. She doesn't want to, and yet she can't stop herself.

She returns home unscathed, somehow, and the first thing she does is flock to her kitchen. She desperately needs this release. She reaches for the gin. Right by the olive oil, she thinks grimly. She opens her cabinet, and pushes aside the tea, grabbing the hidden bottle. She opens it after a long string of failed and aggravated attempts. She shakes five violet pills into her hand. She doesn't even bother to cap it. They go straight in her mouth. She craves the release so badly, she doesn't even wait for the alcohol this time. The liquid burns as it caresses her throat, but she doesn't mind. She embraces it.

She caps everything, placing them back in their places, nice and neat. No one would ever know. Who would suspect? She was their bullet girl, their innocent. And to the outside world? She was just another blonde southern belle, voice laced with a false innocence and sense of hope. She was more than pecan pie and Scarlett O'Hara. She walks over, locks the door, and collapses onto her sofa. The haze that the drugs induce is beautiful. Like she once was.

The air in the room seems to relax around her, and she sighs, relieved. She lays on the sofa, straining to hear each second tick away. She's waiting for the tension in her body to wane, to flow away from her cells, but the pain is still there. And the passing time doesn't help at all. But she believes. So she sits and waits. Almost as if she's anticipating the end of the world.

There's a knock at her door, and she's reluctant to answer it. She half-considers leaving them to their own devices, too lazy and too strung out to do anything, especially move. She stands anyway, and makes a half-assed attempt to move towards the door. Each beat of her heart resounds loudly and dully in her own chest, and each step seems to accentuate it. A familiar voice flows through the solid oak to her ears, and she moves a little faster, her beats quickening.

She opens the door to find him, caught in a familiar pose. He smiles at her. It doesn't reach her eyes. She stands aside and offers him entrance, which he gratefully accepts. The silence still encompasses them, and she can't help but feel awkward. Her usual easiness around him is gone. She can sense why he's here. The haze is beginning to fade, and she doesn't want it to. She wants to clamber onto it with both hands and try and make it stay longer. And somewhere, in the back of her mind, she can't help but feel that she's trying to replace love with something tangible. And all it's doing is making her a mess.

He looks at her and she becomes nervous under his gaze. It's unfair, she thinks. Why does he get to hide behind something? She can feel his presence, and she knows he's concerned. He wordlessly observes her sunken, bloodshot eyes, and the dark arcs that seem to underline them. "Calleigh," he begins, unsure of where to start. "Are you okay?" She says nothing, so he continues. "Lately, you've been acting…oddly." And, again, she's assaulted by his eyes.

"I'm fine." The words don't seem to sound genuine, but it's all she offers. She seems listless. She wants to kiss him, wants him never to leave, but they weren't meant to do this. It wasn't supposed to be like this. So they just stand there. He mutters something quickly, and she walks him to the door. They both say nothing. He leaves, and she's alone again.

Miami sunlight is beginning to stream through her windows, warming her. She doesn't want the warmth. She doesn't need it. She just wants the false security from the Miami lights. Somehow, they're bright and dull at the same time. And she just wants to be caught in it.