Title: Tired of Fighting
Author: Lynn
Rating: PG-13 (content)
Summary: "...how many times do we lie to ourselves? How many times do we say that it'll never happen to me?" Vignette.
A/N: I may just be paranoid, but I am concerned that I may have inadvertently used pieces of other fanfic, as I've been reading a lot recently. If you see something in the story that belongs to you, please e- mail me so I can resolve the problem. It certainly isn't intentional. Thanks. On another note, feedback is always appreciated as I strive to improve my writing. I've tried something a little different for me here (mostly dialogue and unidentified characters), and I'd love to hear what worked and what didn't.
I owe a huge thank you to Michelle for the beta! Your assistance is really appreciated.
Disclaimer: Content and characters from 'CSI: Crime Scene Investigation' are used without permission. No profit is made from my use of the content and/or characters.
***
"She was just a child," her voice murmurs. "Barely old enough to attend school."
"I know," his voice answers, soft and dejected.
The rain pelts the ground, drenching the two individuals.
"Why?" she asks.
"I don't think there's an explanation for why people kill."
His reply is neutral, his tone carefully moderated to disguise his pain.
"No," she responds, frustration emanating from her expression.
He raises an eyebrow slightly, confusion written across his face.
"Why do we do this?" she continues, gesturing around the crime scene at the equipment, employees and witnesses.
He pauses before answering, trying to find the appropriate response.
"Its our job."
"But why do we bother?" she insists, her voice tremulous.
"Because we care," he answers without hesitation.
She moves away. He's afraid he's struck a nerve. At first, he assumes she's furious at him, perhaps for making an assumption. The glow of the street lamps enlightens him, as the light catches the tears sliding down her face. He remains silent, waiting for her to talk.
"Every time I collect a sample or a finger print, I question why we're here. Why should we clean up some of humanity's worst atrocities, just to do it all over again the next night?"
He nods, his face expressionless. Her tears trace a ragged path down her cheeks. He wonders if he should wipe them away, but hesitates from the intimate gesture. She spares him the need to make a decision, continuing her monologue in a broken voice.
"Sometimes I wonder why I do this. Why do I subject myself to all the pain, when I could do anything else?"
"You want to solve the puzzle, piece together the truth," he contributes, a slight touch of wryness in his voice.
"Is it enough?"
His mouth moves to form the word 'yes', but something in her eyes stops him. He closes his month, waiting for her to finish her thought.
"When we're searching for the truth, how many times do we lie to ourselves? How many times do we say that it won't happen again, it's a freak incident? How many times do we wake up from a nightmare where our victims are our loved ones? How many times do we say that it'll never happen to me? Why do we bother with all the pain it causes?"
Words elude him.
She whispers, "Does it really matter?"
"Of course," he says, surprised by her question.
"Why?" she asks.
She interrupts him before he can launch into the standard response.
"The bodies keep coming. It's an endless stream of fingerprints, DNA samples, trace evidence and motives. And no matter how many arrests, convictions and sentences, there's always going to be another victim.
"When will it stop? When is it enough?"
The last sentence came out of her mouth like a roar, almost causing him to miss the final line she whispered.
"I don't know if I can do it anymore."
Silently, he stretches his hand out to her. Tears continue their downward journey to her jaw line, salty pain mingling with fresh rain. He turns to look at her, holding her eyes in his silent, unwavering gaze. She sees herself reflected in his eyes: desperate, angry, frustrated, hurt and, above all, tired. They're tired of fighting: for the truth, for the victim, for the victim's loved ones. They're tired of fighting against the bureaucracy and the increasing crime. His eyes haunt her, reminding her of her eyes in the morning when they stare back at her in the mirror asking her why.
Still, he pulls her up, dragging her back towards the crime scene. Despite all the negative emotional baggage that comes with the job, there will always be the caring. The desire to find the truth beneath all the lies. The burning, overwhelming, almost primal need to serve justice.
"The kid, her parents," he stumbles, unable to voice his thoughts coherently in his quest to explain himself. "They deserve the truth. I mean, it's all we can do."
"I know," she agrees, squeezing the large hand clasped tightly in her own.
***
The End
Author: Lynn
Rating: PG-13 (content)
Summary: "...how many times do we lie to ourselves? How many times do we say that it'll never happen to me?" Vignette.
A/N: I may just be paranoid, but I am concerned that I may have inadvertently used pieces of other fanfic, as I've been reading a lot recently. If you see something in the story that belongs to you, please e- mail me so I can resolve the problem. It certainly isn't intentional. Thanks. On another note, feedback is always appreciated as I strive to improve my writing. I've tried something a little different for me here (mostly dialogue and unidentified characters), and I'd love to hear what worked and what didn't.
I owe a huge thank you to Michelle for the beta! Your assistance is really appreciated.
Disclaimer: Content and characters from 'CSI: Crime Scene Investigation' are used without permission. No profit is made from my use of the content and/or characters.
***
"She was just a child," her voice murmurs. "Barely old enough to attend school."
"I know," his voice answers, soft and dejected.
The rain pelts the ground, drenching the two individuals.
"Why?" she asks.
"I don't think there's an explanation for why people kill."
His reply is neutral, his tone carefully moderated to disguise his pain.
"No," she responds, frustration emanating from her expression.
He raises an eyebrow slightly, confusion written across his face.
"Why do we do this?" she continues, gesturing around the crime scene at the equipment, employees and witnesses.
He pauses before answering, trying to find the appropriate response.
"Its our job."
"But why do we bother?" she insists, her voice tremulous.
"Because we care," he answers without hesitation.
She moves away. He's afraid he's struck a nerve. At first, he assumes she's furious at him, perhaps for making an assumption. The glow of the street lamps enlightens him, as the light catches the tears sliding down her face. He remains silent, waiting for her to talk.
"Every time I collect a sample or a finger print, I question why we're here. Why should we clean up some of humanity's worst atrocities, just to do it all over again the next night?"
He nods, his face expressionless. Her tears trace a ragged path down her cheeks. He wonders if he should wipe them away, but hesitates from the intimate gesture. She spares him the need to make a decision, continuing her monologue in a broken voice.
"Sometimes I wonder why I do this. Why do I subject myself to all the pain, when I could do anything else?"
"You want to solve the puzzle, piece together the truth," he contributes, a slight touch of wryness in his voice.
"Is it enough?"
His mouth moves to form the word 'yes', but something in her eyes stops him. He closes his month, waiting for her to finish her thought.
"When we're searching for the truth, how many times do we lie to ourselves? How many times do we say that it won't happen again, it's a freak incident? How many times do we wake up from a nightmare where our victims are our loved ones? How many times do we say that it'll never happen to me? Why do we bother with all the pain it causes?"
Words elude him.
She whispers, "Does it really matter?"
"Of course," he says, surprised by her question.
"Why?" she asks.
She interrupts him before he can launch into the standard response.
"The bodies keep coming. It's an endless stream of fingerprints, DNA samples, trace evidence and motives. And no matter how many arrests, convictions and sentences, there's always going to be another victim.
"When will it stop? When is it enough?"
The last sentence came out of her mouth like a roar, almost causing him to miss the final line she whispered.
"I don't know if I can do it anymore."
Silently, he stretches his hand out to her. Tears continue their downward journey to her jaw line, salty pain mingling with fresh rain. He turns to look at her, holding her eyes in his silent, unwavering gaze. She sees herself reflected in his eyes: desperate, angry, frustrated, hurt and, above all, tired. They're tired of fighting: for the truth, for the victim, for the victim's loved ones. They're tired of fighting against the bureaucracy and the increasing crime. His eyes haunt her, reminding her of her eyes in the morning when they stare back at her in the mirror asking her why.
Still, he pulls her up, dragging her back towards the crime scene. Despite all the negative emotional baggage that comes with the job, there will always be the caring. The desire to find the truth beneath all the lies. The burning, overwhelming, almost primal need to serve justice.
"The kid, her parents," he stumbles, unable to voice his thoughts coherently in his quest to explain himself. "They deserve the truth. I mean, it's all we can do."
"I know," she agrees, squeezing the large hand clasped tightly in her own.
***
The End