Another little something I wrote when I should have been studying at school. I'm thinking of making this and 'Swirls in the Scotch' into a series of cold case one shots based off of quotes from episodes. Anyone interested?

'So you went back, using your position to check out her little girl.
Knowing the power you had, and Rosie wasn't the only one. You were like God to these women. You had the power to give, to take, and you did.'

'Like anyone gives as damn. Trailer park trash. Welfare queens. Like you care what happens to them.'

'They care. Anita Jones. Carmen Torez. Dayna Matthews. Mina Young. All their pretty little girls. They're here. They've come to tell us all about Mr Freely. You wanna talk before they do?'

She had the power to give, and the power to take as well – that much was evident by the look on Mr Freely's face.

Ever since she had been young she always had been the one that had to give, and everybody else were the people who took from her. Distorted, coloured faces flashed through her mind: social workers, friends, teachers, that man, her sister, her mother.

Now she was a cop she finally had the power to take and never, not once, did she every have to give.

And that felt kind of good.

She could squash people's dreams as easily as hers had been squashed. She could invade people's minds as easily as her fragile mind had been invaded. She could break people's hearts as easily has her young heart had been broken time and time again.

She could do all that here, in that room of muted grey. Where spikes could push out from the walls and where water could flow from under the door. Where the only true thing was your reflection in the mirror of lies.

Lies.

'No, Chrissie, I'm not hungry. You eat my portion.'

'I hate you, mom.'

Lies had the power to give and to take as well. Some lies were good and some lies were bad. Some lies hid the truth, some lies gave the truth. Over the years she had lost count of how many lies she had told. Good lies, or bad lies, they all come back to haunt you eventually. Whether you're a welfare queen or a cop. Lies produce those murky grey ghosts that follow you where ever you go. The same colour grey as the interrogation room. The room that was packed so tightly with ghosts that it made it hard to breath, yet often so empty of the truth that it seemed like a void. In that room you couldn't run and hide from the lies; they were sat there with you. Trapped. Waiting for the execution when the truth was found out.

Truth.

'Case number 4228. Ellen Rush, two dependents.'

'Your mom ever forget to feed you... 'cause she was too drunk... or tired... or out looking for a man?'

The truth had the power to give and to take as well; and it was so much stronger than people or lies. The truth was brutal and harsh, a stabbing black or a blinding white, never a hovering shadow of murky grey. For her the truth often took more than it gave. Sure, she was a cop, she was meant to seek out the truth, but it hurt so much sometimes that it made her eyes sting and her head pound. It made her stomach lurch and her throat tighten because sometimes the truth was just so sick that it made her physically ill. The truth was a winding road that she walked late at night, where there were people who just wanted to hurt her because she was there. Sometimes the truth was too dangerous and was just best left alone.

Yet it couldn't be left alone. That was why she did what she did and slowly, cautiously, opened the boxes that others couldn't. Yes, it brought back painful memories of the past, but it was necessary. Sometimes the greys were comforting, but often people needed the contrast and the clarity that came with the truth. So that was what she did, the truth all tied up with a pretty little blonde and blue bow.

This made life complicated and sometimes, just sometimes, it was hard to tell what was a truth and what was a lie – what was good and what was bad. Everything just swirled together for her, and only un - swirled when it was too late. It was too late and she was just trapped in a world where reality crossed over into fantasy - a world where she was impervious to pain, simply because she was too numb.

This is what happened when she saw Mr Freely. She wished that she didn't have to be a cop for once, and could just reach over the table and smash his smug face in. Harsh blackness boiled in her stomach and made her grip the edges of the table in the room of grey. Why wouldn't he just stop? Why wouldn't he stop torturing those poor, innocent little girls?

Sometimes Scotty came, and sometimes he made everything better. For some reason all it took was his smile to unscramble her worlds. They'd sit together, talking and drinking, until the early hours of the morning. He really was sweet and they would go to their favourite bar where the owner had bathed the place with ice blue light. She really did love him, but he never really understood.

He never truly understood her pain. Nobody could, for no one had ever experienced the childhood that she had. She never knew her father, and some days she was grateful for that. She barely knew her sister, despite how much she tried. She scarcely knew her mother, even though she had looked after her the best she could. So all in all there was no one.

No one at all.

So she was left alone in her own little world, of lies and truth, and good and bad, and blue and blonde.

Lies took, the truth gave; or the lies gave and the truth took. She never truly knew, and that was what scared her. She was God in that room – she had the power to give and the power to take with absolutely no consequences. She could tell the truth or tell a lie, paint her picture in black and white or in grey; occasionally glancing at the mirror to hold onto reality.

The reality that she needed other people to save for her.

The reality where light shone down on her.

The reality where she was happy.

Please review :)