It was hard, trying to forget.
The memories pulled him back in, like waves running along the shore, their currents pulling foreign objects into the undertow. Broken pieces of sea glass in a mosaic of rocks, reminding him of the vacations he took with his parents up to the eastern shores of Maine in the summer as a kid. But his thoughts would circle back to his father, always his father.
The man he had tried his best to impress and make proud, but he was never good enough for his old man. The adult who constantly made him feel like a child, who pushed and pushed until he couldn't take it anymore. Joining the FBI was the best decision of his life, and definitely pissed his dad off. His teenage rebellion manifesting after all those years of never doing anything right in his father's eyes.
But this in turn, brought back the feeling of the bastard's hands on his face, ruffling his hair like a caring parent. It made him sick; the way Joe had made him feel like a child. The words 'battered little boy' came to mind.
Unable to move, cuffed to a chair, suffocating under the man's hands. He had seen red, yelling at Hardy to kill him, to just end it. After all the time they spent chasing the man and he finally had a chance to take Joe down, he had gotten captured again.
It would keep playing over and over in his head, the same scenes. The feeling of being trapped, as he tried to pull away, just to get Joe's hands away from the injuries on his face. He just wanted to escape the torture the man was putting him through, mentally and physically.
The pain, it just wouldn't stop. Damn did it hurt.
After getting stabbed and beaten within an inch of his life, he had gotten captured by fucking Joe Carroll, the mastermind of it all. The man knew how to manipulate a situation, manipulate people and their feelings into something favourable to himself. Convincing Hardy to talk about his father, by using him as a bargaining tool. The same man he had written his damn thesis on at Quantico.
It was dehumanizing, knowing he was just a pawn in Joe's schemes, to further the path of his book. Keeping a cold face was hard, especially when a knife was driven into your side. Remembering the way his hollering and grunting had echoed off the walls. The kind of yelling that remained in flashbacks, which happened more often than he liked.
PTSD had been thrown into the air, after barely passing his psych evaluation, but he countered every question with: 'I'm fine, really.' 'No, I'm good.' 'I'm fine. I mean it.' The lies easily rolled from his lips, the only ones he hadn't fooled were Parker and Hardy.
They both seemed hyper aware of his actions, when he snapped at someone or became overly agitated. Hell yes almost dying made it hard to do the right thing.
This was why the constant feeling he was going to fall apart became a serious issue. Small noises would make him twitch and jump, as the breath left his lungs, fear evident in his wide eyes.
The breakdowns were becoming increasingly harder to control and hide. When he just wanted to let each piece of his soul be ripped from his body as each scream replayed in his head.
They wouldn't stop.
He knew Hardy noticed the way he would avoid the board with the photos of Joe and his followers on it. Parker did too, but was blunter about it and had tried to approach him a few days ago, but he had shut her down almost immediately. Barking out that he was fine, which was less than the truth; a bold-faced lie. He was coming apart at the seams.
The next body they found slaughtered by one of Joe's followers sent him into a downward spiral. Usually he could handle a dead body, but it just made him think of how close that could've been him.
Fighting the panic till they had made it back to the local police station a few hours later, he had quickly rushed to the men's room, locking the door behind him. And this is where he was now, knowing he had about ten solid minutes till someone noticed his absence.
Bracing himself against the sink, he tried to fight the oncoming memories. His head was spinning like he had ridden an amusement park ride too many times, along with the nausea afterwards. Or course the fact that he hadn't eaten in two days could also be a factor, not wanting to get sick after eating.
Weston gripped the sink with his hands, knuckles white and hands shaking. Glancing upwards towards the mirror while taking shallow breaths. The wounds still looked fresh, red and raised the bruises around his eyes and chin a sickening yellow and purple. It made him think how weird it was how the human skin could turn into such a canvas for art. Joe had no problem painting him with a knife.
The thought really shouldn't have amused him as much as it did, but he let out a choked up laugh anyway, voice breaking. Leaning his forehead against the mirror, Weston tried to get as much air into his lungs and prepped himself for meeting the Sheriff. Hardy and Parker had previously met him, while he was at the hospital.
Trying to shake the nausea and dizziness from his system, he leaned away from the sink and faced the door. Suppressing any panic that had started to spread, he reached for the door handle.
Here goes nothing…