Disclaimer: No ownership at all.
I don't know why... but I keep posting the stories I never intended to post. :o... This one was completely done on a whim (in the middle of my studying for a test, actually, while watching the show :P) and I can't say that I'm proud of it. T-T. Reviews are great for me though ^-^ I may or may not make a drabble out of this.
Broken Thoughts
She thinks (or dreams, she can't really tell) of being normal.
Sometimes, in her house, at night, on her sofa, she grips her cup of tea or coffee and plays soft music from the radio. And she thinks.
Sometimes, when she goes home, worked from a long day with human remains, she likes to dream—and she can see it.
She can see herself. She can see a modest house with a fence. She can see movement behind open windows, and she can see a door swing out. She can see her parents there, in her little world (she refuses to say fantasy), and she can feel the irrational urge to shout or to run or to sprint.
But she doesn't do any of those. She never does. So instead she chooses to simply hold on to the image, and begin to drink in the sight her masochistic brain has offered.
Her mother's brown hair (almost like her own, but lighter somehow) was tied up in a bun, her green eyes (the exact color of hers) warm and inviting and compassionate. Her father's smiling face comes into view next, along with his strong, calloused hand beckoning her to come in, and then she can feel (imagine) a hand nudging her softly on her back and she realizes that she is smaller—younger. Her brother tells her that Dad will be mad if they're late for dinner so he takes her hand and leads her back into the house, into their home, and she is hugged and kissed and loved. In her little make-believe world, she is crying.
But she knows it's a lie. And she knows it'll fade away and leave her. Just like her family did.
Thoughts would engulf it. Her thoughts. They would chase the dreams away.
And not just any thoughts, scientific thoughts. Observing, analyzing, concluding. She could never get tired of it, because it was her life now.
Because at the end of the day, she'll always be the same person: a forensic anthropologist. At the end of the day, when she's alone and numb and almost (but not quite) crying, abandoned little Temperance Brennan knows that she will never get a second chance at life.
And it's always the same…
Brennan never does know the following morning what time she went to sleep. She just knows that she sometimes finds herself on the couch, her face sticky and her eyes moist and her radio playing either jazz or melodious rock in the background.
Yawning and cleaning herself up, she even fails to remember what she had cried about. Because facts (that taste and burning at the back of her throat) all conclude to it. And thinking, (crying is completely normal, a trait every human being possessed that could be triggered by anything, she could have hit her knee on the table. Or it could have just been the result of excessive yawning…) she leaves her house—her unfulfilled dreams, her broken thoughts—and heads for work.
Always the same.
Author's Note: Opinions? Again, I don't know why I always end up posting the stories that I come up with... spontaneously. Maybe my writing is trying to tell me something 0_o