Title: Onomotopoetic
Author: Tobias Charity
Fandom: Law and Order: Criminal Intent
Rating: Eh, PG. Implied death, not-so-implied insanity. I'm not your
mother.
Summary: "Writing about sound is like dancing about architecture."-
Paraphrased Elvis Costello
Disclaimer: Didn't, don't, won't ever. Own them, that is. Didn't, aren't,
won't ever. Make money off of this, that is.
Feedback: For the love of God, man, yes!
Notes: Written for teanna's sound challenge. Props to kyl for the five
minute beta, soon to be found in a brightly colored package at a Qwik-Mart
near you.
Onomatopoetic
i. shatter
He still twitches when he hears glass breaking.
He was five, she was thirty. He was crouched beneath the kitchen table, she was staggering blindly across the linoleum. He was staring at her through his fingers, she held a drinking glass clenched in her hand.
He was five, she was thirty. He was sane, she was not.
She was bent over the kitchen sink, glass dangling dangerously in her limp, pale fingers; he was hidden behind the edge of the tablecloth. She was talking loudly, almost screaming, random strings of words flowing from her twisted mouth; he was silent, out of fear and out of lack of anything to say.
They both watched the glass fall from her nerveless fingers, twisting on its way to the floor, catching the light from the picture window above the sink and flashing a thousand colors in a spectral rainbow on the wall, and splintering into a hundred dead, flat pieces on the floor. He flinched and let out a quick gasp, she did not.
She was thirty, he was five. She was not sane, and neither was he.
ii. drone
Eames, he thought, despite its vowels, was a very Waspy name. It fit her.
They first met in the copy room, jostling shoulder to shoulder in the last minute rush of cops and flunkies trying to get their papers into the DA's office and filed away so there was no overtime to be worked, no extra paperwork to do tomorrow. There was no conversation; the steady, droning whine of the ancient copy machine ensured that no one could speak without having their conversation heard by the entire room. He hadn't the faintest idea who she was, but his then-partner told him later: Alexandra Eames, detective first grade.
Eames, he thought, was a vacant sounding name. It fit her quite well.
Because of, or maybe in spite of, the copy room, he associated her voice with the dry, mechanical whine of the machine.
iii. bang
Bang bang, you're dead. Children's shouts and adults' voices echo through his head, intertwining with the not-so-steady pulse of his heart bleeding itself into oblivion, and his knowledge that he was dead.
"Bobby," he hears, her voice still reminding him of that ancient copy- machine drone. "They're on their way, Bobby, stay awake, Bobby, say something, Bobby, Bobby."
Bobby, he thinks, was slang for a beat cop in early 20th century London. The copy machine whines again and he wants to turn it off, but his limbs are too heavy, too heavy even lift off the asphalt that's digging into his palms.
The things you remember when, he thinks, but the thought segues into another and he follows that train of ideas like an obedient child.
Glass breaking; a woman speaking, yelling, screaming; a child wailing; bang bang you're dead, no I'm not you missed you missed you must've missed. You can't have hit me, I can't be dead, it's just a game, that's not my blood-- not real blood I feel pooling beneath me on the gravel.
Eames should be here somewhere, he thinks, he should hear her voice, but all he hears is a persistent wailing: a copy machine whine.
/fin/
Onomatopoetic
i. shatter
He still twitches when he hears glass breaking.
He was five, she was thirty. He was crouched beneath the kitchen table, she was staggering blindly across the linoleum. He was staring at her through his fingers, she held a drinking glass clenched in her hand.
He was five, she was thirty. He was sane, she was not.
She was bent over the kitchen sink, glass dangling dangerously in her limp, pale fingers; he was hidden behind the edge of the tablecloth. She was talking loudly, almost screaming, random strings of words flowing from her twisted mouth; he was silent, out of fear and out of lack of anything to say.
They both watched the glass fall from her nerveless fingers, twisting on its way to the floor, catching the light from the picture window above the sink and flashing a thousand colors in a spectral rainbow on the wall, and splintering into a hundred dead, flat pieces on the floor. He flinched and let out a quick gasp, she did not.
She was thirty, he was five. She was not sane, and neither was he.
ii. drone
Eames, he thought, despite its vowels, was a very Waspy name. It fit her.
They first met in the copy room, jostling shoulder to shoulder in the last minute rush of cops and flunkies trying to get their papers into the DA's office and filed away so there was no overtime to be worked, no extra paperwork to do tomorrow. There was no conversation; the steady, droning whine of the ancient copy machine ensured that no one could speak without having their conversation heard by the entire room. He hadn't the faintest idea who she was, but his then-partner told him later: Alexandra Eames, detective first grade.
Eames, he thought, was a vacant sounding name. It fit her quite well.
Because of, or maybe in spite of, the copy room, he associated her voice with the dry, mechanical whine of the machine.
iii. bang
Bang bang, you're dead. Children's shouts and adults' voices echo through his head, intertwining with the not-so-steady pulse of his heart bleeding itself into oblivion, and his knowledge that he was dead.
"Bobby," he hears, her voice still reminding him of that ancient copy- machine drone. "They're on their way, Bobby, stay awake, Bobby, say something, Bobby, Bobby."
Bobby, he thinks, was slang for a beat cop in early 20th century London. The copy machine whines again and he wants to turn it off, but his limbs are too heavy, too heavy even lift off the asphalt that's digging into his palms.
The things you remember when, he thinks, but the thought segues into another and he follows that train of ideas like an obedient child.
Glass breaking; a woman speaking, yelling, screaming; a child wailing; bang bang you're dead, no I'm not you missed you missed you must've missed. You can't have hit me, I can't be dead, it's just a game, that's not my blood-- not real blood I feel pooling beneath me on the gravel.
Eames should be here somewhere, he thinks, he should hear her voice, but all he hears is a persistent wailing: a copy machine whine.
/fin/