A/N: So this is a little random, but I was inspired to write this by the WA Broken Object Challenge.
Set during the episode 'Zen, or the Skill to Catch a Killer', it's just an idea I had of what might be going through Leland's mind in this scene. It's also an experiment style-wise, but it just seemed to work for portraying Leland's fractured state of mind, so thank you for reading it—I'd love to hear your thoughts on it.
Title from the song 'The First Picture of You' by The Lotus Eaters.
THE FIRST PICTURE OF YOU.
With a start you notice the splinters of broken glass all around you. Hands dark red with dried blood.
The house is silent, like it always is these days, not even the sound of Sarah's despair echoes down the empty hallway. Although that's not surprising, not with the number of sedatives Doc Hayward prescribed her after it happened.
Glancing up you realise it's getting dark, and you wonder just exactly how long you've been here, crouched protectively over the smashed picture as though you're hugging your only daughter when she'd fallen and scraped her knees when she was five; or—and your breath catches in your throat, threatens to choke you as the image flashes into your mind—huddled over her broken, lifeless body after he stole her away from you.
And you find yourself wondering how it happened, exactly how the glass was broken. Whether you're responsible, or if it was him again; that man, although maybe calling him that is being a little too charitable. That creature whose name you can't bring yourself to utter, taking yet another precious thing from you like he has done time and again for practically your whole life. Or for pretty much as long as you can remember anyway, since that first summer he insinuated his way into your life, at the white house, up by the lake.
Screwing your eyes tight shut, you rub at your forehead as you will yourself to remember, berate yourself for being so useless. But it's not until you focus back on the blood-stained image, on Laura's piercing blue eyes, that it starts to come back to you—and you thank the Lord it was only you this time. That he hasn't been here in your home. Again.
oOo
The only noise is the ceiling fan whirring in the hallway.
You hate everything about this house now. How cold and empty it feels without her. Without your Laura.
Stumbling into the sitting room, you find yourself in front of the old record player standing proud in it's heavy wooden casing and you just stare at it for what might be a few seconds—although it could be minutes or even hours, you can't seem to keep track of the passing of time these days—as the regular rotation of the fan pushes the warm air around the core of the house, pounding in your ears like the blood pulsing through your veins.
But you need to shut it out, can't bear to hear it beating anymore. Not when her heart has stopped forever.
Clicking your fingers you hold back your tears, lift the needle onto the record and step into the middle of the room.
As the rhythm and noise of the big band swells to fill the small space of the sitting room, your eyes fall on her picture. Laura's picture. So beautiful. The prettiest girl in town. The kindest. All you want is to dance with her one last time.
Pretend she's still here, a part of your family, laughing and giggling, rolling her eyes at you that way she did whenever you took her hand and pulled her up from the couch to dance to one of those old tunes you love—that she loved too, before she grew up and decided your taste in music was lame and pathetic. Just like you.
Snatching it up in your hands you stare at her perfect features. Hair all piled up high and held in place with the glittering tiara, the flawless homecoming queen. Because really, who else could it have been? Even though they didn't know the real her—not like you did—none of those other girls in school could ever be a patch on your Laura. All pale imitations desperate to be her, to have her notice them and be their friend.
'Pennsylvania Six-five thousand!'
As the band leader starts to sing, you feel the groan rising in your chest. Elemental, out of your control, your grief eating away at you from the inside.
Slowly at first, but ever faster, you begin to sway to the music, before whirling round and round, spinning on the spot; unable—or unwilling—to stop as you scream and moan, gripping the frame tightly in your hands.
Out of nowhere, Sarah appears. But she doesn't understand. She never understands. Just tries to stop you, hands flailing as she tries to get a grip of you, snatch away the picture.
'Pennsylvania Six-five thousand!'
"We have to dance. For Laura!" you yell at her.
Yet still she takes no notice. Instead she struggles with you as she tries to grab that most precious picture out of your hands, so that the pair of you stumble towards the coffee table, the fragile glass shattering, cutting into your hands, your palms stinging and burning as the glittering shards pierce your skin. But that is nothing. Not compared to the searing pain, fresh in your heart after losing your only child forever. Although really, you lost her a long time ago, when he decided he wanted her for himself.
Him. That man. BOB. You can barely bring yourself to say his name to yourself, let alone utter it to anyone else. Not even Sarah, even though you know she sees him, can feel his presence too. Because he's always there. Always has been since you were a child. So long ago that you can barely remember a time when he wasn't around. Dark and insidious. Lurking, waiting for your weakness to take over, give him the opportunity to pounce, determined to steal any joy away from your life, to destroy anything good you might have created.
"What is going on in this house?" Sarah screams, but you barely hear her—and definitely don't respond.
Because all you can focus on is the picture.
Broken.
Gone.
Useless.
Like your precious Laura. Wrapped in plastic and dumped in the lake like garbage.
How could he do that to her when he knew how much you loved her? How much everybody loved her?
Blood drips from your palm, where the glass has shredded the skin, but still you don't feel the pain. Even though you wish you could. Just this once. Just to stop your heart hurting so badly.
Scarlet smears across her picture, across her beautiful face. The face you'll never see again except in photographs.
And really, you know it shouldn't matter; that it's only a second-rate representation of her, a photo in a frame. That having it or not won't bring her back to you. But it feels so much more important than that. Like you've lost yet another part of her. Like she's being chipped away so that eventually there'll be nothing left, not even your memories. And you're not ready to let her go. Not now, not ever.
So you block out Sarah screaming and shouting at you and let yourself give in to your grief. Hug her picture to your chest as the tears fall from your eyes and you sob and wail over all that you've lost.
That BOB has stolen from you.