Jane sat on her sofa. She had been sitting in that same spot, in that same position, since she came home from work. She hadn't bothered to change or eat or even turn on the television. She had just sat, unmoving.
The sounds of her empty apartment echoed around her.
She was on active duty now, but Joe was still with her parents. She didn't have the heart to take the little dog back; she looked so happy and contented at her parent's house. Jane wanted at least someone to be happy and contented.
Maura had asked her to go to dinner earlier, but she'd declined. She had been doing that a lot recently, declining Maura's invitations, everyone's really. She just didn't feel up to going out, and she was tired of everyone tiptoeing around her whenever something came up about the shooting, which seemed to happen often.
She was tired of a lot of things.
She was tired of everyone being careful around her all the time. She was tired of her mother's increased harping to find a new job, a husband, and a new life. She was tired of Frankie being so quiet and mousey around her; he never joked with her like he used to. She was tired of her coworkers avoiding her gaze or trying to make her feel like a hero. She was neither a curse to be avoided nor a hero to be lauded. She was just herself as she always had been. She was tired of dodging the press; they were still trying to get statements from her. She was tired of what felt like a constant string of inquiries from the precinct; the amount of politicians who wanted to use her in one way or another was taking its toll. She was tired of not feeling good enough because she couldn't move like she used to. She was tired of the increased nightmares. It wasn't just Hoyt anymore. She dreamed about that day, and it haunted her. Maura's terror stricken eyes when she rushed to her side, Frankie's practically dead body, the feel of the bullet entering her body… they haunted her.
Jane was just tired.
Sighing, she looked down at the gun in her hand. "Some days, you're the bullet. Some days, you're the victim," she murmured as she popped the clip out and made sure the chamber was empty. "No, not today. I promised Maura I'd go to dinner with her tomorrow," she winced, pain shooting from her new scar, as she leaned forward to place the gun and clip on her coffee table.
Her phone rang, the "Funeral March" playing through the eerie quiet of the apartment. "No, Maura," she whispered into the silence as she lay down on the sofa, ignoring the phone.
Maura's finger hovered over End Call for a moment before lowering, cutting off the electronic voice instructing her to leave a message. Messages didn't get answered these days; last time she'd tried to leave one, Jane's voicemail box had been full, and she knew Jane didn't answer her land line, either. She ran a finger through curls that no longer bounced cheerfully. "Jane," she sighed into her empty kitchen, and picked up the phone again to dial.
"Luckie Spuckie, how may I help you?"
1-800-273-8255 (1-800-273-TALK) | 1-800-784-2433 (1-800-SUICIDE)
US National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
For the hearing impaired in the US
1-800-799-4TTY (4889)