I was extremely excited to have a friend message me with what she thought was going on and she was right! I was getting a bit nervous that I had made it too…disjointed, I guess. But the tone of the fic actually follows his progression so the style will morph a bit throughout. After this chapter, things are definitely going to be much clearer (I think).
Chapter Three
"Jane. Patrick. It's Lisbon…it's—it's Teresa. Can you hear me?"
The voice was too familiar.
"Will you talk to me?"
He could practically see the concerned green eyes looking at him. Penetrating. The swing of her dark hair as she leaned towards him.
He wanted to lean back to her. But no. Silly.
It was silly. She was gone.
She was still on the pavement, hair matted with liquid and stain spreading out from her prone body. Angry red on the skin of her cheek, spilling down on her throat. Seeping into her clothes, blossoming on the fabric like a morbidly beautiful flower.
Everywhere.
It was everywhere.
She was dead. He wanted to go to her. Wanted to hold her. Hold his hands against her, press them to her wounds. Keep the blood on the inside. Where it belonged. He wanted to heal her.
He wished his hands didn't ruin everything they touched.
He stared through her. She was dead. If he concentrated on the white wall behind her it would be okay.
"The Kingdom of God is a real place…"
There was bright white everywhere.
When he closed his eyes there was darkness. There was also sometimes oblivion.
He opened his eyes again and there was the crystal ball. It was always there. He wished he really could see into it, believe in its powers.
"Hail Mary, full of grace…"
He wondered if he had ever believed.
Tooth fairies, Santa Clause, witches—
"Weird witch-lady didn't burn you an effigy and bind you to her power."
—psychics , God…
He had seen the man behind the curtain and he looked a lot like his own father. He blinked and his father's image wavered.
Red curtains. A dark intimate atmosphere. Another mark. Money. Always money. His father piling the bills, counting them.
Counting. Counting.
He squeezed his eyes shut. His scalp felt itchy. Was there gel in his hair?
He waited to go on stage in a dapper suit, hair slicked back away from his face. Best to make the most of his soulful eyes.
It was itchy, but he didn't want to get gel all over his hands. He got up and moved to the sink.
The mirror was gone. Probably taken out to bring in one that was unbroken. Good thing, too. There had been a corner that was missing. Disgraceful.
But it meant that he couldn't see if there was gel in his hair. He really didn't want the gel in his hair.
It was irksome.
Resigned, he raised his hands to his head. Bright white bandages embraced his wrists. He looked at them, puzzled.
The large man lay on the couch, arm bandaged and out of it from the pain medication. He had behaved predictably, running into the burning house to save the day. Only Rigsby—"
The moment, the memory, was gone in an instant. He ignored the bandages—so brightly white—and ran his hands through his hair. Funny, didn't feel like there was any gel.
Hair slicked back, he smiled at the cameras, putting on his game face. He couldn't wait to get home. He had plans with Charlotte—
He pulled at his hair, the sharp pain in his scalp matching that in his chest. He emptied his mind and was calm again.
Lowering his hands, he sank to the ground with his back to the wall. He tipped his head back so he could stare up at the crystal ball.
He wanted to believe in it. Wanted to believe its lies.
Wanted to believe that life could be beautiful.