Fading Away

By SherryGabs

Rated: T

Thanks to Dark Rolling Sea for being a fine beta. And also thanks to those that have reviewed and set this to story alerts.

Chapter 10

John roamed the streets of Arlington, Virginia all that day. The modern downtown business area to the more historic districts and finally to the waterfront of the Potomac River. He had hoped Jonathan would call, but the phone remained silent all day. John had skipped lunch to conserve money, and by the time dusk started falling he definitely wanted food. He blew most of his cash on a cheeseburger, fries and coffee.

He now found himself sitting against a concrete bridge pillar, well into the evening, exhausted and getting colder by the minute. The bridge spanned the Potomac and he could see the lights of Washington on the other side. He thought maybe he'd walk across the bridge tomorrow and see what DC had to offer. In the meantime, he sat there shivering, silently cursing that April could get so cold at night. He might have been better off away from the river, but was too tired from walking all day to muster up the energy it would take to walk back to the business district.

Looking around he studied the few small buildings that were nearby. The businesses were closed by this time and would be empty. Several hundred feet away was a boarded-up two-story building he could see because of the street lamp near the corner of it. Figuring he'd at least be out of the wind, John forced himself to stand and walked the distance to the building. He tried the steel front door, but it was solidly locked. Walking along the front of the building and around the corner, he tried pushing on the boarded-up windows until he found one that moved easily. Slipping inside and letting the board fall back into place, John turned around and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Some light from the street lamp was able to slip through cracks and seams and he could see that others had used this building for the same purpose. Empty liquor bottles, squashed cigarette packs and all sorts of trash littered much of the floor. The smell of the place left something to be desired; mold, mildew, garbage, urine, who knew what else.

It was only slightly warmer in here than outside. John blew into his hands, trying to warm them, then rubbed his arms briskly. Walking over to a stack of old beat up wooden pallets near the center of the floor, he figured this would be a good enough place as any to go to sleep. He had to kick a couple of syringes and old food wrappers away before sitting and leaning against the pallets. As much as John wanted to lay down, he thought the floor too disgusting. Settling into a somewhat comfortable position, John closed his eyes and within minutes was asleep.

He was roused sometime later by a noise. His tired mind soon recognized it as singing—very bad singing. Lifting his head and stretching out a forming kink in his neck, John watched as an old man in a dirty, tattered parka carrying a large trash bag more than half full of who-knows-what walked away from the same window he himself had entered through and continued on with an unsteady gait to the wall at the front of the building. He was singing an old song in a grating slurred voice not taking any notice of John, who wasn't looking forward to company and remained silent.

The old man found a spot he liked and dropped to his knees with a grunt. His singing stopped and he began quietly rambling on about something John couldn't understand. He reached into his trash bag and pulled out a section of newspaper. Separating the sheets, he laid them down on the floor obviously to sleep on. The next thing he pulled out of his bag made John's eyes widen with interest. It was a thick quilted bed covering, worn and frayed looking, but not torn or incredibly filthy. The man's voice quieted as he laid down, used the trash bag as a pillow and covered himself with the bedspread. He snorted a couple of times before sleep claimed him. Moments later he was snoring loudly.

John stared at the bedspread with greed in his eyes. He reasoned the bum had on a parka which was much warmer than the denim jacket he wore. He doesn't need both. He waited several minutes until he knew the drunk old man was deeply asleep then got up and quietly made his way over.

John carefully lifted the bedspread off the man. As he was about to go back to his spot, he noticed something silver sticking out of the parka's pocket. Making sure the bum was still sound asleep, John lifted the item from its hiding place. It was an eight ounce silver flask, half full. He had to bring the flask close to his eyes to be able to read the inscription on it.

De Nang

1969

Semper Fi

So, either the bum was a veteran or he stole it from one, but that meant nothing to John. He unscrewed the cap and wiped the opening with his sleeve. Taking a couple of swallows he winced as the cheap whiskey burned his throat, then closed and pocketed the flask. He sighed in appreciation as the whiskey warmed his stomach and took the cover back to his spot. With the bedspread wrapped around him like a cocoon, he deemed it safe to lay down on the dirty concrete floor. Using his arm for a pillow he reveled in comfort and soon fell asleep again.

John woke early, not used to getting long hours of sleep. He was warm and it felt good. He let himself lay there for several minutes before finally untangling himself from the cover. The sudden cool air sent a chill up his spine and he shivered. Standing up, John glanced over to where the old man still lay sleeping and noticed he was shivering. He briefly thought of how nice it would be to have that bedspread again the next night, but didn't want the hassle of carrying it around all day. Knowing he would regret it later, John tossed the bedspread carelessly over the man, not rousing him at all. His thoughts went to his full bladder and without a thought found relief in a dank corner before climbing through the boarded window to the early morning sunrise.

***********

John walked the bridge that crossed the Potomac and entered the city of Washington. He spent most of what money he had left on a large coffee while pocketing a cheese danish from a convenience store. All he had left now was some change that wouldn't even buy him a pack of gum.

By the end of the morning John was made truly aware of what a cesspool the downtown area of our nation's capital really was. Prostitutes were already out strutting their wares; he might have been tempted if he'd had the money. He'd seen two drug deals, and the beginnings of a fight or an assault as he walked by an alley. The amount of homeless wandering around made him angry. It wasn't an anger derived from pity but rather from wondering why a lot of these people couldn't do better for themselves. He remembered things Jonathan had told him about people and how useless and clueless they could be. He could believe it by some of the things he was witnessing.

As the afternoon wore on John would walk slowly and aimlessly, having nowhere specific to go. At times he would sit or stand and wonder if he should be doing something. One of these times he'd been sitting on a bench outside a small hardware store. The owner had known he'd been there a while and when he came out to sweep the sidewalk outside his door he told John to move on, that his bench was for paying customers. When John just glared at him and didn't move the man held up his broom.

"Listen you bum, either you get outta here or I call the cops!"

John smirked. "Really? Seems to me this bench is on a public sidewalk, so anyone can sit on it. And who are you calling a bum?"

"You! I can tell a bum when I see one." The shorter, but stocky man didn't seem a bit intimidated and held his broom handle closer to John's face. This irked John, who stood up.

"You know, I really hate it when people stick things in my face," he drawled slowly and menacingly.

"Yeah? What're ya gonna do 'bout it?" he challenged.

John just growled a second before snatching the broom from the man's hands. He held it as if here were about to swing it and the man backed off, surprised at how quick it had happened.

"This is what I'm gonna do." Making it look as if he were going to swing it at the now frightened store owner, he instead smashed it into the door frame, breaking the handle in half. He threw the remaining piece at the man's feet. He then got into his face and looked him in the eye.

"Be glad that wasn't your arm."

John walked off seething. How dare he call me a bum! I should've busted his damn arm!

The anger stayed with him. He didn't like being compared to the people who lived on the streets, but couldn't deny that he was doing the exact same thing. What the hell am I doing here?

John eventually found himself in a park, still pissed off. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to release some of his frustration and confusion on something hard. A trash can turned out to be the victim. He kicked it over and over, breaking through the wooden frame holding it. He was breathing heavy by the time he lifted the metal can out of the busted frame and tossed it as far as he could, spreading trash in its wake.

"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing!?"

John turned to see a park maintenance worker coming towards him. He stopped several feet short of John, worried about his safety. But John closed the distance himself quickly. He sucker-punched the worker in the face who landed on his back in the grass. He was about to hit him again when he heard a woman scream and a child start crying. Looking up and around John saw several people staring at him wide-eyed and shocked. Two were on cell phones and he was sure they were calling the police.

"Shit!" he cursed quietly to himself and took off running. He didn't stop till his lungs began reminding him of how out of shape he was. The chest pain was intense for a moment, but soon soothed itself down. He'd only gone a few blocks and after resting a couple of minutes kept going in the same direction. It had felt good to beat up the trash can and punch the guy, but now he felt beat up himself. He took the flask out of his jacket pocket and took a couple of swigs. Replacing the flask, John felt himself too warm after his recent workout and took the jacket off. He tied the sleeves around his waist and began rolling up his right shirt sleeve.

He knew the scars would be there on his wrist, a reminder of his months in captivity. The left wrist held the same type of scars, but also a different one. A horizontal line a little below the scars from the handcuffs, and evidence of how it had been stitched closed.

**************

"Are you afraid of death?"

He looked at Jonathan like he was crazy and thought to himself that he would welcome it. It was still fairly early on in his time there. Still wanting to be rebellious and uncooperative, but knew he was better off just answering all the damn questions. He did not want a repeat of that morning's repercussions.

"No, I'm not afraid to die."

"You have faced death many, many times during your career," Jonathan went on. "Did you ever hope or wish that the next time would be the final time? Did you ever think a particular case would be the last straw and if a bullet came at you, you would do nothing to avoid it?"

He closed his eyes and thought of several times he didn't think he'd be able to go on after a particularly bad case. He nodded his head in affirmation.

"Look at me." Jonathan squatted down, eye level. "Have you ever tried to kill yourself?" He knew from the agent's history that he was prone to occasional bouts of depression and after hearing the last admission was sure that the answer to this question would be positive. He suppressed a smile when John's head nodded again.

"Tell me about it."

John looked away again. He didn't want to tell Jonathan about the most personal and traumatic time of his life, but forced himself to. He slowly told the story of his wife and daughter's murders. Of how he'd been severely injured and after being released from a two-month long hospital stay, marking the end of his military career, that he'd gone to their graves and thought he couldn't live with the pain and guilt. He told of the day on the beach, sitting on the rocks and aiming a gun at his face, but unable to pull the trigger.

"What stopped you?" Jonathan wanted to know.

John sighed. "I thought of how pissed off Shannon would have been that I'd given up. My little Kelly had always looked to me as her hero," he shrugged. "I couldn't stand the thought of her being disappointed in me."

"What about the times since then? You've admitted you thought about it."

"But I never tried it again!" John insisted, pulling back from his memories.

"For the same reason?"

"No." John rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Those times had nothing to do with them. I just get so damn tired and frustrated. Sometimes, after certain cases that get to me, I just feel that I'm not doing something right. I'm not making any difference. I put one bad guy away and another takes his place."

"A never-ending cycle." Jonathan stated.

"Not always. Most of the time I feel satisfied at the end of a case, but other times…" He took a long, deep breath. "I just can't get over what people can do to other people and I just wish it would all end."

"What do you do to keep yourself from actually ending it?" Jonathan already knew that John used boat building as a relaxation technique from observing him before kidnapping him, but wanted to know if there was more.

"Get drunk and work on my boats till I'm exhausted enough to sleep." John shifted his position on the floor so he could hug his knees. "Sometimes, my coworkers—my friends—keep me from falling too far if I'm being too obvious. One of them will stay with me and try to make me talk and make sure I eat instead of drink my meals. Don't know what might have happened if it wasn't for them."

God, I miss them! He thought to himself.

"You've been very open and honest with me this afternoon. I appreciate it."

He knew his prisoner was thinking of his coworkers, missing them, and wanted him to stew in loneliness for a while. They would get back to this subject soon enough and Jonathan would want to see just how far he could push his prisoner.

****************

John rubbed the scar on his left wrist and remembered how Jonathan had rode him particularly hard one day with his comments, questions and torture. Afterward, he lay on the floor in absolute misery, both body and mind. He sensed the presence above him and opened his eyes. Jonathan stood there holding a pocket knife.

*************

John stared at the knife a moment, then back at Jonathan. His eyes pleaded and his mouth could only whisper, "Do it."

Jonathan smiled that sick, knowing smile of his and shook his head. "No. You do it." He dropped the knife on the floor next to John. "Show me you're not afraid to die."

John smiled, seeing what was happening, but he was beyond caring. "Even if this is part of your game to test my limits, I don't care. It's better than being stuck with you in this hellhole!"

He picked the knife up with his right hand and put the blade against his left wrist. He was weak, but the blade was sharp and it didn't take much effort to slice through his skin deeply. He was about to do the same to his right, but Jonathan knocked the knife from his hand.

"You surprise me. I'd have thought it would take more than that to get you to try it." He lifted the bleeding wrist up and watched fascinated as the blood flowed down the arm, running off his elbow and onto the floor. He dropped the arm and took a syringe out of his pocket.

"But I'm not done with you yet." Jonathan pushed the syringe into John's right shoulder.

"No!" John hissed. "Damn you, bastard! Let me die!" The last words were hitched as he felt himself being pulled down into unconsciousness.

When he awoke, his left wrist was bandaged heavily in gauze. He was weak and groggy, but awake enough to hear Jonathan tell him that it was his own fault. For being so weak.

And John believed him.

***************

I'm not weak! Not anymore. Jonathan had shown him he could be strong. Strong enough to not let people get to him. Not allow them to see him for anything less than he thought himself to be. To not let people walk all over him, but to show them who was the strongest, the most fierce.

John believed him.

TBC