"I have loved to the point of madness; that which is called madness, that which to me, is the only sensible way to love."
Francoise Sagan
The measure of whiskey Maura tipped into the glass would not have been recognised in any pub found worldwide. At that moment she couldn't have cared less about decorum or manners or being health conscious. All she wanted was to forget the image of Jane Rizzoli sitting across from her like it was the most normal thing in the world, looking weary and worn and every day of her thirty eight years on this planet. All she wanted was to forever rid the sound of that woman's voice from her tortured mind.
Despite the adoration and respect she once held with regards to Jane's heroism, the selfless way in which she lived her life and protected and served the public and the people she loved, she couldn't galvanise any of those old, powerful emotions in the present.
Seeing Jane again was like swallowing sugar and tasting salt. Something sweet had transformed into the bitterest of poisons. A reunion that would have been joyful in another life was instead another blow against Maura's already beaten and bruised body. Jane was once the most important thing in her life. Not just the most important person, but the most important thing. There was a difference. Material objects she could easily live without, her job, perhaps even her parents, she could learn to live without them eventually, with time and patience.
Surely Jane had suffered too? Alone, hunted, out there running for her life whilst all the time constantly worrying for her family and friends and wondering if each day would be her last. Yes, surely she suffered too. Was that shared suffering enough to justify her departure? Was it enough for Maura to even begin to attempt to draw some understanding, some ounce of forgiveness from her barren heart, left unloved and unwanted for so long?
Jane took her soul with her. Jane had her heart and she ripped it, still beating, from Maura's chest and walked off into the night with it clutched in her hand without even a backwards glance. There was nothing she could do prevent the hate boiling in her veins. The veins that she had tried and tried to empty of that woman, to purge her from the life she attempted to piece back together after Jane left her standing there, cold and alone and afraid.
Now she was expected to forgive that? Now she was expected to simply push through the veil of tears that she slowly but surely drowned beneath and step out into the sunlight as if nothing had changed? As if she hadn't changed over the course of this past year?
Doctor Isles took a generous sip of the glass of whiskey in her hand and paced back and forth between the kitchen and living area, tapping itchy, restless fingers against her thigh. Never had she looked so unlike herself. The night Jane left she went to pieces and lost all sight of reality for a while. That night she dealt with sorrow and disbelief, but there was no sign of the frantic madness present in her eyes now.
Maura looked into the depths of depravity in the eyes of Charles Hoyt. As both a friend of Jane's and as a professional, she sat there in the tiny confines of a room with a serial killer and stared down the madness within his twisted mind. Not once did she feel afraid. To an extent, she felt violated and sickened just from merely being in his presence, but there was no real element of fear. His words, that accusation, 'because you're like me,' rang true in her ears and straightened out the line of questioning in her brain long since rooted in her lonely past. Maybe she was like him in some ways. Perhaps this all encompassing rage she was experiencing was a result of this buried madness now shedding its rusted chains and coming forwards to claim the position of power.
Maura set a shaking hand down flat against the counter and stood for a moment, head bowed, attempting to control the tears building behind her eyelids. All around her danced ghosts of the past. She feared if she were to raise her head again, even for a second, she would be confronted with a multitude of former selves parading around the house with smiles on their faces and love in their eyes.
For a year this became routine. Maura would sit alone at the counter with a glass of wine or, if it had been a particularly bad day, a spirit of some kind, and she would quietly rewind to a time when she was happy and watch her memories play out before her like a movie on a scratchy, dusty projector.
On nights like those, she could look to the sofa and watch as she and Jane playfully argued over what to watch on television all the while knowing that they would both be asleep before it even reached the halfway point.
On nights like those, she could look out the window and watch Jane patiently rolling a ball to TJ and laughing madly as he attempted to kick at it only to fall over time and time again, relentlessly getting back on his feet, more determined to play than ever.
On nights like those, she could look towards the stairs and watch Jane impatiently dragging their clothes off like they might catch fire if she didn't complete the task quickly enough, their expressions equal parts love and lust, laughter and passion.
Even after a year, Jane remained a constant presence in her house. She was haunted by the good memories and plagued by the bad. It was relentless.
Swallowing the insistent sob perched somewhere inside her throat like a bird of prey waiting for the opportunity to dart down from the sky and snatch its witless meal, Maura stepped away from the counter, still clutching the glass in her hand.
To an outsider, this might have seemed an entirely normal action, but to anyone who knew Doctor Maura Isles, they would have been able to gaze beyond the thin veneer of dissipating self control and into the tumultuous emotions battling within.
Maura reared her arm and threw the glass at the opposite wall with as much might as she could manage, releasing a primal scream of pure rage as it left her hand and soared through the air for an indeterminable amount of time before it made contact and shattered with an impressive crash that rattled the objects lying close by. The sound it made was deafening in the silence, rising above Maura's ragged, hoarse breathing and the rapid beating of her pounding heart.
Doctor Isles stood there, breathing heavily; lank blonde curls plastered to her forehead with cold sweat that lingered on the pallor of her skin and dripped between the youthful freckles.
The chattering, dancing ghosts all paused in their well rehearsed movements, and as a group, looked on in silent, abject horror along with Maura as the shards of glass gently slid and tumbled together on the floor, as if attempting to reform their original shape.
A/N: All of the awards to you guys for having patience, I've been swamped with work the past couple of months so I'm just now getting around to writing. Anyway, this is just a short chapter to get things moving again, I have the next few all planned out so hopefully they should be out as soon as possible. Hope you enjoyed!