Title - Little Stars - Part 25
Author - Kourion
Summary: "He never really spoke about his time in the hospital. Not until now - bundled up in my bed, delirious with fever. So I don't know if this really counts. If this really counts as trusting me." Jane hurt/comfort/angst.
A/N: A POV change. This time I'm doing something a little different. This time I'm writing from Jane's POV. The only time I've ever done that was very early on in my fanfic writing days, with my first Mentalist fanfic (which I started writing before I had even seen an entire episode, believe it or not! So understandably, I was flying in the dark.)
Feedback is always appreciated. :)
Especially in cases where I'm writing from a different perspective to the character I usually adopt for any particular fandom (in this case, that would be Lisbon. The reason I usually go with Lisbon is because I share enough personality traits in common with her character that I hope the 'tone' sounds more authentic. Jane is, overall, my favourite character on the show. But if I'm being honest, I am not that similar to him personality-wise).
Therefore Jane is tricky to write.
WARNING: for sensitive subject matter. Suicide attempt described in relative detail.
"Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live." - Norman Cousins
Jane's POV
God, Lisbon's right.
I need to sleep.
My eyes feel like hot coals in my skull.
I swig back a taste of now-cold Red Rose tea - which I have never really liked, even when Ange used to make it - and I listen to the feedback crinkle in over the phone from the Department of Motor Vehicles.
Lisbon wants to run the plates anyway, even without photographic confirmation from our star witness or her son.
Carlson is 'mhaw'ing his way through the phone conversation like a South Park character, so I smile, eyes closed.
Grace is setting up her CBI issue laptop in record speed.
Rigsby, and especially Cho, stand around and look like goons who will mess someone up if they don't help us get the information we need.
"Ok, we are WIFI connected now, boss," I hear the youngest agent explain, "just waiting for feedback on what to search."
Carlson disconnects from the call quickly.
"Ok, well the camper that Ms. Peters described and gave plates for belongs to a Rudolph Moretti. M-o-r-e-t-t-i. No priors. License places his DOB as Oct. 5th, 1968. California resident most of his life, largely nomadic now."
"Grace?," I call, "you checking-"
"Yes, I'm on it," she supplies rapidly. Carlson stops his exposition, while we listen to Van Pelt's rapid key strokes.
A moment later she speaks.
"I have a Rudy Moretti coming up several times on Google? This guy has worked for years with a group called The Yellow Angels here in Los Angeles. He started it himself, looks like. It's a Suicide Prevention program for teenagers. Junior high and high schoolers, mostly. Created about a decade ago. Another group too, The Brave Angels - an anti-bullying program for younger kids - that one is a little newer."
That's how he finds the children.
That's how he locates them.
"When did he start The Brave Angels, Van Pelt?," Lisbon queries.
"Umm, let me check," and a pause now, but only slight, "It seems he created The Brave Angels five years ago."
2006.
When the first child was killed.
"Mr. Moretti is listed here as the primary guest lecturer. Goes around California all year and this is what he does - he talks to kids and offers his services to schools for a stipend. Some people donate through , it seems. His business is listed as a C3 non-profit charity. Three years ago he stopped lecturing for The Yellow Angels entirely and started focusing full time on lecturing for The Brave Angels. That's according to his website. There's photos on here and everything."
Agent Carlson looks unnerved. "This whackjob has his own website? With photos?"
I open my eyes in time to see Lisbon reward us with a firm look. If I was watching Tyra Banks right now (which I sometimes do in the breakroom at the CBI, especially if Lisbon's lingering about and is likely to catch me), well, Tyra would call Lisbon's look "fierce."
You go girl!, Tyra might also say.
What makes it so rewarding is that her fierceness is in no way directed at me.
Not right now.
Right now she's glancing at Carlson.
"Agent Carlson," Lisbon starts, her pretty voice sounding strained.
I close my eyes, amused, "we can't assume anything at this point. We can't assume that-"
"This guy owns this camper, Agent Lisbon. Fully registered. And according to your Agent Van Pelt, sounds like he has a good sea of children to wade through if he's looking for victims and all. Sounds almost like he has the perfect job to get to talk to kids and have kids talk to him, tell 'em their problems and not be questioned or look too out of place."
Grace makes a low, noncommittal 'oh,' deep in her throat. Obviously not in relation to anything Carlson has just stated, as she's still reading.
"Oh no," Grace mutters again, touched by something. "Rudy Moretti had a daughter. Alyssa Moretti-Pierce. Died when she was 15, almost a decade ago."
"So, had she lived, she'd be what? 24, 25? Would have to have made Moretti a pretty young father. 17, 18?," Rigsby asks.
"Something like that," Cho answers, brief as ever. "Single father?"
Grace types something else into the search field.
Clickity click click click.
"Alyssa poisoned herself. Same method as our victims. Her father found her."
I do sit up now, increasingly awake with every passing second.
Van Pelt's voice becomes even softer as she reads. It takes my full attention to not miss any details.
"The site reads, "Rudy Moretti first got involved in suicide prevention programs for kids after his 15 year old daughter, Alyssa, committed suicide in early June, 2000. Alyssa - a victim of a sexual assault while at a rave - had stuggled with depression for a year. "The Yellow Angels" were created to honor Alyssa's memory and to address the issue of depression in youth and children. To mark the 5th year anniversary of Alyssa's death, Rudy created a program for younger kids called "The Brave Angels" to reach out to a new generation of at risk kids. "The Brave Angels" addresses the issues of bullying and other forms of abuse, both at school and at home, and lets kids know how to reach out for help if they are being hurt."
"Sounds like our guy, to me," Carlson adds again, when Grace finally stops reading.
I nod my head in agreeance.
It does.
We have the stressor. We have the motive.
And now we know how he finds them.
For some reason I don't quite get, Lisbon and Team Inc. decide that we should eat dinner at a Pizza Hut tonight.
See - here's my problem with that.
Pizza Hut's are riddled with kids.
Makes for almost morbid dining, if you ask me.
A teenage boy who looks barely old enough to drive asks us what we'd like to order.
Speaking of depression...
"And for you, sir?," the kid asks.
Not rudely. Not exactly.
I look for a name tag.
"Alright, yes Marc - thank you. I'm debating between the mini deep dish veggie lover's and the mini cheese crust cheese lovers pizza. Can you tell me which one is better?"
I hear Lisbon grumble, low and faint, like thunder that is rolling away behind a hillside. I also think I hear an "oh for pete's sake," which makes my smile all the more authentic.
Marc blinks, stares at his order pad.
"They are both deeper crusts. One has cheese inside the crust, too. So more...cheese. One has veggies on top. Less cheese."
This time I blink back. Try not to laugh.
God I love kids.
Teenagers are really the best.
"Well, yes, Marc - I've gathered that much, but from a personal taste-preference point of-"
"Damn it Jane, just pick one. Just pick a pizza and leave the kid alone!"
I bite my lip, suddenly antsy and filled with an anxious dread that I rarely encounter.
Certainly out of the blue.
An almost queasy sense of dread.
The brief feeling of a shuttering, clawing panic attack.
I never get panic attacks any more. Hardly ever.
The last full blown one I had was eight years ago.
I know my leg is jack-rabbiting under the table. I know I seem frenetic.
I know I seem out of control.
Because I feel out of control.
"Alright then. I think I'll get the mini dessert pizza with the strawberry struedel filling and the cinnamon and chocolate syrup, please."
Please laugh, guys.
Please just laugh and have something be bright.
Please just roll your eyes and laugh and have this night seem safe.
Please laugh and tell me we're closing in on this man.
That we are going to find this little kid.
That we are going to bring her back.
That she's going to make it.
I fold up my menu and politely hand it back to our melancholic server, then place my hands across my lap and smile broadly at the team.
No one smiles back.
When my 'pizza' arrives, I briefly catch Lisbon's gaze. She's biting her lip, but is restraining her speech.
I ask for a knife and fork. Because of the "chocolate syrup and the whipped cream."
Because it is "messy."
Still no smile.
Not even from Cho.
Lisbon doesn't look the least bit relaxed, actually. She certainly doesn't look like she's going to laugh. Not even a little bit.
"You said to pick a pizza. So I picked a pizza," I argue pleasantly after a solid minute has passed. Not really defensive.
Lisbon shakes her head in frustration. Still mute.
But I also notice that when Emo-Marc comes back to ask how "everything's going here?" not even four minutes later, Lisbon suddenly orders an orange juice.
Lisbon doesn't like orange juice.
Says it hurts her stomach.
And when the orange juice arrives, she slides it over to my plate and fixes me with a glower.
So I drink the orange juice, and will away the strange feeling of freshly encroaching panic.
Away, away, away.
And when a little girl besides our table - wearing a party hat that reads as "Birthday Girl!" -pops her balloon and lets out a shriek, I have to put my hands underneath the table and press my palms against my knees to stop them from shaking.
I have to listen very intently to Van Pelt, and Cho, and Rigsby as they speak.
I have to drown out the sound of my Charley speaking, from long ago at her birthday party:
"Look Daddy, my tooth! Look! It's all wobbly! Soon I'll have a big person tooth there, right Daddy?"
Red balloon. Red balloon and Charley. Charley with the red balloon tied around her wrist, with black string.
And the server asked, "would our birthday girl like anything else tonight? We have an assortment of dessert pizzas in strawberry, apple and chocolate?"
So Charley selected a strawberry dessert pizza.
I added the sprinkles and whipped cream and chocolate sauce.
And Angela laughed, rolled her eyes, told our baby,
"You don't share any of that with Daddy, sweets. Not one bite, pumpkin!"
And to me my wife said:
"You better not get diabetes or something, Pat. I'll really hound you then, mister!"
And I laughed and kissed her and Charley went:
"Ewww! Daddy. Stop. Stop, Daddy! I want to eat! Stop KISSSSING."
Too loud.
Always too loud, my daughter.
Ange, telling her to calm down.
"Inside voice, babe. Eat your dessert, Charlotte."
I manage to eat about a quarter of my dessert pizza before I start to feel sick and excuse myself from the table in a rush.
Finally, after walking through a labyrinthe maze that almost leads me straight into the kitchen, I locate a baby blue door with a cartoon kid that reads as the "Boy's Bathroom."
Because, of course, we are at a god damned Pizza Hut where half the patrons are probably under the age of 10.
Sighing, I make my way inside past the urinals, until I find the toilets. I bend over and do what I need to do.
What I have to do.
I have to push away...
/Little body. Pink sweater, purple playsuit. Bows in her hair. White ribbons.
Or were they yellow?
Her eyes wide and open like a never-ending sea.
An ocean caught up in her eyes.
Strawberries. Strawberries and cream. She smelled like
strawberries and cream
In the dark, a dead child looks a hell of a lot like a sleeping child./
/shake her
and scream at her
and plead with God
/please. i'm sorry. imsorryfornotbelieving.
pleasemakeher!alive. please make her come back.
oh god i'll do anything you want. i'll do anythinganything
ANYTHING/
I scream at her to
WAKE UP BABY! PLEASE WAKE UP!
her eyes were still open.
That's Good Patrick, I told myself.
She's watching.
She's cold, because she's in shock.
Warm her up. Pick her up.
You have to rub her hands because her circulation is poor
You have to make the blood pump again.
/and then an hour turned into
three
and then somehow
somehow
I have blood
all over my arms
and across my throat.
across my lips where I tried to breathe air
back into her lungs.
I felt Charley's chest.
rising
falling
rising
as I breathed.
And then I picked her up
I rock her.
Like she's a newborn.
Rock a bye baby.
don't you cry. daddy has you, baby.
daddy won't ever let go.
not ever ever ever.
daddy has you, charley-bean.
you're safe now.
I walk under the skylight in her room
past the tea set
and the fucking red balloon from her birthday party
cross my legs
hold her in my lap
i think i scream
/i think i scream and do not stop/
Later, much later...
Sophie tells me I was still screaming when the paramedics came.
I do not remember that.
I only remember bits and pieces of that night.
And only in nightmares.
For two months, I could not remember what happened.
I went home after one night in the hospital.
Police escort.
Police lady asking me, "Is there anyone we can call, sir? Someone to stay with you?"
Eyes like maple.
Warm and open.
Genuine.
"I'll be fine," I whispered, because I could not speak much louder than that.
I had screamed too long and too hard.
The police lady looked concerned.
Gave me her card.
"You know, I don't usually do this. But if you need to talk to someone for any reason
please call me, okay, Patrick?"
Nod.
"Please feel free to call me anytime, alright?"
Piteous eyes.
I nod again.
Nod to get her to leave.
Then I go upstairs.
I realize I'm cold.
I'm cold and I have a horrible headache.
I feel like something is trying to crawl out of my mind
out of my brain
I don't feel real.
The last time I felt this unreal was when I was little
and I had the bad fever
Dad came and got me.
I was cold then, too.
Blood inside my pajamas.
"Patty, why are you bleeding? Who did this to you? Patrick!"
My dad's voice.
My dad is shaking me.
I push the memory away.
Go away. Go away and
NEVER COME BACK.
I realize I know what has to come next.
Because I do not know how to live without them.
Because I can't live without them.
I run a bath.
I add Ange's apple bubble bath.
Warm water.
I strip down to my socks.
Debate leaving them on.
Father's Day present.
I take them off too.
I don't want to get blood on my socks.
Charley-Bean gave them to me.
With a big card.
"I love you Daddy" written on the front in pink crayon.
No.
I don't want to get blood on these socks.
These socks are precious.
The mirrors are foggy with steam.
I can't see my own reflection.
Good.
Good.
In my hand, I hold a photo.
I lower myself into the tub, and I hold onto the photo:
It's Us.
Charley, Ange, me.
Charley's stuffed hippo Gippy-Gee is closest to the camera.
The four of us are having a picnic.
Little cucumber sandwiches for Ange.
Egg salad for me.
Peanut butter and jelly for Charley.
I'm drinking real tea.
Ange is sipping beer out of her plastic tea cup.
One finger raised in the air, like a proper British monarch.
In the photo I'm winking at her, trying not to laugh.
Charley is grinning wide.
Lips hyper-pink from eating popsicles all morning.
Gippy-Gee sits stoic and proper.
Father's Day tie pulled tight around his Hippo head.
Silk socks dangling off his feet.
"He looks like you, Daddy!"
Ange and I start laughing.
The most well behaved member of the Jane family.
Little Gippy-Gee.
Purple hippopotamus.
Who turned red.
Because my daughter held on to him.
Somehow.
Somehow.
Somehow she managed to hold onto Gippy-Gee.
As she died.
I'm crying, and I kiss the photo twice.
Once for Charley. Once for Ange.
I hear Charlotte's voice whisper in my mind,
"Once for Gippy-Gee too, Daddy!"
So I laugh-cry, and kiss the photo a third time.
"Ok, Bean. Everyone got a kiss. Good?"
She doesn't say anything else.
I put the photo on the ledge of the tub.
I debate if I should take off my boxers.
I'm going to get blood on them.
I know that.
But does it matter?
I decide to keep them on.
I decide I don't want anyone to see me naked.
/it was hard enough with Ange, sometimes.
sometimes that was hard enough for me
and I loved Angela
and trusted her with my entire heart and even then
sometimes
i couldn't do anything with her
not anything like a husband is supposed to
be able to do
with his wife
sometimes i could only hold her
or only let her hold me
usually after a nightmare
which i could never remember well
little pieces
tiny little pieces
my hair sweaty
a scream in my throat
a dying scream
my heart wooshing and pounding
and angela would hold me
her voice like a brook
ssssssshhhhhhhhh
calming
in the morning I would pretend
everything was fine
i'm fine
i'm fine
we don't need to talk about this, Angela!
I'm fine!/
I lower myself into the water.
I close my eyes.
I don't feel as sad.
But still I cry.
I cry.
I cry.
I cry.
I don't think I'm scared anymore.
I am just crying because my body is scared.
When I stop crying I take another sip of vodka.
I hate vodka.
But it helps sometimes.
It helps with the fear.
We both know Charley was made one night
around Christmas
only because I drank vodka.
I wait.
I wait.
I drink some more vodka.
I put more hot water into the tub.
I feel calmer now.
I look at the photo once more.
Once more.
"Say goodnight, Patrick," my mind says.
Just in case they can hear.
Just in case.
Then I pick up a parcel knife.
An exacto blade.
A post office grade knife.
It's new.
I bought it this afternoon.
I rotate the knobs twice until the metal comes out to play.
Until the blade sticks its head out and waits for my command.
I look down to see if I am ready.
My chest is wet from the bathtub water.
The air is still white with steam.
"I love you, my Angels," I whisper.
Gippy-Gee sits on the toilet and watches.
He's maroon now.
The blood has dried.
"You've been a good friend, Gippy. I salute you."
I raise my glass of vodka to him.
A toast.
"To friendship, Gip."
He smiles.
I take the blade.
Tap it along my wrist.
Go higher.
Find the nook in my arm.
Tap again.
Feels right.
It's where I had to get my blood tests done.
At 20.
Before marriage.
The spot looks good.
Looks appropriate.
Everyone cuts their wrists.
Makes it trite.
This is better.
This has meaning.
I close my eyes.
"For Ange..."
I cut.
I look at Gippy-Gee.
He's still smiling.
Still giving me encouragement.
So I cut again.
Deeper.
I make sure it's deeper.
I feel extra heat rolling down onto my chest now.
I realize I am insane.
I close my eyes.
My left arm suddenly feels both heavy and light.
At the same time.
It's a good sign.
But it also means that I have to
act fast.
I find my right forearm.
I make the next cut for Charley.
It is easier than the first cut.
So much easier this time.
This cut slides like butter through my arm.
Not as painful.
I drop the knife in the tub when I'm done.
I hear Charley-Bean laugh.
She's running in the meadow.
The grass is up to her knees.
The butterflies flitter about her.
She waves to me in joy.
YoU cAmE bAcK DaddddY!
She's running on the beach.
I run towards her.
I've never run this fast before.
I blink, and let the memories fade.
The Pizza Hut restaurant is loud outside, but relatively quiet in the washroom.
Too quiet.
That's not always good for me.
Lisbon asked me once: "What do you do with all the quiet?"
I couldn't tell her.
I couldn't begin to tell her.
Because it's not an easy thing to explain.
It's not so much what I do with the quiet.
It's what the quiet does to me.
It makes me think of things I don't want to think about
finding them dead
my wife
my baby
or being little
very little
and crying for my mommy to come
my legs all sticky with something
and not seeing
not knowing
just feeling the pain
I bend over the toilet.
Tonight the vomit comes out quickly and easily, and I fight back a wave of dizziness as I spit the last bit of whatever was in my stomach into the bowl. Then I grab some tissue and wipe any residual vomit off the sides of the bowl and the lid.
I flush the mess away, wipe my hands against my pant legs. At the sink I wash my hands three times, and try to ignore the fact that I look like a piece of looseleaf with sunken eyes and a mop of hair on top.
Looking around next, I stick my head under the tap and rinse the water through my teeth until the taste of bile is completely gone. I even pinch my cheeks. Just a bit. I'm not really vain.
I just don't want to get scolded.
I don't want Lisbon to think I'm worse.
"You're a god damn fucking mess, Patrick Jane," I hiss at my reflection.
Maybe Lisbon is right.
Maybe I do hate what I see.