Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI
CHAPTER 28
I couldn't stop staring at him as he was doubled over on the floor. Thanks to that Grissom, I had just witnessed the reason why most of Landry's victims took their own lives. He broke them down to an absolute vulnerable state and the pressure was so great, they opted to end their life rather than fight for it any longer.
Of course, this time it wasn't Landry who broke that Grissom's code. It was me. I tapped into the central system that controlled his well-being and crushed him mentally. I accomplished that delicate task, not Landry.
Damn, this room is becoming uncomfortably hot. A wave of nausea is hitting me. Deep breath. I think I've been in this room for too long. Must be low blood sugar or something.
I thought about leaving but... I didn't know if I should wait to watch him die or leave him there to die truly alone. It's not like I want to witness him killing himself... I mean, honestly, who would want to witness someone slam his head into the floor until he was unconscious or dead?
Only a madman would want to witness that.
Yeah. Only a madman would want that. A madman like Landry. Now I have these... I guess it's feelings of sympathy that are rolling off me in waves. It doesn't matter that I can't hear his mumbling or envision words forming in his subconscious; I could tell he was weighing his options — stay alive in this hellhole or die by his own hand in this hellhole.
Terrible options. Just terrible. I faked my own death, but I've often wondered if Landry didn't drag me out of that room would I have killed myself to escape that room?
And here I am standing here while someone weighs those very options. I mean, I suppose I have the answer to the questions I had when I started this experiment. Right? So I should feel — a sense of completion, right?
But really what I feel now is... I don't know, I feel absolutely numb.
My head is hurting. I need to get out of this room. Should I leave through the electronic wall door I put in when I designed the room? Or should I leave the way I came? Jump on the rungs at the top of the wall and climb through the ceiling panel.
Wait a minute. What the hell is he doing?
Something has shifted in him. Why is he lifting up his head like that? It's like ... like something's clicked in his mind.
He just said something ... like a single word. His face took a beating, so his speech is slurred and soft. But I dammit, I'm pretty sure he said, "war." Was he at war with himself or with me? What the hell is he thinking about. He's lifting up his left arm like he is reaching up for something. What the hell could he be reaching for? The wall?
He's raised himself onto his knees. I can hear his slow, labored breathing. His mouth is moving, but I can't decipher what he is saying.
What the hell? Now, he's standing up and he reaching out his left arm again. But it doesn't look like he's groping for the wall. It's almost like he's hanging onto something.
He's controlled his breathing. He always does that when he's calmed himself. Dammit. I want to get a better look at his face.
He's in pain, but why does it seem like he's broken through that fog... that fog of confusion? He saying something over and over again, but all I can decipher is a single word: Out.
War. Out. Sounds like he still wants to fight to get out of here.
Goddamn it. He's done it again. He found some a light at the end of this hellhole tunnel. How the hell could he do that? He spent his last shred of sanity when he threw himself against that wall, not once, not twice but three goddamn times. There should be no way he could have found clarity after I stranded him in a maze of his own damaging thoughts. No way.
How the hell did I become the lost one? Why the hell am I standing here in control and still feel like I'm the one who's confused?
I'm watching him take slow, calculated steps back to his mattress roll, and I'm dumbstruck. He's sitting down on the platform with his back against the wall. He's shaking his head from time to time and muttering some words, but it just seems like his stress and pressure is going away. He's not banging the heel of his palm against his head like he does when he got anxious. He doesn't look confused. He kind of looks like he's in a state of disbelief. Probably disbelief that he was still alive because he didn't bust open his skull.
God I feel sick again. Light-headed. Uncomfortable in my own skin. My eyes on glued on that Grissom as I witness him surviving.
Well, that was the point of this exercise. Like Landry said, it is people who are strong, passionate, driven, and not by greed or lust, but by a sense of good, who might define what makes a survivor a survivor.
Then why the hell am I so goddamn pissed off at this guy? As I watch this Grissom sit in front of me, oblivious of me... ignoring me... mocking me... I can just feel my sympathy for him fade away. And in its place...
Dammit. I feel so goddamn nauseous. I can feel the bile rising in my throat. I need to get out of this room. I need to stop staring at him and leave.
"I'm here, Grissom."
Warrick's voice reverberated in Grissom's head. It brought solace to Grissom's aching mind and body. When he first heard the voice, he reached up to try to touch him. It almost felt as if Warrick was there for him, helping Grissom get from the floor to the platform where his bedroll was set.
In those moments, a feeling of companionship lit up his dismal heart. But as he heard the voice now, Grissom simply could not reconcile the presence of his dead, beloved friend. To hear Warrick — no matter how it comforted his soul — meant Grissom was losing his mind. "Not ... here," Grissom said as he sat on his mattress roll. His voice labored and sad. "You ... can't ... be."
"Stay strong."
Grissom's made a sound, a combination of a chuckle and a sob. "Why?"
"To get back to Sara."
Grissom shook his head. "Doesn't ... want ... me."
"Not true, man."
Grissom gazed upward and tried to control his breathing. He could no longer fight fatigue. "Sara... gone."
"You'll find her."
Grissom shook his head again. "Pointless."
"No way, man. Be strong."
Grissom put a tired hand over his face. He thought to himself how crazy he was. Here he was in a desperate situation with no visible way out conversing with a man who died in his arms some four years ago. It's happened, he thought to himself. I've become insane.
Yet, Warrick's voice continue to soothe Grissom. He couldn't deny how he no longer felt absolutely alone. Even if I am crazy, I don't want to be alone, Grissom thought. So he carried on his conversation with Warrick. "Sara... came back ... for you... funeral."
"Yeah," Warrick replied, his voice sounding reflective, almost sad. "But she came back for you, not just me."
Grissom closed his eyes, his mind reliving the moment he stepped into his office and finding her here. How he felt so safe and warm in her arms after being apart for so long. He longed for her. Longed for her embrace.
But he shook his head vigorously. Sara's words echoed loudly in his mind: "You fucked her. I can't forgive that."
"Hates ... me." Grissom could barely get the two words out of his mouth because it was such a painful thought.
"No, Griss. Give her time," Warrick answered.
All Grissom could do was shake his head in the negative.
"You'll get out of here."
"Don't ... know"
"He did. You will, too."
The last comment gave Grissom pause. Although he couldn't see anything, he shut his eyes tight. The rooms walls seem to close in on him. He knew he didn't possess the strength to continue. How much longer could he go on? "Tired."
"Rest, Griss," Warrick's tone lulled Grissom. "Rest."
Grissom left his seated position and curled up on the mattress role. "Truth... Sara," he said before closing his eyes. If he ever got out of that room, he knew he would tell Sara the truth about what happened in Paris. It feels like it happened a lifetime ago, he thought.
He laid there still and quiet for several moments. He could no longer tell minutes from hours. Simply moments. But after a while of just listening to his own breathing, Grissom could no longer hear Warrick's voice.
Sleep, he thought to himself. I need sleep to heal.
Before the older man succumbed to much-needed sleep, he heard another sound. Even in his weakened state, he made sure to catalog the heavy clicking sound in his subconscious.
tbc
A/N: Reviews, comments are appreciated. I had a lot more to this chapter, but at the last minute I decided to break it up. That means the next chapter will be up shortly. Thanks so much for taking the time to read.
