Broken Bones & Mended Hearts (1 of 2)

Click.

"It's your fault, Andy is dead."

Click. With swift hands Casey stapled another black 6-inch strip at the bottom section of the naked roof, leaving only a small overhang on the eave to ensure drainage into the metallic gutters.

"He was your responsibility, Lieutenant."

Click. Click. With each new strip, his breathing got louder. Sweat was running down his temples and his back. His dark blue shirt, which he wore under his winter jacket, stuck to his spine, but his hands kept moving in order to lay and nail layer after layer as he hoped to finish the roof in the afternoon.

"I sleep like a baby. What about you?"

Click. Click. Click.

His jaw clenched as he shot the final staple into the roof. The silence that followed was only cut by Casey's rapid breathing. As he finally sat back, his eyes darted to the sun that was already high in the sky, promising the first warm day after the tiring winter months.

"I sleep like a baby."

"Like a baby."

"What about you, Lieutenant?"

For a second, his face contorted in pain and fine wrinkles appeared around his gentle eyes. Severide's words had been haunting him for days, even following him onto the roof. Casey sighed, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, only to hear the voice again.

"It's your fault."

"Your fault."

He huffed and reached for the stapler that was sitting in front of him as to dissolve his nagging thoughts by working even faster. But his fingers, despite the warmth of the sun, had become cold and stiff from working on the roof for hours and so the stapler nearly slipped out of his hand. The white of his knuckles appeared as his fingers clung around the tool to keep it from falling down. His hand seized up briefly and started shaking. So it was no wonder that, when he tried to place the tool into the hammer strap of his stone-coloured work trousers, he nearly missed the strap by an inch. His heart was beating faster now, more sweat poured down his temples. If the stapler had slipped, he would have wasted valuable time by climbing the metal ladder all the way down and then up again. He slightly shook his head and bit down on his lip. Working alone sometimes had its downsides, but at the moment he enjoyed the solitude on the roof. As long as he didn't drop anything of importance, he'd be fine.

With a final glance, he checked the black felt paper he had just applied. Everything seemed to be in order, the staples seemed to hold, which meant that he could start installing the black shingles he had bought for old Mr Miller a week ago.

Mr Miller was 92-years-old, but he still had the posture of a soldier. He was a gruff but kind man. Each morning he offered Casey a hot before he went back inside. After the death of his wife nearly 11 years ago, he had mostly kept to himself, being content with observing instead of interacting with people. Speaking to other people, as he had told Casey two days ago, only emphasised the absence of his late wife. So he decided that if he couldn't talk to her, he had no interest in talking at all. And to his surprise, Casey had understood Mr Miller perfectly well. He knew that the death of a beloved person changed everything as death never only affected one. In the blink of an eye, as Casey had experienced more than once, death was able to emerge from his hiding place and like a spoiled child he would take, with no explanation and regardless its price, whatever pleased him the most.

"Andy is dead, and it's your fault."

"Damn it," Casey hissed suddenly, thumping the roof with his fist. It wasn't his fault. He didn't kill Andy. So why didn't the constant nagging in his chest stop?

Because of Serveride.

Serveride had told him that it was his fault. And maybe that was why he believed it, too.

Casey shook his head and reached to his left to collect the remaining sheets of the felt paper, tucking them under his left arm. As he crawled to the metal ladder that was still leaning against the roof, some of the paper points were touching the ground, creating a soft hizzing tone. Casey dragged them through withered leaves, coloured in brown and grey, that were lying on the roof and that sometimes jumped up and down due to the winter breeze which had become stronger in the course of the morning.

As Casey stepped onto the first rung of the ladder, he noticed in the corner of his eye that the otherwise clean rain gutter was cluttered in the middle. He frowned and turned his head to the right to get a better look. Old leaves and thin branches were sticking out and pointing in various directions, as if a small bird had built its nest right there. Casey stopped, wondering if he should take it down. If not, he thought, Mr Miller's gutter soon would completely be blocked up and -forced by the weight of rain water- would break off.

Following his instincts, Casey climbed two rungs up again. With the paper still tucked under his arm, he used his left hand to hold onto the ladder so that the knuckles of the hand that clutched the rung turned white, before he reached over to his right side. Cold wind was blowing in his face, painting his cheeks red, as he felt with his fingertips for the nest. The coldness of the rain gutter sent a shiver down his spine. As he found the nest, however, he was surprised that it felt warm and squashy against his fingertips. The rain had soaked the old leaves which had partly started to rot. Carefully, he came up on his toes as ee flung parts of the nest to the ground, before he stretched himself even further to the right side to reach for more. As he reached over for the – what he hoped - last time, the ladder on the wet ground tipped to the right as well. Casey's heart stopped for a second, before, powered by adrenaline, it started beating faster, send the drumfire of fear through his body. In a final attempt to safe himself he yanked his left arm up to the gutter, but he missed. The felt paper tumbled silently to the ground, followed by the loud metal cling of the ladder. Only the sun heard the broken scream that escaped Casey's lips, before he too hit the ground.