Chapter Two: Bleeding Heart
Reason and Newton, they are quite two things
For so the Swallow and the Sparrow sings.
Excerpt from You Don't Believe- William Blake
"What happened?"
Patrick Jane was hefted onto a gurney, one hand flopping off the side before a paramedic readjusted his position.
"He OD'd on sleeping pills, we-"
"Is he intoxicated?"
"Yes."
Lisbon pressed the cross hard against her palm, her heart racing as she prospected the effects of mixing alcohol and drugs.
The paramedic placidly checked Patrick's pulse with practiced urgency, nodding his head as if his thoughts were confirmed.
"OD and intoxication, critical condition, slow heartbeat," the man remarked, addressing his unit.
Almost as quickly as the paramedic team had entered, they were out, the CBI agents trailing behind them as Jane was wheeled to the elevator, down to the lowest floor, and packed into the cluttered ambulance.
Lisbon's stomach was churning with the sickness of guilt, the organ beginning to reject it's contents. The woman had a cold stone exterior, but at times such as this, it melted away to reveal the frightened interior that was shielded. All Teresa knew now was that she was furious with Jane, angered that he could be so selfish enough to leave his friends, no, his family behind, that he refused her help the days before this awful occurrence. But every occasion in which Lisbon extended her services, Jane turned her down.
Mind returning from her thoughts, Teresa made the decision of going with Jane on the ambulance. She couldn't depart with him, or else he might depart from her for a lifetime.
The doors were slammed shut, and the van was set in motion. An assortment of wires were attached to Jane, an IV and a heart monitor included, and a breath mask was placed over his mouth and nose. The ambulance jerked and screeched, sirens blaring, and Lisbon fought to remain upright.
The beeps on the monitor began to be distanced, taking more time in-between. The head paramedic was shouting orders to the others as they scrambled to steady Jane's heartbeat.
Unbidden hot tears were swept angrily away, despair taking control of her thoughts. He's not going to make it...
Dammit Jane! She internally yelled, her fists balling as her eyes followed the movements of the paramedics.
Lisbon peered at the remnants of the broken man who had whittled away during the years she had known him; revenge isn't good for the soul. It is a drive for people, yes, but the wider range of the race and the more exhilarating the chase, the less of you there is. The heart is set on one motion; until the conquest is concluded, the soul is polluted with hate. Hate driven revenge. It kills you.
It was killing Patrick Jane. A slow kill, many years of the process, but the job was done.
No. It wasn't.
"If you can't fight for yourself Patrick, then I'll fight for you," Lisbon stated to herself, a jolt of pain hitting her, causing realization to strike. The years spent with this man had been some of the best; Patrick Jane had become a part of Teresa Lisbon. If Jane died, a piece of Lisbon would die with him. She couldn't let a piece of her heart return to dust.
Teresa stared at the wired and masked man who's soul was drifting in front of her, at the wrinkles on the edges of his eyes that should've been from laughter, but instead were from the forced aging as a result of a dark past. She looked to his hands, calloused and strong, but now colder, Lisbon found, as she laced her fingers with his.
All that Teresa could do was wait and hope.
Seven Days Previous
Patrick Jane gazed blankly at the ceiling, the small mattress he lay on top of providing little support or comfort. The room in which he resided was void of belongings, with the only remarkable note being the red smiley face painted on the wall above the consultant.
The man was in a state of contemplation, hands folded neatly over his stomach, eyes ever wide and jubilant despite the late hour of the night. His insomnia was getting worse, it seemed; Jane had not received a good night's rest for the past two weeks. With each closing of the eyelid came a flashback of his bloodied wife and daughter, lying soulless and lifeless before him. If Jane thought hard enough, the stench of iron would vaguely be sensed by his nostrils.
A shiver ran down his back, and Patrick found himself longing to take part in some action that would distract himself from his past.
But he wanted to remember.
Patrick Jane wanted to etch every detail of his family's murder into his mind, revolving the memories over and over, in a way that gave him fire and fight. It was in this way that he remained locked in the horror that was his past, and which drove Patrick to seek the revenge so lustfully dreamt of.
Tonight was somehow different, however.
As the memories flooded his being, it was as if it was draining Jane, not rallying him. The darkness was filtering through the memories, eating him alive, causing a burning sensation in his chest.
Had the guilt become too much to carry?
Was his drive simply not there?
It wasn't like he no longer cared to kill Red John; more than anything, Jane wanted to shoot the bastard until the satisfaction reached him.
But, wouldn't it be so much easier to just sleep his troubles away?
Obviously, that was not an option for Jane; it was these thoughts that prevented him from rest. There were always benzodiazepines which would help, although Jane wasn't the biggest fan of venturing to the doctor's.
Jane traced the smiley face with his mind; he could see the dark figure of Red John standing there, mocking him, as he slowly painted the mixed bloods of Angela and Charlotte on the wall, permanently staining. The blood dripped, oozing down, as it had from his little girl's sliced neck.
Patrick clenched his eyelids closed, covering them with his hands, as if to shield himself from the memory.
He just wanted his suffering to end. Patrick Jane didn't want to live in a world such as the one in which he did; he was alone, with solely revenge keeping his heart beating. There wasn't a person who truly knew him, who could understand his pain, or why he did such things.
Only one person came close, and that, of course, was Teresa.
Admittedly, she was another factor that made him remain, although he couldn't find it in himself to say it aloud. The woman was a good friend of his, like family, but lately... There was just something more.
Was this why Jane was losing sleep? Guilt concerning something of a different matter?
Whatever feelings were there, they truly startled Jane, and he couldn't shake them off.
Patrick was devoted to Angela, that was certain. He couldn't move past her, but if he ever were to, it would be Lisbon that could alter his path.
And he knew it.
Weary shadows flared on the walls as Patrick sat up, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. He began to dial when he realized it was three o'clock in the morning- when did that happen?
He stared for a few minutes at the screen, trying to decide his next course of action. In the end, Jane figured that she needed her rest more than he needed to chat.
Patrick flung his phone to the side and, drunk with exhaustion, rose, descended the steps, and entered the kitchen. Besides the pristinely-stated tricycle near the doorway, the other item left here were his china, along with some tea packets.
Jane brewed himself a cup and let the tea bag soak in the boiled water, sipping it once it had the right potency, gazing out the glass walls until the stars' shine began to damper as a result of the oncoming morn.
His eyes drooped from lack of sleep, and he slumped against a wooden frame, his body heavy from an assortment of varying reasons.
What one would witness here is a man losing hope, the spark in his soul disintegrating after a long time of careful maintenance. Sometimes, there isn't a big push that sends someone over the edge. Sometimes, it's just that they are done. They've carried on too long to have any fight left in them. Hope is a fleeting thing, rather than love; true love prevails and is constant, but hope will die within a few feeble seconds. A person can die within a few feeble seconds. But love? It lives on after death. It is what conquered the grave.
Patrick Jane's soul was dimming as the starlight did, one word lingering in his conscious: rest.
XxX
A/N: I wanted to, in this fic, illustrate that there are times in which what breaks might not be a ( current ) tragic or startling event, but rather the final stages of decomposition, it that makes sense. I sincerely hope that you are enjoying this; if you spot any spelling errors, let me know.
Special Thank You!
Thanks you so much to those who reviewed and welcomed me to the fandom; I rarely get much response! So thank you to LouiseKurylo, nic73, MissDonnie, thorntons, Rosepeony, KrrdmN, Helloboys25, and Brooklyn79! I appreciate it very much. :)
Once again, any constructive criticism is appreciated. What are your thoughts on the writing style? Anything you'd like to see different? Let me know if there's anything.
Extra:
The poems at the beginning of each chapter are for the purpose of thought; in what way these excerpts relate to the story is for you to decide and hopefully enjoy. They are by William Blake, who is the author of The Tiger ( tiger, tiger, burning bright, in the forest of the night... ), so I thought that would be an interesting little cookie.
Another thing is that the last sentence of the first half of the chapter contains the last word of and from the Count of Monte Cristo ( a great read ), so if you caught that, kudos to you. :)