Chapter Four: Raining Crimson
"Cruelty has a human heart
And Jealousy a human face
Terror the human form divine,
And Secrecy the human dress."
William Blake- A Divine Image
Four Days Previous
Green tea fumes evaporated and danced in captivating waves before Jane as they swirled ever higher, fading daylight capturing the mist and adding a luminous radiance.
Patrick's forefinger and thumb rapped round the dainty handle of his favored cerulean cup, the platter resting beneath it on the table.
Jane himself was staring through the grimy windows at the sunset, infatuated at the gradient colors hindering the diminishing blue of the sky.
The late evening beckoned Jane to rest; when the stars broke through the atmosphere and the tea had receded to a puddle at the bottom of his cup, Patrick decided that it was time.
Snatching his prescription pills from the corner of the table, Jane rose and journeyed to his cot, removing the lid of the pill bottle as he did so.
The night before included the most refreshing sleep Jane had received in many years, but that didn't keep him from holing up in his room and sitting tiredly for the majority of the day.
While the CBI unit was investigating floors below, Patrick was contemplating from a window seat, viewing the world in a way that none would deem healthy.
His mind raced drunkenly between thoughts, most being categorized into two areas: his family, and his future.
The two tied together intricately, until the path before him, once undecided, was now certain.
Jane was mortal, and would one day become feeble and ancient, then dying and deteriorating, ground to dust beneath the dirt, with the triumphs in his life only acting as a scratch on the surface compared to the marks made by others in the world.
Being unremembered wasn't saddening, but instead was a prompt. If the actions bore no fruit of the tree, then why not slash the branch?
If dying was the inevitable option, then why continue lingering in such an existence, melancholy and dead inside, revenge as the adrenaline pumping in the veins?
Angela and Charlotte were gone, dust in the wind, lost in the void of nothingness that resulted after death.
Jane wanted to follow.
If it meant that this pain being carried every aching day would vanish, it didn't matter knowing that it was a part of the soul that would only leave if everything else vanished too.
These dark thoughts welled pestilently, dripping from his mind into his soul, gathering until the pool of blackness swallowed him.
The dark shadowed ominously in his eyes as he fingered the countless powdery pills in his hand.
Jane sat on the bed, turning the bottle to once again check the dosage. One pill a night.
The doctor said that taking more than four at a time would land anyone in some trouble, so how would ten do?
Jane counted the pills; there were a total of twenty nine, enough to last him a month.
But what about an eternity?
Never again would he wake if he indulged on his longings, his selfish need for his pain to end. What would happen to those left behind if he ventured to the point of no return?
Jane's hands began to shake, and his breath quickened in fright; his senses were returning to him, and in an instant, Jane stood from his cot, flung the pills to the floor, dropping the bottle along with them.
Patrick gasped, his body quavering, and he inhaled deep breaths of air to keep from hyperventilating.
The power he had over himself was on autopilot as something else within him controlled, a paradox that Jane couldn't comprehend.
Lisbon. He needed to get to Lisbon.
Jane stumbled as he trampled down the stairs, gripping the railings so that he wouldn't fall completely, then coming to the correct floor speedily walked to the interrogation rooms, huffing and puffing as he went.
Through the window he saw Teresa interviewing a man who, obvious by his alarmingly yellow hard hat and gruff, strong appearance was a construction employee.
Uncaring of Lisbon's situation, Jane opened the door, peering through.
"Mr. Stanford, what was your relation to the-"
"Lisbon," he demanded.
Teresa turned, and on sight of Jane quickly became tense.
"Jane, I'm busy," Lisbon stated, gesturing towards the interrogated man.
"You should take a break; I need to speak with you. He didn't do it anyway." Jane replied matter-of-factly, coming more into view.
"Who says? Look- can't this wait?" Lisbon asked, trying to process Jane's request and his remark that the suspect in fact wasn't guilty of Kilmer's murder.
Jane shook his head, letting his expression convey the urgency with his serious, forlorn face.
Teresa recognized the sign. The expression Jane bore now was one that Lisbon knew well; it was the exact face of the man she had first met when Jane stepped into the office years ago, in want of the Red John files. He had been so broken and lost, a man buried alive in a his misery.
That side of him became craftily hidden as time aged them, which coincided with the continual need to conceal the ever-growing anger and lust within him, the eggshell-thin covering that, when cracked, exposed the miserable portion.
The question was, why had he cracked now?
Lisbon returned her focus to Marcus Stanford, her former head suspect as of that day.
"My apologies, Mr. Stanford. I'll have one of my coworkers continue the process. Van Pelt?" Lisbon looked to the glass and called.
Moments later, Van Pelt switched places with Lisbon, and Teresa exited the interrogation room, following as Jane led her to his leather couch.
Arriving there, Jane plopped himself down, his expression a transparent window for Teresa to see through as she observed him, waiting for him to speak.
Jane ran his hands through his thick hair, elbows on his knees, and Lisbon watched him expectedly, leaning partly on her right leg.
An internal war was waging within Jane; he needed to tell Lisbon the truth.
But the truth was his.
"Jane?" Teresa spoke softly, edging nearer to him. When he continued his obvious fretting and made no response, Lisbon sat down on the couch beside him, her honest-eyes conveying her worry.
If Jane was to tell her about this, then he'd immediately be kept monitored, under surveillance; anyways, he wasn't particularly sure of his own mind yet.
He could handle this, and it was smarter to seclude himself rather than expose this secret that could once again land him in a psychiatric facility.
Either way... Patrick wanted to keep that power. Or, instead, he wanted to allow the force inside of him to keep it's position of control.
Jane was a breathing oxymoron; what was known to be wrong felt right, and although the thought of ending his own life frightened him, he wanted that option open.
The truth was his.
"I... I'm sorry, Lisbon, for pulling you out of there, I just..."
Jane heaved a sigh of frustration. What was he to say that could cover this mistake?
An idea sprung to mind, one that seemed much nicer in comparison to his former intentions; this way, if there was an end, he'd have an evening to spend with her.
That is, if she would except.
"Would you like to have dinner tomorrow night?"
Lisbon flinched her head back in an unusual motion, her eyebrows drawn together, but a smile flitted across her features.
"You mean, as a date?" She inquired skeptically, believing this worried-Jane to be an act, sure that he was playing some game.
"If that's how you'd like to think of it, then sure, Lisbon."
Patrick grinned, and Teresa swatted his shoulder. After a few seconds of awkward silence, Lisbon spoke.
"I won't be able to tomorrow; we'll be working another lead a few hours from the city, but I could probably find time Thursday."
"Thursday it is, then," Patrick confirmed, smiling his usual grin that seemed so innocently joyous, but sparsely covered his pain.
The two rose from their seats, and parted ways: Teresa, with an indescribable happiness she refused to let fester smothered within herself; Jane, with an admitted poison settling in his veins.
Upon entrance of his room, Jane began scavenging for the scattered sleeping pills, until he counted twenty nine in all.
Then, he popped one in his mouth, letting his thoughts drift away into the oblivion he desperately craved.
Three Days Previous
The weather always had a way with timing. Specifically, the rain.
Wherever Jane was, the rain followed, biding its time until important events in his life came along.
The day he met Angela, it had rained.
Jane could picture it clearly in his mind; the ruffled-sky blue blouse she wore that matched her eyes, her silky hair flowing over her shoulder, the gracefulness about her. After some effort to ask her out for coffee, Angela obliged. He wasn't used to really coaxing someone into spending an evening with him.
Before they had entered the café, rain began to pour, drenching the streets as well as the two when they made a break for the entrance. Jane was rather upset about it, but Angela only laughed.
"I love the rain," she commented, taking quick breaths as Jane pulled the door open for Angela to pass. It was a swift remark, but Jane remembered it for years after; Angela's voice had been so exuberant, full of joy and life when she said it, with a big smile plastered on her face. An authentic one. It was such a smile that revealed her interior self, the youthful, happy-self.
And Jane fell in love with it.
...
It had rained the night of Charlotte Anne's birth.
Patrick held his newborn child in his arms, cradling the head blessed with soft, blonde curls, and stared into eyes that had copied his own as thunder churned in the dusky night.
That was the moment when Jane realized that this little miracle was his best friend's and his own creation, this infant beauty, his magnificent baby girl. He fell in love instantly as he rocked Charlotte, who cooed contently in the safe embrace of her father.
...
It rained the day of his father's death.
The voice on the other end of the phone was hard to discern as the rain drops fell around Patrick, who was hurrying into his car; Jane was heading to a studio to be televised.
Slamming the door shut, he asked the caller to, again, repeat their words, once he'd revved the engine.
The anger he'd carried for many years against his father as he was told euphemisms and apologies for his loss melted away, and despite his current obligations, Jane began to weep, rain sluggishly cascading down the car windows.
...
It rained the morning after Angela and Charlotte were murdered.
There were police crowded in his home, invading the space where he had sought security, but now only would be a house in a ghost town of memories.
Patrick stood before the glass walls, staring out at the gloomy rain pounding the ground, enforcing a somehow stained and unclean feeling on the earth; it was as if, no matter how hard it tried to rid itself of it, the bloody marks of the world could never be cleansed.
There were officers badgering him, a dark headed woman almost pleading for a statement, but Jane wouldn't budge.
Jane couldn't move, nor could he comprehend anything; he'd been in shock for hours, the blanket over his shoulders doing nothing for his condition.
Sometime later he found himself sitting, no longer facing the windows, but he could still see the rain: rain, a bloody crimson, running down the wrist from the coated palm of the hand raised before him. His hand.
Their blood.
...
It was raining today.
Jane kneeled before the gravestones of his wife and daughter, indifferent to the rain deterring his vision and soaking him, cold to the bone.
The symbolism of the rain confronted his thoughts; when it rained, there was the portrayal of cleansing pasts, the foreshadowing of change.
What Jane desired was freedom from the past, and to achieve his aspiration, Patrick recognized that he must destroy the person responsible in return of the demolishing of his prior life.
Could Jane be mistaken, with his speculations false?
Jane's previous response was to run from the past and chase revenge, never ceasing for a moment to entertain the possibility that he could alter the preceding life in another manner. The reason was that, in Patrick's heart, he knew he was able to. But, revenge was the more satisfying route to proceed on.
Jane was exhausted of escaping, running from everyone he'd loved, from everything; it was now articulately shown that the sole path which would lead him to freedom would be to accept the past.
Patrick needed to accept that they were gone, and that he wasn't able to do anything about it.
To accept would be to endure the ultimate diminishing of his soul, to slip into the dark hole Jane once crawled out of, where the sun's light was blocked from view, and the pain of eternal darkness suffocated him.
And how could Patrick stand it? How would he live again in hell's confined walls, the walls of his anguished mind?
The answer was simple: Jane wouldn't.
...
Before Jane departed, he placed a bouquet of yellow roses between Angela and Charlotte, allowing the rain to sodden the vibrancy of Charlotte's favored flowers.
He never returned.
XxX
Sorry that I haven't included any current situation parts in this chapter... I had planned to get through four of the days, but that didn't happen. So, two chapters are yet to come.
I fashioned the second half with the song When It Rains by Paramore in mind, in honor of my late cousin who I'm reminded of whenever I listen to it. In fact, the song works for this whole fic.
Special Thank You!
Thank you to all who have reviewed, followed, and favorited! You guys are what keeps me going; I'd never have the confidence to post this without you all. :)
Let me know what you thought of this chapter: whether it was good or not, if something was amiss in the plot line. I created a lot of the second half since there wasn't much to go on in the area of Jane's past with his wife and daughter.
The next chapter is named Red Wine, and is going to include the dinner with Jane and Lisbon, and the night of Jane's overdose. There, you'll see how Teresa knew he was in trouble. Of course, we'll also see if Jane pulls through or not- which I'm pretty sure you know the answer to. :)
Thank you for reading and giving me great feedback; if there's anything you'd like to see different or have a question about, let me know!