Title: The Road Less Traveled
Author: womanunchained
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: Mike Kellerman has a one-sided conversation with the person who may have made the biggest impact on his life.
A/N: I do so love reviews, so go ahead and hit me!
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Mike Kellerman crouched down by Luther Mahoney's grave for the second time since the shooting. Rain pounded down on him. He wondered what the hell was up with all the rain lately.
"Let me tell you something, Luther," Mike said. He tried to keep his balance without touching the gaudy headstone that he so despised. "I ain't sorry for nothing. Nothing. That's what I wanna believe, that's what I should believe. I should believe that the shooting was clean. Face it, you were the bad guy." Mike paused. "Then I became one… when I pulled the trigger."
"Yeah, that's right, Luther," Mike continued. "I was wrong. Yeah, you had a gun, too. Yeah, you coulda shot any one of us- me, Lewis, Stivers- but part of me wanted to pull that trigger. Part of me wanted to pull it so bad, as bad as crackheads need the fix, as bad as some guys need sex. You know how they can let the dope, the sex, control them? I let you control me, let you control my anger. I wish like hell that I hadn't let you do that to me. Believe me, Luther. I'd rather have you in a mental institution or in jail than six feet under. Make you wonder about what you done. 'Cause now I'm here, wondering what I done. I gotta live every day knowing that somebody somewhere is looking at me and that they think they know what went down. I gotta stay here and put up with that bitch sister of yours, and listen to her b.s. me about how she got proof, how she's got a tape and she knows the shoot was dirty." Mike paused again, took a deep breath. "Was it dirty? Was the shoot dirty?" He looked skyward, as if hoping for an answer. "Yeah." Mike bit his lip to keep from crying. Only sissies cried, people like Falsone, people who couldn't handle things. "Yeah, Luther, you got me. I think it was dirty. I know I did what I had to- I know- but inside, I was just waiting for the day you died. And I wanted to kill you. I'm a fucking murderer, Luther, like you. You and me, we're the same now. We're equal. Difference is, you're dead and I'm still living. You can be alone, in peace, or whatever the fuck. And here I am, Mike Kellerman, I'm 31, I'm a supposed cop who's really a murderer, and I'm talking to you like you can really hear me, or like you give a shit if you can. I gotta do this, Luther. Listen to me, if you're listening at all, because this is the first, last and only time that I'm gonna admit this." Mike pressed his lips together, placed something on Luther Mahoney's grave and walked away.
Georgia Rae Mahoney stepped from her limo and carried the little potted geraniums to her brother's headstone. She said a prayer for him and placed the pot down on the grass. There was another plant, the African violets that her daughter Catalina had put there some months earlier, and an unfamiliar plant with a card sticking out of it. Georgia Rae recognized the flower- marigolds- but she had no idea who had put it there.
She picked up the card and read it. Scrawled in sloppy script were the words I'm sorry.
Author: womanunchained
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: Mike Kellerman has a one-sided conversation with the person who may have made the biggest impact on his life.
A/N: I do so love reviews, so go ahead and hit me!
--
Mike Kellerman crouched down by Luther Mahoney's grave for the second time since the shooting. Rain pounded down on him. He wondered what the hell was up with all the rain lately.
"Let me tell you something, Luther," Mike said. He tried to keep his balance without touching the gaudy headstone that he so despised. "I ain't sorry for nothing. Nothing. That's what I wanna believe, that's what I should believe. I should believe that the shooting was clean. Face it, you were the bad guy." Mike paused. "Then I became one… when I pulled the trigger."
"Yeah, that's right, Luther," Mike continued. "I was wrong. Yeah, you had a gun, too. Yeah, you coulda shot any one of us- me, Lewis, Stivers- but part of me wanted to pull that trigger. Part of me wanted to pull it so bad, as bad as crackheads need the fix, as bad as some guys need sex. You know how they can let the dope, the sex, control them? I let you control me, let you control my anger. I wish like hell that I hadn't let you do that to me. Believe me, Luther. I'd rather have you in a mental institution or in jail than six feet under. Make you wonder about what you done. 'Cause now I'm here, wondering what I done. I gotta live every day knowing that somebody somewhere is looking at me and that they think they know what went down. I gotta stay here and put up with that bitch sister of yours, and listen to her b.s. me about how she got proof, how she's got a tape and she knows the shoot was dirty." Mike paused again, took a deep breath. "Was it dirty? Was the shoot dirty?" He looked skyward, as if hoping for an answer. "Yeah." Mike bit his lip to keep from crying. Only sissies cried, people like Falsone, people who couldn't handle things. "Yeah, Luther, you got me. I think it was dirty. I know I did what I had to- I know- but inside, I was just waiting for the day you died. And I wanted to kill you. I'm a fucking murderer, Luther, like you. You and me, we're the same now. We're equal. Difference is, you're dead and I'm still living. You can be alone, in peace, or whatever the fuck. And here I am, Mike Kellerman, I'm 31, I'm a supposed cop who's really a murderer, and I'm talking to you like you can really hear me, or like you give a shit if you can. I gotta do this, Luther. Listen to me, if you're listening at all, because this is the first, last and only time that I'm gonna admit this." Mike pressed his lips together, placed something on Luther Mahoney's grave and walked away.
Georgia Rae Mahoney stepped from her limo and carried the little potted geraniums to her brother's headstone. She said a prayer for him and placed the pot down on the grass. There was another plant, the African violets that her daughter Catalina had put there some months earlier, and an unfamiliar plant with a card sticking out of it. Georgia Rae recognized the flower- marigolds- but she had no idea who had put it there.
She picked up the card and read it. Scrawled in sloppy script were the words I'm sorry.