Blank Slate - Chapter 2
By Midnight Caller
Spoilers: High & Low, possibly Recipe for Murder
Usual disclaimers apply: Don't own 'em.
*****
Chapter 2
Standing there in the parking lot, you're suddenly blind-sided by the most merciless of all human emotions; unreciprocated love.
If he really loved you, if he really wanted to share his world, his being, his life with you, he would have looked you in the eye and told you what was going on. But he didn't. And he won't. And now you know.
As you watch his truck pull further and further away, you can feel your grip on him slipping away, being swept up like a tiny feather in the center of a ferocious tornado.
You don't even realize you're standing in the middle of the asphalt lot until someone honks their horn, and you move slowly out of the way.
Still in somewhat of a daze, you make your way back to the doors, and push them open, slowly and methodically, like you might do if you knew it was to be your last movement, and you wanted to cherish every part of it.
Your pace increases as you make your way down the halls, past the drones of people, past the conversation and smiling, happy faces, and then you see his door ahead. Your pace quickens. Your heart races. But it's not out of excitement - it's something else. Anxiety, maybe, stemming from the realization that you've just lost the one person who truly, honestly meant more to you than you really understood, until they turned their back and walked out of your life.
Thankfully, your feet carry you past his office, allowing you only the quickest of glances at the name on the door. Don't look; it'll only make it worse. You're shaking now, almost, shoving your hands in your pockets to steady them. Somehow you make it to the breakroom, and begin pacing around the center table. Staring at the floor, the tiles spiraling past your field of vision, you feel as though you're at the center of a suffocating vortex, with no way to escape.
"Hey!" You try your best grin, considering you don't think you'll ever be able to smile again and mean it. The hands in your back pocket grip the material of your pants. At least try not to look like the mental wreck you are.
Catherine glances back at you, a large branch sitting on the table in front of her. You don't even really know why you're here. Maybe because you trust her, maybe because she doesn't skirt issues, maybe because she knows a little something about love, or maybe because she knows Grissom better than anyone, even you.
But, you're unable to make your brain get over your previous conversation. "I'm maxed out on overtime. I can't seem to get out into the field."
She's too busy to deal with you right now. Of course, if you were to be honest...
"You'll have to talk to Grissom about that..."
Despite the pain that shoots through your chest at the mere mention of his name, you know that's why you came in here - to talk about him. But how to tell her, without sounding like your heart has been shattered into a million unrecoverable pieces...
"Yeah, he's not really in a... talking mood..."
What is that look she gives you? Does she know? Can she see the pain in your eyes?
"Sara... it's normal hours. Why don't you go to dinner with the boyfriend..." She looks right at you. "Hank, right? Go to a spa..."
She knows. She must know. And now she's trying to get it out of you.
Why are you smirking? Stop acting like a giddy 13 year-old with her first crush. Hank is not your boyfriend. "Hank is not my boyfriend." You could continue. You could tell her how you like him, how you enjoy his company, his friendship, the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention, but you don't say a word. Because as much fun as Hank can be, something in the back of your brain just won't let you forget that your heart has promised itself to someone else.
But you can't tell anyone that. Not Catherine. Not Hank.
Not Grissom.
And therein lies the problem.
You thought you liked being alone. Not just in relation to your personal life, either. Just being able to relax, at home, by yourself, without anyone there to bother or distract you – that used to be the goal at the end of the day. But now, as you stare at the emptiness that is your apartment, the quiet and stillness slowly but surely eating away at your patience and nerves, it suddenly occurs to you that this is what loneliness must be. This is what it feels like to long so badly for someone that even your mundane daily routine is thrown askew, and all you can do is stand back and helplessly watch your life come apart right before your eyes.
Like a panic, the quiet hiss of the empty room soon becomes unbearable, and you rise from your perch on a stool, and begin to pace. You don't pace. You don't bite your nails, either, but you're doing that, too. What is happening to you? Why can't you just let him go, for God's sake? He's tearing you apart, and this pacing and nail-biting is just the start. Soon, he'll start invading your waking hours as well as your non-waking ones, popping up in the linen closet, or in the shower, or when you first wake up and you look like a living, breathing, emotionally-deficient disaster who hasn't slept a full night's sleep in over nine years.
Okay. That's it, that's it. You pick up the phone. The numbers come easily - even the tone they make on the keypad is somewhat pleasing to the ear. But when the other end starts to ring, you freeze. What the hell will you say? 'Help me, I'm going insane? I've started to bite my already short nails and I'm thinking of cataloging and alphabetizing my 368 CDs by artist, genre, album, and date of release'?
When he finally answers, your mouth suddenly finds some more socially appropriate words.
"Hank, it's me..."
(tbc...)
By Midnight Caller
Spoilers: High & Low, possibly Recipe for Murder
Usual disclaimers apply: Don't own 'em.
*****
Chapter 2
Standing there in the parking lot, you're suddenly blind-sided by the most merciless of all human emotions; unreciprocated love.
If he really loved you, if he really wanted to share his world, his being, his life with you, he would have looked you in the eye and told you what was going on. But he didn't. And he won't. And now you know.
As you watch his truck pull further and further away, you can feel your grip on him slipping away, being swept up like a tiny feather in the center of a ferocious tornado.
You don't even realize you're standing in the middle of the asphalt lot until someone honks their horn, and you move slowly out of the way.
Still in somewhat of a daze, you make your way back to the doors, and push them open, slowly and methodically, like you might do if you knew it was to be your last movement, and you wanted to cherish every part of it.
Your pace increases as you make your way down the halls, past the drones of people, past the conversation and smiling, happy faces, and then you see his door ahead. Your pace quickens. Your heart races. But it's not out of excitement - it's something else. Anxiety, maybe, stemming from the realization that you've just lost the one person who truly, honestly meant more to you than you really understood, until they turned their back and walked out of your life.
Thankfully, your feet carry you past his office, allowing you only the quickest of glances at the name on the door. Don't look; it'll only make it worse. You're shaking now, almost, shoving your hands in your pockets to steady them. Somehow you make it to the breakroom, and begin pacing around the center table. Staring at the floor, the tiles spiraling past your field of vision, you feel as though you're at the center of a suffocating vortex, with no way to escape.
"Hey!" You try your best grin, considering you don't think you'll ever be able to smile again and mean it. The hands in your back pocket grip the material of your pants. At least try not to look like the mental wreck you are.
Catherine glances back at you, a large branch sitting on the table in front of her. You don't even really know why you're here. Maybe because you trust her, maybe because she doesn't skirt issues, maybe because she knows a little something about love, or maybe because she knows Grissom better than anyone, even you.
But, you're unable to make your brain get over your previous conversation. "I'm maxed out on overtime. I can't seem to get out into the field."
She's too busy to deal with you right now. Of course, if you were to be honest...
"You'll have to talk to Grissom about that..."
Despite the pain that shoots through your chest at the mere mention of his name, you know that's why you came in here - to talk about him. But how to tell her, without sounding like your heart has been shattered into a million unrecoverable pieces...
"Yeah, he's not really in a... talking mood..."
What is that look she gives you? Does she know? Can she see the pain in your eyes?
"Sara... it's normal hours. Why don't you go to dinner with the boyfriend..." She looks right at you. "Hank, right? Go to a spa..."
She knows. She must know. And now she's trying to get it out of you.
Why are you smirking? Stop acting like a giddy 13 year-old with her first crush. Hank is not your boyfriend. "Hank is not my boyfriend." You could continue. You could tell her how you like him, how you enjoy his company, his friendship, the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention, but you don't say a word. Because as much fun as Hank can be, something in the back of your brain just won't let you forget that your heart has promised itself to someone else.
But you can't tell anyone that. Not Catherine. Not Hank.
Not Grissom.
And therein lies the problem.
You thought you liked being alone. Not just in relation to your personal life, either. Just being able to relax, at home, by yourself, without anyone there to bother or distract you – that used to be the goal at the end of the day. But now, as you stare at the emptiness that is your apartment, the quiet and stillness slowly but surely eating away at your patience and nerves, it suddenly occurs to you that this is what loneliness must be. This is what it feels like to long so badly for someone that even your mundane daily routine is thrown askew, and all you can do is stand back and helplessly watch your life come apart right before your eyes.
Like a panic, the quiet hiss of the empty room soon becomes unbearable, and you rise from your perch on a stool, and begin to pace. You don't pace. You don't bite your nails, either, but you're doing that, too. What is happening to you? Why can't you just let him go, for God's sake? He's tearing you apart, and this pacing and nail-biting is just the start. Soon, he'll start invading your waking hours as well as your non-waking ones, popping up in the linen closet, or in the shower, or when you first wake up and you look like a living, breathing, emotionally-deficient disaster who hasn't slept a full night's sleep in over nine years.
Okay. That's it, that's it. You pick up the phone. The numbers come easily - even the tone they make on the keypad is somewhat pleasing to the ear. But when the other end starts to ring, you freeze. What the hell will you say? 'Help me, I'm going insane? I've started to bite my already short nails and I'm thinking of cataloging and alphabetizing my 368 CDs by artist, genre, album, and date of release'?
When he finally answers, your mouth suddenly finds some more socially appropriate words.
"Hank, it's me..."
(tbc...)