Before I begin, I would like to thank the ever illustrious daf9 for her kind review. Don't be afraid to voice your opinions, folks! And please give the lovely daf9 your patronage and praise. Now, onward.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#

Furious

by

Fashionably Stupid

Chapter Two: Hope at the Bottom of the Box

~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#

They had been reading for what seemed like days. In truth, it had only been about an hour, but it wasn't just the reading that was killing them. At the forty-five minute mark, Eames made a comment:

"We look into their lives, and we read their address books sometimes, but this," she gestured at the mess of paper that littered the desk and floor, "this is every angstrom of this girl's life. I feel like I've known her for years."

"...I know what you mean," Bobby replied in a somewhat sympathetic tone, though he didn't look up from his reading, "It makes you feel like you should have been there...to prevent it."

Eames nodded solemnly. "We can't be everywhere, Bobby."

Goren breathed out. He sometimes forgot the his partner thought as deeply as she did; he was usually so engulfed by his own thoughts and investigations. Eames went back to reading, but Goren stared at her for a moment longer, his brow furrowed, eyes searching. She was right, of course, they couldn't be everywhere. They weren't God, after all. But -

"Oh! Oh, my God."

"What? What is it?"

"This is something. Read this." She handed him the last paper in her stack, the final poem Clare Bergen ever wrote.

Samuel #12

I will kill myself in the morning.

Every day I spend looking at you, you impudent little shit,

Is another year I must spend on the Mountain.

Let's hope your faith doesn't fail you now.

Let's hope you have the strength to pray me out.

You'd better pray, boy, and pray as hard as you can,

Because my ghost is vengeful

And I will never be at rest.

"Is this a suicide note?"

"It...looks that way."

There was a long pause as they considered

"There are eleven more, Bobby. All about this Samuel."

Goren picked up the poems, scanning them all one by one, speaking the titles aloud.

"Samuel One, Samuel Two, Samuel Three...they all...display an immense hatred for this boy."

"Except this one." Eames pulled the three page epic, Samuel #7 from the pile. Goren scanned over it, mentally cataloging stanzas and lines:

Everything is a receptacle for fear,

Every hole, a place to hide from God,

Every home, a sheltering stone.

...

Even as you washed me from your mouth,

I saw knives in your hands.

I shook all night

And told you I was cold.

...

(I don't know you.)

(I don't trust you.)

...

I was smiling then, you see,

Hating you and hating me

...

But it was the final lines that not only revealed the true nature of Clare's relationship with the poem's subject, but also explained the vehemence of the hatred made clear throughout the eleven other poems:

My time on this earth has essentially been spent on screaming.

I scream when I bleed, I scream when I cry,

And when I pray to God, I scream out his name and shake like a seizure.

But,

God knows,

With you,

I started to learn

Stillness,

To float,

To glow,

To breathe the breath of the dying.

To burn with the silent fire of the

Wrath of God.

And you can't take that away from me.

Goren tapped his fingers on the desk and shook his leg a little while he thought. But after too long a silence, it was Eames who spoke:

"We could always check her school roster, see if she shared a class with someone named Samuel."

Goren stilled his nervous habits and gave his partner a bemused smile.

"How...how do you do that?"

"You tell me, Bobby. You're the genius."

His smile widened.

"Let's get to work."

It didn't really matter who said it.