As always, thanks for the reviews – they keep me writing.
_+_
Sara laid on her sofa, staring at the ceiling. The smell of take out food filled the apartment – she'd ordered take out again – something she promised herself not to do.
But every time something bad happened, she returned to bad habits.
She remembered her and Greg's earlier conversation. It was small talk. She knew that. Every time there was a moment of silence; she filled it. It wasn't her usual way to react to a bad situation; but situations never usually got this bad.
Her mind seemed to be replaying every conversation she'd ever had with Greg – every moment they'd shared together – every smile she received.
It all seemed so empty now.
So…pointless.
She felt so……lost.
A crime would be easier. Crimes were puzzles. Puzzles have solutions.
Greg was ill – which was a problem – but she wasn't a doctor. CSI's solve crimes, doctors 'solve' conditions.
For a brief moment, Sara wished she was a doctor, or had a more medical background. Then maybe she could help him.
Why Greg. Why a lab tech. Why a lab tech from Vegas. Why her friend? So many questions. She knew she couldn't answer them. And she hated that.
And she hated the way she was acting too; she didn't even mention it when she spoke to him. And who else was there for him to talk to? His family? Had Greg even talked to them? Who could Greg talk to about this – other than everyone at CSI?
'However I'm feeling, he probably feels worse.' She thought.
I need to be there for him; no matter what happens.
She sat up slightly, sickened with thought.
'God…he's not going to get better, is he? She questioned the room; she looked at the glass on the table and angrily smashed it against the wall.
She felt so angry; and she didn't know where to place it.
She laid back down on the sofa- and looked toward the ceiling again.
"I know life isn't fair – can you quit reminding me?" she stated aloud, to the empty room. She could feel the tears forming.
_+_
Sara laid on her sofa, staring at the ceiling. The smell of take out food filled the apartment – she'd ordered take out again – something she promised herself not to do.
But every time something bad happened, she returned to bad habits.
She remembered her and Greg's earlier conversation. It was small talk. She knew that. Every time there was a moment of silence; she filled it. It wasn't her usual way to react to a bad situation; but situations never usually got this bad.
Her mind seemed to be replaying every conversation she'd ever had with Greg – every moment they'd shared together – every smile she received.
It all seemed so empty now.
So…pointless.
She felt so……lost.
A crime would be easier. Crimes were puzzles. Puzzles have solutions.
Greg was ill – which was a problem – but she wasn't a doctor. CSI's solve crimes, doctors 'solve' conditions.
For a brief moment, Sara wished she was a doctor, or had a more medical background. Then maybe she could help him.
Why Greg. Why a lab tech. Why a lab tech from Vegas. Why her friend? So many questions. She knew she couldn't answer them. And she hated that.
And she hated the way she was acting too; she didn't even mention it when she spoke to him. And who else was there for him to talk to? His family? Had Greg even talked to them? Who could Greg talk to about this – other than everyone at CSI?
'However I'm feeling, he probably feels worse.' She thought.
I need to be there for him; no matter what happens.
She sat up slightly, sickened with thought.
'God…he's not going to get better, is he? She questioned the room; she looked at the glass on the table and angrily smashed it against the wall.
She felt so angry; and she didn't know where to place it.
She laid back down on the sofa- and looked toward the ceiling again.
"I know life isn't fair – can you quit reminding me?" she stated aloud, to the empty room. She could feel the tears forming.