Greg sighed as he looked in the mirror. He allowed his eyes to wander down his body. He swallowed hard, and blinked, opening his eyes to see scars.
Scars, which weren't caused by the explosion.
These scars were caused by a confused person. A person who sat alone in the dark with a razor blade trying to work out where he belonged in this crazy world.
Greg sighed then bit his lip as he ran his hand across the scars. He winced slightly, they were still sore, and they probably didn't count as scars, more partially healed wounds. They weren't deep – he was thankful for that. If they'd have been deep, events would have taken a direction that he couldn't control.
He doubted that he could have coped with having to go to the hospital – he wouldn't have been able to tell the truth – or think up a believable lie. And the repercussions – counselling, time of work… it probably would have caused more harm than good.
He'd love to say he didn't know what he was thinking when he did it.
But he did. He knew exactly what he was thinking.
You work in a lab. You're a CSI. You've dealt with explosions; usually your there trying to work out how someone dermis got melted onto a particular piece of shrapnel.
People aren't meant to survive explosions. They're meant to burn up in the heat, and be blown to bits. They're meant to be scattered amongst the wreckage.
They're meant to be evidence.
He never expected to wake up. There was so much pain, the smoke, and the confusion…
…But he knew something bad had happened. And he know that if he let his eyes close that would be it.
He never expected to live through it. That's why he let himself be dragged into unconsciousness.
But he did wake up.
And then he felt like he didn't belong to the world any longer.
He had to do something to make himself part of the world again…
He closed his eyes and tried his best to remember that night.
….
He had drunk nearly half a bottle of Vodka, before it went blank. He remembered getting the razor, having the intent to use it – but that's when the vodka kicked in….
…When he woke up, his sheets were covered in blood; and he honestly thought he'd killed someone.
That fear brought him back into realising he was alive – only the living can inflict pain on others.
Then he found the marks on his own body and had thrown up. He was ashamed that hurt himself.
He was afraid of how far gone he'd been.
It was all that fear, fear of what he was capable of if he didn't sort out his emotions, and accepted the way he felt about his life. That's what drove him to consider his life; it's value, and what he wanted to do with it.
….
He shook the memory of that day away; and he opened his eyes.
Seeing his form again in the mirror he turned slightly, to see his side; he could see a yellow bruise, he knew it extended around his back. It was a reminder of how strong the force of the blast was.
But it didn't really hurt; the medication he'd been given had sorted that out.
He was now content that the physical pain was under control, and the emotional pain was now scar tissue.
But he was glad it happened.
It made him see that he was alive; he was meant to be there, he wasn't meant to die.
Because if he'd died…who would have been their for Sara?
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Thanks for the reviews; the mean a lot to me.
As for the quality of spelling [or lack of] I will either be checking through and reloading previous chapters, or taking the kind offer from a reviewer and getting a beta.
Next chapter will be up sometime soon.
Scars, which weren't caused by the explosion.
These scars were caused by a confused person. A person who sat alone in the dark with a razor blade trying to work out where he belonged in this crazy world.
Greg sighed then bit his lip as he ran his hand across the scars. He winced slightly, they were still sore, and they probably didn't count as scars, more partially healed wounds. They weren't deep – he was thankful for that. If they'd have been deep, events would have taken a direction that he couldn't control.
He doubted that he could have coped with having to go to the hospital – he wouldn't have been able to tell the truth – or think up a believable lie. And the repercussions – counselling, time of work… it probably would have caused more harm than good.
He'd love to say he didn't know what he was thinking when he did it.
But he did. He knew exactly what he was thinking.
You work in a lab. You're a CSI. You've dealt with explosions; usually your there trying to work out how someone dermis got melted onto a particular piece of shrapnel.
People aren't meant to survive explosions. They're meant to burn up in the heat, and be blown to bits. They're meant to be scattered amongst the wreckage.
They're meant to be evidence.
He never expected to wake up. There was so much pain, the smoke, and the confusion…
…But he knew something bad had happened. And he know that if he let his eyes close that would be it.
He never expected to live through it. That's why he let himself be dragged into unconsciousness.
But he did wake up.
And then he felt like he didn't belong to the world any longer.
He had to do something to make himself part of the world again…
He closed his eyes and tried his best to remember that night.
….
He had drunk nearly half a bottle of Vodka, before it went blank. He remembered getting the razor, having the intent to use it – but that's when the vodka kicked in….
…When he woke up, his sheets were covered in blood; and he honestly thought he'd killed someone.
That fear brought him back into realising he was alive – only the living can inflict pain on others.
Then he found the marks on his own body and had thrown up. He was ashamed that hurt himself.
He was afraid of how far gone he'd been.
It was all that fear, fear of what he was capable of if he didn't sort out his emotions, and accepted the way he felt about his life. That's what drove him to consider his life; it's value, and what he wanted to do with it.
….
He shook the memory of that day away; and he opened his eyes.
Seeing his form again in the mirror he turned slightly, to see his side; he could see a yellow bruise, he knew it extended around his back. It was a reminder of how strong the force of the blast was.
But it didn't really hurt; the medication he'd been given had sorted that out.
He was now content that the physical pain was under control, and the emotional pain was now scar tissue.
But he was glad it happened.
It made him see that he was alive; he was meant to be there, he wasn't meant to die.
Because if he'd died…who would have been their for Sara?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thanks for the reviews; the mean a lot to me.
As for the quality of spelling [or lack of] I will either be checking through and reloading previous chapters, or taking the kind offer from a reviewer and getting a beta.
Next chapter will be up sometime soon.