Title: Red Lines
Author: Varilynn
Summary: "She was good at pretending"
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: It's simple. They don't belong to me.
A/N: I'm not sure what I expected this to be, it I don't think this was it. I sat down to write one dark (metaphorically speaking) night and this is what came out. On a grammatical note, I do know all about sentence fragments and whatnot but in this mood my writing style is full of them.
A/N 2: Sorry about the re-post. Some spacing was off, and my OCD was driving me crazy. It just had to be fixed.
Please review critically, I have no editor besides myself.
The first time had almost been an accident. It could easily have been explained away as a lack of concentration, an unsteady hand. But really, the movement of a razor blade across skin in that particular fashion had nothing to do with shaving. And though, for a time, she might deny it – the fact remained that it had made her feel better.
The second time was different. She'd been in the shower for an hour, trying to wash away the stench of decomposition. Wash away the blood that had soaked through her jeans at the crime scene. Wash away her anger at the senseless violence and their inability to put the son-of-a-bitch away even though he was guilty. She knew he was.
She just couldn't prove it.
And Grissom had said in that damn sensible tone, "Go home, Sara, there's nothing more we can do." So she had. Not because she wanted to - she would have stayed in the lab until exhaustion forced her to collapse on the couch for an hour and than continued working. No, she'd gone home because despite all her protests, her yelling, her pleading, Grissom was right. And as he'd pointed out, if she burned herself out on a lost cause, the next one to come along wouldn't get the attention it deserved. So for the sake of the next case, the next victim, Sara had gone home.
She'd stared at her razor for an hour as the water splashed over her body. The debate in her head was calm, almost logical, even as the rational part of her brain refused to acknowledge it was even happening. Finally she'd picked it up, and a second red line had joined the first.
After that, it became easy.
She liked the control it gave her. The power that was in her hands. When the rest of her world was in chaos, the metal on her skin, the blood in the shower, helped to ground her again. She knew that as coping mechanisms went, this had to be one of the worst. Yet there was something very addictive about the build up of tension, the anticipation, the blessed relief. Clinically she knew it was a chemical response. Clinically she knew that really, this was not something she should be doing. She didn't give a damn what "clinically" knew.
At first, she was obsessively careful. Nothing on her arms. Nothing too big. Nothing that would still be bleeding at work. No one in Vegas was ever going to see her thighs, and she'd never been a fan of crop-tops.
Besides, she'd always been good at hiding things.
Some nights she would stand in front of the mirror and stare. She knew every mark. Remembered making each one. Every scar on her body had a story. Every scar had a name attached to it. She could set the cases aside, but the names always stayed with her. The ones who got away. The ones she could hear screaming and crying in her sleep. The ones she couldn't find peace for. But she could remember them, and her failure. On those nights, she often lost track of time, and was late for work.
She was good at making excuses.
Some times she was careless. A drop of blood on her pants. A shirt that rode up a little too high. A wince of pain at just the wrong moment. Working with people who obsessed over details, this was bound to be noticed. Catherine noticed the blood ("Oh, you know how it is with shaving when you're in a hurry"). Warrick caught the shirt ("I was cat sitting. Evil creature"). Nick had given her a concerned look ("Just a bruise, forgot to turn on a light and met up with the coffee table"). She got away with it easily.
She was good at lying.
Now that she knew no one would ask too many questions, no one would probe too deeply into her life, she didn't go out of her way to hide. She'd even considered telling the truth on occasion. Then her stomach would clench and her hands got sweaty and the lies tripped nimbly off her tongue ("I dropped my keys in this rose bush and had a hell of a time getting them out").
She would go home, then, and berate herself for being weak. She would swear it would never happen again. It wouldn't, for a while. For a week or two, or a month. Until the dreams started again. Until she had to turn the volume on her stereo to max to drown out the crying. Until the guilt became so overwhelming she thought she would suffocate. And she'd sit in her shower and watch it all wash away with blood.
The days after those struggles were always the worst. She had lost a measure of control, and balance was difficult to regain. The blade stayed close, the showers were frequent. Then the chaos retreated and she was fine again. Ready with a smile and a one-liner. On to the next case. Answering every query with a cheery "I'm fine, guys". She was always fine.
She was good at pretending.
Fin