It's raining. I'm wearing a flimsy shirt and blue jeans. There's nothing to protect me from the weather. I can't move; I can feel the raindrops colliding with my skin. I take a deep breath. I am thankful to feel anything. I'm thankful to be momentarily distracted from the guilty and self-loathing that I have allowed to dictate my world. I like how the rain feels against my skin; it's raining hard. The drops feel like little needles piercing my skin. It reminds me that I'm alive.
"What are you doing out here?" he asks. Our shift is over; he should be home by now. He always stays late the same way that I always stay late. Lately, I stay late for therapy appointments. My appointed therapist comes to the lab; he says that he knows I would never go to his office for my appointments. I don't see why people think I need therapy; I see the flaws, but they are not that great. I've made mistakes; I've been punished for my mistakes. This time, the punishment had to be made really bad to match the severity of my crime.
"Nothing," I replied. I wanted to say something insightful; I wanted to say something to show him that I wasn't mad. He was but one of the people that had to deal with the anger I so readily threw around. Grissom gave me a night off; he said that I needed to put aside my issues before I come to work. He did that so he could work with Sophia. Sophia was the exact opposite of me. I was angry at him; I sat at home trying my hardest to be angry at him. For once, I succeeded. I reasoned that he gave me a lot of reasons to be angry. It was about time that I started to act on them. I could shut him out ten times better than he could ever shut me out. I was an expert at shutting people out. That's why I was so alone.
"Sara, you should put something on to shield you from the rain," he lectured. He took off his jacket and put it around my shoulders. I didn't see the point of the action; I was already soaked to the bone. I was touched by the gesture. He didn't need to be nice to me; I surely had not been nice to him.
"Are you okay?" he asked again. He stood next to me allowing the raindrops to pierce his skin as they had pierced mine. He didn't complain. He didn't pull me into the building. I wanted to tell him that I was indeed not okay; I hadn't been okay in a long time. I couldn't even remember the last time that I felt truly happy; maybe when I was ten years old. That was before Grissom, before the rape, and before my parent's divorce. I was happy then; my brother and I were like every other children. That all seemed to change over night.
"No. No, I'm not okay," I whisper. I barely recognize my voice; it's harsh where it used to be soft. I have hardened. I have become a person that I no longer recognize. I hate the mirror; I glance in the mirror for a second during the day. I don't want to see what I have become.
"Can I take you home?" he asked. He puts a hand on my wrist; it's trembling. He must be cold; I was cold twenty minutes ago, but that feeling had faded.
"I'd like to go home," I replied. He gently guided me to his SUV; he treated me like a fragile china doll. In a lot of ways, I was very fragile. I saw myself begin to fall apart over the last few weeks. I saw the muscle begin to fall off my bones; I saw the dark circles become more apparent under my eyes. I was wasting away. I was too depressed to eat . . . I was too depressed to sleep. My heart was broken one too many times; for the first time in years, I felt like I had no control over my life.
He drove silently to my apartment. He knew the way; he had been there a million times before. We would often end our mornings out at my apartment; I was the only one that had a full bar in my kitchen. Warrick, Greg, and Nick didn't ever seem to think that it was abnormal. I had never thought that it was abnormal. I needed to reassess that behavior a few weeks back.
He didn't judge me; everyone else did. I could feel it. Rooms quieted when I entered them; people looked away when I walked down the hallways. They all knew; he had told him . . . Grissom promised not to.
"Let me walk you in," he said as he pulled into a parking spot closest to my building.
"Thank you . . . would you like to come in for coffee?" I asked. I felt obligated, but I also didn't want to be alone.
"I'd like coffee," Nick said as he held the door open for me. He seemed pleased that it was going to be coffee. He seemed pleased that I was trying to reach out. That was the best that I could do right now; I'm glad he understood that. I'm glad that he came in for coffee.