There's beauty in the breakdown.
(Let Go – Frou Frou)
Detective Bobby Goren closed the car door behind him and stepped out into the street.
"Well, that was that." His partner hopped out of the driver's seat and joined him. "She's not going to tell us anything." Bobby nodded, waiting for her before walking back towards their building. It was almost eight o'clock. "Anyway," Alex continued, "I think we're done for today. We'll have to start with the phone calls tomorrow." She turned towards him, grinning. "It's good to have you back, Bobby."
"Thanks." His reply was automatic. In truth, her words didn't even register with him. He'd felt strangely detached the entire day, as if he'd been drifting through a dream. They'd investigated a crime scene; they'd interviewed witnesses; they'd spoken to the victim's family. Bobby sighed, holding the door open for his partner and then following her inside. Alex hadn't even mentioned his absence until a few seconds ago, but he'd felt her gaze upon him all day. It had by turns irritated and encouraged him. Was she nervous that he'd make a mistake? Or was she just trying to be supportive? He wasn't sure.
"Looks like we're the last ones to get back." Bobby glanced at the empty desks around them, yawning. One thing he was sure of was that he was exhausted. The day hadn't been especially long or particularly trying, but he was tired nonetheless. "So, do you need a ride home?" Bobby shook his head.
"No thanks. I think I'll stay a few more minutes." The ride home would be awkward, to say the least. Alex would be torn between continuing to act as if nothing had happened and asking him how he felt; he'd be sitting there silently, counting the minutes until he could go home and fall asleep.
"All right." Alex gathered up her things, watching him fondly. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."
"Sure." Bobby leaned back in his chair, watching as his partner disappeared down the hallway. He felt strangely paralyzed there, at once unable to stay and too tired to leave. A few months ago, he'd been too scared to leave his apartment. Everything was just too bright, too bold, too threatening; every sound had been as shrill as a siren. A few weeks ago, he'd been too sad to leave his apartment. Everything was washed through in an emptiness so vast and devastating he'd just wanted to slowly dissolve, to disappear altogether. He was both scared and sad now, but the feeling was entirely different. It wasn't overwhelming. It wasn't urgent. It wasn't even intense. Instead, it was small, subtle, and almost impossible to define. Bobby closed his eyes, concentrating. What was making him so uneasy? The day hadn't gone badly, had it? It had been fine.
Bobby sighed deeply. The medication made him sleepy. It overcompensated, slowing his thoughts down so much he felt stupid. He wondered, sometimes, whether or not his quickness before had been linked with what was to come. It was almost as if the things he'd liked best about himself had rebelled. First they'd become so exaggerated he could barely stand it; then they'd disappeared altogether. The only way to stop them was to smother them in medication that made everything dull, dreary. Was this the way everybody else saw the world? Had he been special before? Or had he merely gotten accustomed to a state that wasn't natural, even for him? That was what Corinne had told him. You were manic for so long that going back to a normal state is going to feel like a let-down. Anything would be better than this, he'd replied. That's because you're depressed now, she'd told him. You'll feel much better at first once you come out of this, but after that you shouldn't be surprised if you miss it. Many patients do. It's not uncommon.
It's not uncommon, she had said. It wasn't uncommon to feel as though you'd had to witness the slow disintegration of your own personality? It wasn't uncommon to feel as though you'd had something special, something utterly unique, taken away from you? It wasn't uncommon to feel as though you were being drawn towards something that had almost destroyed your life? Bobby got to his feet and began to pack up his bag. He'd walk home, tonight; perhaps that would help. Mechanically, the tall detective buttoned up his coat, put on a hat and stepped out the door. You shouldn't be surprised if you miss it, she'd said. Miss what? Miss an artificial state of euphoria induced by a chemical imbalance in the brain, or miss feeling alert, awake, alive? What if they were really one and the same? What then?
Bobby shut the door behind him and stepped outside. It was cold and clear, the sort of day when the wind cut straight through his warmest winter coat and slapped at his skin. Maybe walking home would be a bit much. He could always walk to Times Square and take the subway from there, instead. It would be easier. And he hadn't been to Times Square in weeks. When he was at his most excited, he'd imagined himself there, surrounded by the shimmering lights. Sometimes he'd even tried to go, but he'd never made it; he'd always gotten terrified somewhere along the way. The people around him had always been about to attack him; the sounds and sights had always been too sharp, too grating. Bobby pulled on his gloves, shivering. Now he could finally go. It wasn't even too far off, really; it wouldn't take more than half an hour to get there.
Bobby walked quickly, weaving his way through the crowds. The streets were overflowing with people. There were commuters on their way home from work; there were college students out with their friends; there were families on a visit, cameras in hand. Bobby loved photography. He'd taken his camera with him once on one of his excursions out into the city in the middle of the night; he'd used up roll after roll, taking pictures of everything in sight. Sometimes he'd used the flash, as he was supposed to; sometimes he'd been in such a hurry he'd forgotten to turn it on. When he got the pictures developed he'd been surprised. The ones with the flash had been dull, ordinary; the ones he'd taken manually had been blurry but bursting forth with light. They'd been beautiful. The detective shook his head, sighing. You shouldn't be surprised if you miss it, she had said. You shouldn't be surprised.
When he arrived Bobby considered calling Alex, for a second. She could help him sort it out, couldn't she? He felt the cell phone in his pocket and pulled it out, holding it in his hand. Then he wearily returned it to its proper place. There was nothing Alex could do for him. She had already done more than enough. Bobby stared up at the fluorescent lights, at the steel and glass shine of the skyscrapers. Finally, he maneuvered his way onto an island in the middle of the road and leaned against the side of the visitor's information center. Feelings were flowing through him faster than the crowds of people were pushing past each other, faces peering forward into the night.
It hadn't been fair. That was it. For a minute Bobby tried to remind himself of his mother. He'd gone to visit her two days ago, and to see Corinne. Now that he was better she'd let him see her, too. It would be better if she never knew, she said. Not that she was likely to notice anyway. Bobby had watched the world shift and take a new shape before him; Bobby's mother didn't even see this world at all. It wasn't as if she'd know. Bobby closed his eyes for a second, picturing her. She'd been locked up for years now. That would never happen to him, would it? Sure, Corinne had wanted him to stay overnight a couple times; sure, he could still end up in a hospital if he wasn't careful. But it was different, wasn't it? Compared to her, he was lucky.
You shouldn't be surprised, she'd said. Bobby realized he was breathing fast, struggling for air. It wasn't fair. What had happened to her wasn't fair, but what had happened to him wasn't fair either. How could he work when he was so drugged up that he could barely stay awake? How could he live without the light and color, the magnificent, soaring excitement? It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair! Bobby held a gloved hand up to his face just in time to stop a solitary tear from trickling down his cheek. Shocked, he hurriedly looked around. He never cried. Even when it had been at its worst, he'd found that he couldn't. He'd burned himself intentionally, broken glass, destroyed his own possessions – all of it in the hope that the pain would make something within him break so that the tears would come out. They hadn't.
So why now? Bobby shuddered. Times Square was spread out all around him. Each second was full of patterns, light and sound and color. Light and sound, light and sound and color. Everything was fine and everything was finished and he was standing in the middle of Times Square and he was crying, without knowing why. You shouldn't be surprised, she'd said. You shouldn't be surprised. Bobby was shaking harder now. At least he'd picked Times Square as the spot to break down and cry in public. In Times Square, it was nearly impossible to be too strange. That was the marvelous thing about the city. It accepted everyone.
The events of the past few months were flowing out around him, at once unreal and even sharper than reality itself. What was he supposed to do now? What was supposed to happen now? He hardly knew who he was anymore. Everything had been shattered, shot to pieces. Before it had happened he'd had his profession and his skill at it and his stability, however precarious; while it was happening he'd had the emotions themselves. And now? Now he had neither, really. Now he had nothing…
Bobby pulled out his phone again. He had Corinne's number. She'd wanted him to call when he'd been home, unable to get out of bed. She'd wanted him to call when he'd gotten too frenzied, too frantic. She'd made him promise to call in the event of an emergency. What qualified as an emergency? Surely not this. What would he say? What would he ask her? Would he ask her why this had to happen? Would he ask her what he was supposed to do now? Would he just listen and hope she said something right? He could call Alex. He could call Alex, too.
"Sir, you can't stand there." A policeman had approached and was watching him warily. Bobby nodded and stepped silently out of the way. It was better to wander, anyway; that way it wouldn't be as cold. Beside him, a couple chattered loudly about whether or not it was too late to go to a movie. Behind him, a young woman with a camera was leaning over to take a picture of a yellow cab. In front of him the square itself hummed with energy, life. What was he supposed to do now? Bobby let the crowd carry him, following the lights and they turned from green to yellow to red. What was he supposed to do now? He flicked open his phone and hit the speed dial.
"Hello?" Bobby took a deep breath.
"I'm in Times Square."
"You are?" Alex sounded slightly perplexed. "Is–"
"Thank you." That was what he was supposed to do, Bobby realized. He was supposed to speak to the people he cared about. "Thank you. Thank you for everything. And – and I'm sorry I was slow today. I'm so slow now. I – I'm sorry, I didn't–"
"You're tired." Alex's voice was crisp. "It's okay. It's okay, Bobby. I'm glad you're back." Was that all she had to say? Bobby held on the phone, clutching it like a lifeline.
"I want to thank you and – and I want to apologize, I–"
"I'll see you tomorrow, Bobby." For a moment, Bobby was sure she'd been about to hang up. I'll see you tomorrow. In a way, it had been enough. There would be a tomorrow. He still had his job and he still had Times Square and there was still something to stand on, to start with. Wasn't there? "Wait, Bobby?" She sounded less certain now. "Is everything okay?" He paused.
"I think it is." The light turned red; the white walk sign was glowing towards him from the other side. Bobby took a step forward. "I think it is. I think it will be."