Title: Wilted Petals
Author: ScarlettMithruiel
Classification: A
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: CSI doesn't belong to me. If it did…oh, the horror!
Summary: A simple crack. And then two more. Three shots total. So simple and primitive, yet it held so many meanings and ramifications.
Author's Note: Definitely angst. Definitely character death. If it's not your thing, please…turn away. Are they in character? If they're not, deepest apologies.
The scene was supposed to be clear. That was all he could think in his self-induced haze. Rage, a shade of burgundy from its age, flooded through his veins once again. The scene was supposed to be clear. He had recognized a long time ago that he was part of a whole, and nothing more. He went to work, did his job, and no more. He had to work hard at it, and not be happy with adequacy, but he knew that he couldn't overstep his bounds and presume someone to be guilty who was, for all intents and purposes, innocent. This was a joint relationship with the police. The police would tell them it was safe, and they would go in. A relationship of trust. He laughed loudly and bitterly in the empty room. Trust no one.
His eyes were surprisingly dry and clear. They did not sting from burning tears, and they were not red from shedding them. His soul was empty, and he no longer truly felt anything. He was a shell. Emotional bleakness surrounded him, like nightshade, utterly obliterating the good moods of those around him. Rookies feared working with him. Bottles lay scattered around him, drained of their liquid. The beer bottles were in the corner, abandoned in search for a deeper pain or a stronger nepenthe. Something to make him forget. He had vodka out, swigging from the bottle messily, almost as if he was a pirate. Yo-ho-ho, a pirate's life for me.
He'd be the perfect pirate, wouldn't he? Alone and cold, he would walk the earth. He swigged from the bottle again, some of the clear liquid he desired so much seeping from his mouth. He remembered the events of the day clearer than he wanted to. He wanted to forget, to pretend that his heart had never split by the seams and was beating perfunctorily, rather than his own wishes.
It had been their case. The officer had informed them that the scene was clear. Dirty, fucking liar. The logical side of his brain reasoned that the suspect had probably been hiding somewhere and that the officer had believed the scene to be clear. The emotional side of his brain had repeated the phrase again. He shot from somewhere unseen. He couldn't recall where the suspect had leapt. He had stopped caring when he heard it.
A simple crack. And then two more. Three shots total. So simple and primitive, yet it held so many meanings and ramifications. The rational half of his mind realized that her chance of survival was slim, considering they had all struck within the abdominal cavity. He watched her face. He was horrified, but his expression did not betray anything. She grimaced with its initial impact, falling to the ground. The crimson fanned out neatly, as if in a work of Jackson Pollack. How quickly the crimson spread. It was a plague. A plague upon her flesh. She panted anxiously, quickly covering herself in a sheen of sweat. She winced against the pain.
He had not remembered rushing to her side, but apparently, he had. She had gripped his hand and stared up at him, with those espresso eyes he loved so much. They held so much, meant so much, to him. With a shuddering gasp, she clenched his hand tightly, and released him. He had chased after the suspect with the police, rage burning in his eyes. Rage against the dying of the light. He couldn't recall the poet. He could care less.
Every anniversary since, he had a red rose delivered to her grave. He was reminded of Joe DiMaggio, delivering flowers to Marilyn Monroe's grave every year on her death, until he, himself, succumbed to the Reaper. He took another swig of the burning liquid, thankful. Another red rose, another year gone.
He leaned his head back against the cool tile. Her words resounded in his head and he felt another ache in his soul. You know, by the time you figure it out, you really could be too late.