Lot's of peopl have done post-Rage fics, as we should depending on how we felt about the episode, but I wanted to try a different take on how Elliot would be during his tirade and then after the credits rolled. So here's my version. Love to get reviews.


I can't quote the Bible
I skipped Sunday school
And I can't count the times I fell and broke the Golden Rule
So I don't know if he listens
Sometimes I wonder if he cares
Maybe I'm just wishing
'Cause I can't even prove he's there

Chourus:
But I pray
He'll watch over my children
I pray
Just to be a better man
To find the strength to rise above
To be there for the ones I love
To forgive and be forgiven some sweet day
I pray

Now I confess that I don't bow my head as often as I should
Mostly just when times are bad, rarely when they're good
And I don't hold with too much preachin'
But I was raised up to believe
That a man can't ever stand as tall
As when he gets down on his knees

Chourus:
But I pray
He'll watch over my children
I pray
Just to be a better man
To find the strength to rise above
To be there for the ones I love
To forgive and be forgiven some sweet day
I pray

Chorus 2:
So I pray
For a word that's gone half crazy
I pray
For every woman child and man
To find the strength to rise above
To teach each other how to love
To forgive and be forgiven some sweet day
I pray
I pray

My knuckles burn, as if I had lit candles and rested my hands over them. The sting of skin to metal feel's better than what I feel inside though..

Rickett's angering, smug features burn my eyes and I slowly sit down on the bench with my face in my bloodied hands.

I feel the tears begin to pool at the bottom of my eyes, squeezing my eyes closed I let the the salty water flow down my cheeks. I'm on my knee's at this point, there's so much I'm trying so hard to understand, so much of the pieces of me I'm trying to sift through.

"God", I hear myself whisper.

"It's been awhile since we talked, huh? I guess that's my fault, like a lot of things are as of late. My faith's been disturbed and I don't know how to talk to You anymore without yelling, that's the problem..."

I trail off because this feel's strange. With a shaky sigh I lower my hands to fold them, my eyes are still closed against what I don't need to see right now.

"I pray that you watch over the little ones who are violated, who don't know or can't understand that they aren't worthless. I pray that you give strength to the afflicted, both the perps and their vics. I pray that you take care of my own kids, that you help my wife see I need them. I pray- for myself, my best friend, my colleagues..."

Tears are freefalling down the papery skin of my contorted face. I don't try to stop them anymore because I think I know where my...where my... rage comes from. My rage comes from grief, from years of distance between myself and everyone else. I've been throwing myself in to work so I don't have to be at my vacant residence. That act has pushed my sorrow inside, inward where I wallow in it without really recognizing what the emotion is.

"Oh God, I'm not him! I am not Rickett!"

Pressing the heels of my hands in to my eyes I sob. I sob because I know, intellectually, that I am not like the perverts and animals we collar everyday. Emotionally, however, I still need convincing.

I usually train my mind to tell me that shrinks are useless. Maybe I was wrong...

On unsteady feet I walk to the stairs leading to the squadroom, no on is down there, but for the captain who is in his office. The blinds are slightly drawn so I use the railing to help me down the staircase.

At my desk I sit down and pick up the phone, my fingertip punches each numbered button until I put it to my ear and wait for someone to pick up.

"Hello?"

"Uh, hi Doc."

"Elliot, what's up?" he can hear the defeat in my tone.

"Um, I need to make an appointment to see you."

I can't believe I'm doing this.

"OK, tomorrow 9:00am."

"I'll be there. Thanks" I think I might be feeling a little better, but I can't really tell.

"No problem. Good Night Elliot, get some sleep."

"Yea, 'night."

We hang up and I sit back in my chair. Suddenly the searing pain in my hands really registers in me. I cautiously gaze down at them, the blood is caked and drying but still trickling.

I guess I should go to the hospital and get them cleaned up. Perhaps cleaning up my torn knuckles is the start of cleaning the rest of me...


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