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"And often the worst thing wasn't the victims—they were dead, after all, and beyond anymore pain. The worst thing was those who'd loved them and survived them. Often the walking dead from now on, shell-shocked, hearts ruptured, stumbling through the remainder of their lives without anything left inside of them but blood and organs, impervious to pain, having learned nothing except that the worst things did, in fact, sometimes happen"
-----Dennis Lehane, Mystic River
Breaking Points
Monk hears her laughing. He stops for a moment, listens to the voice rumble against the walls and slap against corners, darting here and there so it surrounds him, leaving him feeling oddly sad. Because he can't make her laugh, not like this, he can make her angry, but how is that a solid foundation for a relationship? When it seems to fade, when once again the room is silent and cold, he makes his way through the hall to where the chuckling originated.
He sees Disher jotting something on his pad and shaking his head, a grin plastered over his face. Sharona sits on a couch, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling, as if she is still inwardly replaying whatever made her laugh in her head, as if it's the most wonderful thing she has ever heard. The two seem to sober at Monk's entrance and this makes him a little scared. The idea creeps up his back and nestles in his ears that maybe, just maybe, they were laughing at him. He remembers back at school huge whoops of amusement that would suddenly die down at the slightest turn of his head. As if some mute button had been pressed, a joke squashed in mid air, still haunting the room. Back then he knew he was the object of their ridicule. But now...now he can't be sure.
"What was so funny?"
"Nothing, you wouldn't get it," Sharona says. She's not being mean. She's just honest. He probably wouldn't get it; still, he would have laughed. Smiled. Nodded. Something. Just to be included.
"Find anything?" Disher asks, looking up, suddenly serious. Monk narrows his eyes, he's kind of angry. Doesn't want to be, just is. Because Disher should be working, Disher shouldn't be in this room alone with Sharona, laughing like juveniles. It's a crime scene, doesn't that mean anything anymore?
"I don't know," He...he's tired. He just wants to go home. Suddenly everything is glaring, too bright and the world feels like it's just turning faster and faster and he's afraid he's going to be thrown off. He can hear their laughter in his head, playing like a record over and over.
"Adrian, are you okay?" Sharona asks, concern sprouting on her forehead. Not okay. Definitely not okay. He feels like hitting something, hard. Not too hard, not hard enough to crack it or sends things flying off cause that would make a mess but hard enough so that people would know...he can't take it anymore. Sharona comes towards him, hands outstretched, ready to catch him. He wants to fall into her arms, he wants her to never let go, he wants her to promise to be with him forever. But she won't, she can't, and as much as it hurts him, he understands.
"I need to go," Adrian mumbles. Sharona looks at Disher and then back at Monk.
"Okay." She says softly. Disher looks surprised, eyes wide, hand locked in a position ready to receive notes he won't be getting.
"Monk, are you coming back? Stottlemeyer is coming any second,"
"We'll be back," Sharona promises Disher as she guides Monk out the door and out of the house and into her car. The attitude immediately changes as soon as they approach the vehicle. She slams her door shut, curls bouncing in reaction to her anger. Throwing her purse in the back, she shoves the keys in, starts the car. Monk can tell this is not going to be pleasant.
They drive in silence, Adrian wanting to say so many things that he can't.
"Slow down," He says instead of I love you.
"What's going on?" Sharona snaps in response. He looks outside the window, counts the number of trees going by and pretends he didn't hear the question.
"Adrian, did you hear me?"
"Yes," He mutters. "I'm not well."
"You're never well." She mutters.
"Right," He admits and looks back out the window.
"That was so unprofessional what you did back there." Sharona exclaims suddenly, gripping the steering wheel harder and speeding up. Monk fidgets in his seat, too scared to say anything because he fears she'll go even faster.
"Don't worry," He says because it's the first thing that pops into his head. It's more to reassure himself than her. She turns to him.
"I have to worry; when you get paid I get paid."
"Okay, let's turn around."
"Really?"
"No, pull over."
"Pull over?" She cries. "Are you crazy?" Suddenly it seems clear, like this is his moment, his chance. Away from everything, away from Disher.
"Maybe," He says. Maybe he's crazy but he just has to do it. Sharona stops with a screech, dust flying up around them. She stares in front of her, fuming, sucking in and out angry breaths. The air in the car is hot and suffocating, spiked with awkwardness. He swallows carefully, his hands are shaking but he lifts them to her face. She reacts immediately, swatting them away.
"What are you doing?" She demands. He's doing what he should have done a long time ago.
"Just, just stop." He pleads. She lets out a loud sigh.
"Stop what? I don't know what you are doing, this is ridiculous..." Now. He grabs her face and presses his lips to hers. There's a million butterflies swarming in his stomach and they bump and flutter against his insides. He can feel this spark inside of him igniting, crackling, cells coming together and colliding. When they pull apart the flavor of her strawberry Chap Stick lingers for ages, buzzing against his mouth like a secret.
In the time that expires afterwards, perhaps a few seconds, Monk stares at the glove compartment and waits for her response. And just as she is opening her mouth, just as he lifts his head up to receive the news he has been waiting so long to hear, the moment is shattered by a knock on the window and Stottlemeyer's angry face peering inside.
That was embarrassing.
But perhaps the one image Monk will never be able to shake out of his head is how Disher looked when he and Sharona stepped out of the car. Standing there, wobbling in the wind, cracked, broken, but trying with all his might to maintain his dignity. He looked like he had lost something and was trying to figure out where he had left it. Stottlemeyer mumbled words, but it wasn't important; all Monk could do was stare at Disher. He didn't want to, he desperately tried to tear himself away, tried to ignore it. He couldn't.
Like Trudy's voice, Disher's face will forever be circling Adrian's thoughts, whirling through his dreams, plaguing every moment he might ever have with Sharona. Monk has learned these types of things never leave you.
Some things just haunt you forever.
"And often the worst thing wasn't the victims—they were dead, after all, and beyond anymore pain. The worst thing was those who'd loved them and survived them. Often the walking dead from now on, shell-shocked, hearts ruptured, stumbling through the remainder of their lives without anything left inside of them but blood and organs, impervious to pain, having learned nothing except that the worst things did, in fact, sometimes happen"
-----Dennis Lehane, Mystic River
Breaking Points
Monk hears her laughing. He stops for a moment, listens to the voice rumble against the walls and slap against corners, darting here and there so it surrounds him, leaving him feeling oddly sad. Because he can't make her laugh, not like this, he can make her angry, but how is that a solid foundation for a relationship? When it seems to fade, when once again the room is silent and cold, he makes his way through the hall to where the chuckling originated.
He sees Disher jotting something on his pad and shaking his head, a grin plastered over his face. Sharona sits on a couch, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling, as if she is still inwardly replaying whatever made her laugh in her head, as if it's the most wonderful thing she has ever heard. The two seem to sober at Monk's entrance and this makes him a little scared. The idea creeps up his back and nestles in his ears that maybe, just maybe, they were laughing at him. He remembers back at school huge whoops of amusement that would suddenly die down at the slightest turn of his head. As if some mute button had been pressed, a joke squashed in mid air, still haunting the room. Back then he knew he was the object of their ridicule. But now...now he can't be sure.
"What was so funny?"
"Nothing, you wouldn't get it," Sharona says. She's not being mean. She's just honest. He probably wouldn't get it; still, he would have laughed. Smiled. Nodded. Something. Just to be included.
"Find anything?" Disher asks, looking up, suddenly serious. Monk narrows his eyes, he's kind of angry. Doesn't want to be, just is. Because Disher should be working, Disher shouldn't be in this room alone with Sharona, laughing like juveniles. It's a crime scene, doesn't that mean anything anymore?
"I don't know," He...he's tired. He just wants to go home. Suddenly everything is glaring, too bright and the world feels like it's just turning faster and faster and he's afraid he's going to be thrown off. He can hear their laughter in his head, playing like a record over and over.
"Adrian, are you okay?" Sharona asks, concern sprouting on her forehead. Not okay. Definitely not okay. He feels like hitting something, hard. Not too hard, not hard enough to crack it or sends things flying off cause that would make a mess but hard enough so that people would know...he can't take it anymore. Sharona comes towards him, hands outstretched, ready to catch him. He wants to fall into her arms, he wants her to never let go, he wants her to promise to be with him forever. But she won't, she can't, and as much as it hurts him, he understands.
"I need to go," Adrian mumbles. Sharona looks at Disher and then back at Monk.
"Okay." She says softly. Disher looks surprised, eyes wide, hand locked in a position ready to receive notes he won't be getting.
"Monk, are you coming back? Stottlemeyer is coming any second,"
"We'll be back," Sharona promises Disher as she guides Monk out the door and out of the house and into her car. The attitude immediately changes as soon as they approach the vehicle. She slams her door shut, curls bouncing in reaction to her anger. Throwing her purse in the back, she shoves the keys in, starts the car. Monk can tell this is not going to be pleasant.
They drive in silence, Adrian wanting to say so many things that he can't.
"Slow down," He says instead of I love you.
"What's going on?" Sharona snaps in response. He looks outside the window, counts the number of trees going by and pretends he didn't hear the question.
"Adrian, did you hear me?"
"Yes," He mutters. "I'm not well."
"You're never well." She mutters.
"Right," He admits and looks back out the window.
"That was so unprofessional what you did back there." Sharona exclaims suddenly, gripping the steering wheel harder and speeding up. Monk fidgets in his seat, too scared to say anything because he fears she'll go even faster.
"Don't worry," He says because it's the first thing that pops into his head. It's more to reassure himself than her. She turns to him.
"I have to worry; when you get paid I get paid."
"Okay, let's turn around."
"Really?"
"No, pull over."
"Pull over?" She cries. "Are you crazy?" Suddenly it seems clear, like this is his moment, his chance. Away from everything, away from Disher.
"Maybe," He says. Maybe he's crazy but he just has to do it. Sharona stops with a screech, dust flying up around them. She stares in front of her, fuming, sucking in and out angry breaths. The air in the car is hot and suffocating, spiked with awkwardness. He swallows carefully, his hands are shaking but he lifts them to her face. She reacts immediately, swatting them away.
"What are you doing?" She demands. He's doing what he should have done a long time ago.
"Just, just stop." He pleads. She lets out a loud sigh.
"Stop what? I don't know what you are doing, this is ridiculous..." Now. He grabs her face and presses his lips to hers. There's a million butterflies swarming in his stomach and they bump and flutter against his insides. He can feel this spark inside of him igniting, crackling, cells coming together and colliding. When they pull apart the flavor of her strawberry Chap Stick lingers for ages, buzzing against his mouth like a secret.
In the time that expires afterwards, perhaps a few seconds, Monk stares at the glove compartment and waits for her response. And just as she is opening her mouth, just as he lifts his head up to receive the news he has been waiting so long to hear, the moment is shattered by a knock on the window and Stottlemeyer's angry face peering inside.
That was embarrassing.
But perhaps the one image Monk will never be able to shake out of his head is how Disher looked when he and Sharona stepped out of the car. Standing there, wobbling in the wind, cracked, broken, but trying with all his might to maintain his dignity. He looked like he had lost something and was trying to figure out where he had left it. Stottlemeyer mumbled words, but it wasn't important; all Monk could do was stare at Disher. He didn't want to, he desperately tried to tear himself away, tried to ignore it. He couldn't.
Like Trudy's voice, Disher's face will forever be circling Adrian's thoughts, whirling through his dreams, plaguing every moment he might ever have with Sharona. Monk has learned these types of things never leave you.
Some things just haunt you forever.
