Chapter 7
She was huddled in the back of the closet, knees pulled up to her chin, trembling. The arguing had stopped, but she didn't dare move from her spot. She was alone, but then she wasn't.
"Maggie?" she questioned as the little girl appeared next to her in the closet.
"Shh..." she whispered. "We have to be quiet, or else he will find us."
"He who?" But her question was asked to emptiness. Maggie was gone. In a blink of the eye the closet was gone too, and she was standing in a hallway. Green shag carpet crept up between the toes of her bare feet. She was standing in front of a door, and as much as she didn't want to open it, her hand seemed to act of its own volition. The door swung open and a scream echoed from within the room. The walls were red, dripping, bleeding. She tried to enter the room, but crime scene tape blocked the door. Pushing and shoving, she finally forced her way into the room. The door swung closed behind her, and she knew without testing that it was locked.
The room was empty except for the dead body in the middle of the room. First it was her father, laying there with the knife at his side as she had seen him twenty years ago. He faded away, to be replaced with the bruised and still form of Debra. In an instant Debra was gone, and it was Kay Shelton laying there, bugs filling the room until the air was so think the blood on the walls was no longer visible. She closed her eyes, skin creeping at the sight of so many bugs. When she opened them it was to find Linley Parker curled up in a fetal position on the floor. The sight lasted only for a moment, and when Linley's body disappeared it was replaced with a bloody and battered Maggie stretched out on the ground.
"No! Oh God, no." She tried to rush to the girl, needing to feel for a heart beat, breathing, any sign she was still alive. The harder she tried to reach the center of the room and Maggie, though, the farther away it seemed to get.
"Maggie? Maggie!"
"Maggie!" Sara shot up in bed, waking herself with a mix of fear and pain, as she hit her foot against the footboard of the bed. For a moment she was still stuck in the empty room, still paralyzed by the litany of bodies that flashed before her eyes. Her vision focused, and for a minute she was even more confused. She was no longer locked in the nightmare, but she wasn't in the familiar surroundings of her own bedroom either. Another sweep of the room and she took in the surroundings more carefully, her heart stopping when she came to the still form in the bed beside her. Grissom. Of all the faces that had taunted her, she was grateful his was not among them. Grissom dead, even in the illusionary world of her dreams, was not something she could cope with.
As quietly as possible, Sara slipped out of the bed. She needed to escape the cobwebs of her dream, needed to move around and turn on lights, prove to herself that there was no secret room dripping blood here.
"Sara?" His voice was deep and husky from sleep. Grissom woke up the instant he felt her leave the bed.
"I'm sorry." Sorry for waking you up, sorry for shutting you out, sorry for being such a bitch.
"You're leaving?" Still half asleep, he took in the fact that she was full dressed but didn't remember that he had placed her in bed that way.
"No. God, no." She hated that that was the first thing he thought, and knew it was entirely her own fault. "I just can't be in bed anymore. I might fall asleep."
"You had another nightmare," he stated, understanding.
Sara nodded.
"Tell me about it." He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Clad only in boxers, he reached over to open the top drawer of the dresser and pull out a t-shirt. Pulling it over his head, he stood up and joined Sara in the doorway of the room. Clasping her hand in his, he led her from the room and pulled her down the hallway to the couch.
She wasn't sure, until she started speaking, how much she was going to tell him. Curled up in the corner of the couch, legs pulled up in a position that mimicked that of her nightmare, she released the story that had been held inside for so long. Rather then tell of the nightmare, or even the events of the last few weeks, she started at the beginning.
"My first memory is of my parents arguing. I must have been about three, old enough to sleep in a regular bed. It wasn't unusual, to hear them going at it, but it scared me. Every time, I would wake up. Every single time, I would feel scared. Benny would come in my room, creeping in more quietly then a little boy should have to. He'd sit with me on the bed, hold my hand." Sara looked down to where Grissom's hand joined hers. Different hand, but the same unconditional
offering of support.
"Sometimes it was just the yelling. They would argue for hours, and then it was a silent alarm went off and they were done. Sometimes, though, it wouldn't stop at yells. The next day at breakfast my mother would be moving slowly, wearing pants and long sleeved shirts even in the summer. He usually avoided her face. Anything else was fair game, but he was smart. Didn't bruise the places she couldn't hide."
"Did he..." Grissom bit his lip, fighting to hold in the words that he knew needed to come out. Words he knew would hurt her, bring up old recollections she would rather leave buried. But he also knew how painful memories can fester, seeping into the present. He forced himself to finish the thought. "Did he ever hit you?"
She didn't answer, just looked at him and closed her eyes before nodding ever so slightly. Grissom was glad her eyes were closed. He was sure that the raw rage that filled him was clearly visible, and she didn't need that right now. The picture of a young Sara, with a black eye or bruised skin made him want to lash out and hit something. Better yet, someone. Because of the anger he felt, he was extra cautious with his movements. As if moving in slow motion, he trailed his fingers down the side of her face, his thumbs caressing her eyelids until they fluttered open under his touch. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
"As horrible as it was when he... when my mom..." Died. Killed. She couldn't say either one out loud. She used them everyday, part of the common vocabulary for a CSI. When it came to her past, the words took on a whole different meaning.
"...it was a nightmare, but it was also a relief. My father was dead, and after the shock wore of my first thought was that I wouldn't ever have to hide from him again."
"It's a perfectly normal reaction, given the situation."
"Normal?" she spat out, jumping off the couch. "Normal, to look at the body of my father laying in a pool of blood and feel joy? To look at the knife in my mother's hand and feel grateful? Yeah, Griss, that's real fucking normal."
Grissom grabbed her arm and yanked her to him, no longer carrying about being gentle or restraining his emotions. He dropped her arm to move his hand to her face, pressing a palm to each side of her head and forcing her to look at him.
"You were a kid. The two people who should have protected you from the world made it hell for you instead. None of it was your fault." Sara tried to turn her head, look away from his intense stare. Grissom wouldn't let her escape. "None of it. You did the best you could. You survived. That's what matters. You lived through the nightmare, and you're here."
She understood what he was saying on a rational level, had said the same things to herself a thousand times. The darkest parts of the heart don't listen to logic and reason, though, and in those deep recesses she was still a lost little girl looking for a hand to hold.
"Sometimes, when the nightmares come, I'm afraid I won't wake up. There are days I'm afraid to go to sleep."
Grissom softened his hold on her, sliding his hands around to cup the back of her neck and pull her into him.
"When the nightmares come, I will wake you up. If you need to be awake, I'll stay up with you," he whispered in her ear, not caring how irrational or corny he sounded. His only needed was to offer her reassurance and make it crystal clear that she was not alone.
Pulling back far enough to see her reaction, he was relieved to find that the haunted look was gone from her face. Salty trails of tears were drying along her cheeks, and Grissom softly kissed each one as if the action could erase the cause of the tears. His lips followed the trail down her cheek, veering to the side when he reached her lips. Softly at first, then with more energy he kissed her. She opened her mouth to his unspoken plea, leaning into the man and the kiss. She tasted of tears and strawberries, he tasted of cinnamon and cloves. Together they sunk into the flavors and textures, pushing the heavy thoughts and painful subjects away. They both needed to forget the events of the past twenty-four hours, and remind themselves that there was still good and light in the world.
Grissom reached for Sara's hand and lead her back down the hallway to the bed they had abandoned earlier. He lowered her onto the tangle of sheets, and she quickly pulled him down to join her. It was a long time before either slept, and when they did the nightmares stayed away.
