Author's Note: Rereading this chapter I realize that I haven't been very nice to Sara either. Oy Vey. I suppose it's because I see her as someone who doesn't handle other people's emotions very well. Of course, I could be wrong. :-)

By the way, thank you all for your kind reviews! Here is the penultimate chapter. Final chapter should be posted by Thursday.

-&-

Chapter 6: Floodgates

Sara hangs around the rest of the day, reading my magazines, hogging the T.V. remote. I don't really mind. I can't concentrate long enough to really watch T.V. anyway. Sara channel-surfs like a maniac, pausing on each station only long enough to hear a few words, then she's on to the next. Finally she jabs the power button and tosses the remote onto the couch.

"So, whaddya want for dinner?" she asks me suddenly. I blink at her.

She shoots me a look that says she's annoyed, but I don't know why. "You know, dinner. That meal at the end of the day."

There is a long stretch of silence.

Sara: How about Chinese food?

Me: (small shrug)

Sara: Mexican? Italian? What about pizza?

I shrug again. I don't really care what I eat anymore.

Her voice rises. "Come on, Nick! Give me a little feedback here."

I stare at her, wishing I knew what to do to make her happy. She jumps up and stalks to the kitchen, returning with a notepad and pen.

"Fine, you don't wanna talk. Then write something down, for Crissake! Just give me something!"

She shoves the notepad and pen into my hand. I put the tip of the pen to the paper, but get no further. I can't write any more than I could type. I try to force the pen to move, but it stays stubbornly still.

I squeeze the pen harder and harder, until finally it breaks with a sharp "snap". Ink spurts over my hand. Anger rises in my chest and the ink turns from gray to red. Jerking my hand back, I fling the pen at the wall, where it explodes in a shower of crimson, splattering the counter and floor.

"Nick!" Sara shouts at me. "Nick!"

I stare at the wall, mesmerized by the bright red splatter, like arterial spray. Sara grabs me by the shoulders and yanks me around to face her.

"What is wrong with you!" she screams in my face. "Talk to me! Why won't you talk to me!

I freak. Tearing away from her grasp with a strangled cry, I sprint down the hallway, with no particular destination in mind. The bathroom door is open so I dart in, slamming the door shut behind me. My fingers fumble with the lock. I can't see it clearly, something is wrong with my eyes.

As soon as the door is locked, I slam my back against the wall, fists clenched, and slide down into the small space between the sink and tub. My chest is heaving, shoulders shuddering with every breath. I feel a sob force its way up through my throat, and then the tears come, a torrent of sobs that won't stop. I can't even catch my breath I'm crying so hard.

My thoughts jump incoherently from one topic to another. Everything is all jumbled up. I feel the ants again, the gun against my jaw; I see Warrick's face, distorted through the plexiglass, then he is gone; bright light in my eyes, dim green of the glowsticks, big D Disappointment on my mom's face, gum in my ears, a muzzleflash. The images swirl in my mind, appearing and disappearing before I can fix on anything.

Dimly I hear Sara's voice through the door. "Nick, I'm sorry."

I continue to sob uncontrollably, pounding my already bruised fists against my knees, the tub, the cabinet. "Nick!" she calls again. "Nicky, please, open the door."

After a moment her voice trails off to silence. I have a disjointed thought--Don't leave me alone! But I can't get up, I have lost control of my legs.

I hear a scratching noise at the door, then a series of clicks. "Nick, I'm coming in," Sara says.

The door swings open, and Sara's shadow falls over me. I cover my face with my arms and don't look at her. She kneels down in front of me, puts her hands on mine. "I'm so sorry," she says quietly.

I cry and cry. All the tears that were locked inside since the incident force their way out through my shattered floodgates. Sara holds me wordlessly while I cry myself out.

-&-

Finally the tears dry up. I seem to have no liquid left in my body, I've cried it all out. Sara hands me a damp washcloth and I wipe my face, grateful for the coolness against my skin.

In the end, she orders Chinese food for dinner. She makes a couple of awkward comments while I choke down a few bites, then falls silent. I go to bed immediately after dinner, escaping as quickly as possible.

I hope that tonight I'll be able to sleep. I'm certainly exhausted enough. My eyes still burn and my head aches from my tears. But sleep is as elusive as ever.

After nearly an hour of staring at the ceiling, I hear Sara's muffled voice, talking on her cell phone. I can't make out what she's saying. A morbid curiosity overcomes my innate feelings of guilt at eavesdropping, so I creep from the bed and put my ear against the door. Her voice is a little clearer now; I can understand about half of what she's saying.

". . . made him cr. . . know I don't handle it very well when. . . just being stubborn. . . think he's doing it on purp. . . I saw the CT. . . was fine. . . there's nothing. . .he could talk if. . .I don't know why!"

Her voice rises on the last phrase, then suddenly drops off. "Just a second. . ." I hear her say, then her footsteps fade away. She has moved out of earshot.

I lie back down on my bed and ponder what she said. Did she mean there was nothing wrong on the CT? That would be good news, of course. On the other hand, that means I still don't know what's causing my silence. Despite Sara's assertions, I'm pretty sure I'm not doing it on purpose.

With these thoughts swirling through my head, I finally drift off to sleep, only to wake up some time later, gasping and pushing at the lid of my box. A box which, of course, disappears as soon as I open my eyes. I sit up in bed, pushing my trembling hand through my sweaty hair as I wait for the vision to fade.

Finally I lie back down and sleep again, and again wake up sweating and trembling. After the third time, I give it up as pointless. I'm not going to get any more sleep tonight.

With a sigh I drag myself from my bed and check the clock. Nearly three a.m. Great. I still have hours before daylight. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and pad barefoot to the bathroom, where I splash water on my face, and take a good, hard look at myself in the mirror. The bite marks have nearly all faded, except a few that will probably scar. They barely even itch anymore.

My eyes, on the other hand, are encircled with dark smudges, and my cheekbones stand out starkly in my pale skin. I look skeletal. I've seen D.B.s that look more lifelike.

My eyes light on the bottle of pills that Dr. Clark gave me. I took one before bedtime, but now I'm suddenly thinking that a few more won't hurt.

I shake several of the little pills out into my hand and stare at them. Might be nice, not to have to think, not to have to feel this crappy anymore. My mind follows that thought to its logical conclusion: that I'd end up back in a box, buried underground again. Not a pleasant notion. I quickly return the pills to the bottle and set it back down on the counter. The easy way out doesn't seem quite so easy anymore.

Still clutching the blanket around my shoulders, I shuffle down the hall to the living room. Sara is stretched out on the couch on her stomach, sound asleep with the TV still on, muted. I stare at her for a moment, feeling an irrational surge of jealousy at how peaceful she looks. I can't remember ever sleeping that deeply or serenely.

After several minutes, I lie down on the floor in front of the coffee table, pulling the blanket in tighter around my shoulders. The blue light from the TV makes everything look a little surreal, so I try to concentrate on that instead of the fears that crowd in around me. It's a long wait until daylight.

-&-

Grissom comes over about noon the next day. Sara seems to know he's coming, but his sudden arrival is a surprise to me. I wonder if maybe they think that since I can't talk, I can't hear or understand either, so they just don't tell me anything.

Grissom and Sara talk quietly in the kitchen for a few minutes, while I sit on the couch with the TV on the Nature Channel, and try not to eavesdrop. I think she must have been talking to him last night on the phone, in the conversation that I overheard. I wish they would talk to me, really talk to me, not just meaningless chatter. But nobody seems willing to talk to me about the "incident", or how I'm coping. They all just walk on eggshells around me, as if I'm fragile. Maybe I am fragile. Maybe they know something I don't.

After a while, Grissom comes in and sits beside me, his face completely expressionless. I wonder what he's thinking, like I always do. Grissom has always been a complete mystery to me.

Sara gathers her stuff quickly and scoots out the door with a hurried, "Bye" thrown over her shoulder. As soon as she's gone, Grissom picks up the remote and switches the TV off. I blink at him.

Grissom: Let's try to communicate, huh?

Me:

Grissom: I know you can't talk, and Sara told me you weren't able to write. But what about signing?

Me:

He quirks a half-smile at me. "Haven't tried that yet, have you?"

I shake my head. I don't even know any signs, beyond a few rude gestures that I'm pretty sure are not what he's talking about.

"Ok, then, are you willing to give it a try?"

I shrug carefully. I'm wary of failing and looking like an idiot, again, in front of Grissom. On the other hand, my need to please him is greater than my fear of failure. God, I'm like a puppy! Why do I always act this way around Grissom?

Grissom favors me with a half-smile again, his version of an enthusiastic grin, and raises his hands. "Let's start with your name. N is like this." He makes a fist, his first two fingers folded over his thumb. After a moment I copy him, awkwardly.

"Great! Here is how to make the I, C, and K." He makes them quickly, too fast for me to follow, then smiles at me expectantly. I try to imitate what I think I saw, but I can't get it straight. His smile morphs into a frown. I feel a flash of irritation at him. What does he expect of me, anyway? Or maybe I'm just irritated at myself, for my inability to live up to his expectations.

"Maybe that's too much. Just do this." He makes the N again, and puts the right fist against his left shoulder. "That can be a name sign for now. We can think of a better one later."

I'm not sure if there will be a later, at least not for sign language, but Grissom seems enthusiastic, so I let it ride.

"Ok, how about 'My name is Nick.' Let's try that." He put his palm flat on his chest. "My" he says with a nod at me.

I copy the motion, palm flat on my chest. I can feel the pounding of my heart. I know what I'm afraid of--failure. Screwing up in front of Grissom.

He puts out the first two fingers of each hand and taps them together. "Name." I obediently tap my fingers together. His grin widens.

He makes the N and puts it against his shoulder. "Nick." I fold my fingers over my thumb and touch it to my shoulder. Grissom is sporting a full smile now. "You did it!" he exclaims. "Now, do it again. By yourself."

I freeze. Copying Grissom is one thing, but it was just hand movements. Meaningless. I can't get my hands to move on their own. I stare at them in frustration.

"Remember? Start with 'my'." He puts his palm against his chest. My hand comes up automatically to copy. My heart is racing now, because I know that I'm about to Disappoint Grissom again.

I screw my eyes shut, hand still against my chest, and try to remember what comes next, but it's just blankness. I feel Grissom's hands take mine, moving my fingers for the next word. I pull away, stiffly. I can't do it.

"Nick. . ."

I don't look at him. I don't want to see the Disappointment in his eyes. I ball my hands into fists and slam them against my knees in frustration. It hurts, so I do it again, and again. I feel Grissom's fingers around my wrists. "Nick, stop it." His voice is quiet but firm. I can't help but obey, which stills my hands but at the same time increases my irritation.

"Nick, I'm not disappointed in you," he says quietly. "I've never been disappointed in you."

He has my attention now. Obviously he's lying. My head comes up and I glare at him in challenge. His eyes are horribly sad.

"I'm so proud of you, for surviving. You faced a terrible situation and you found a way through it. You saved yourself."

Why is he saying these things? He must know I won't believe him. I'm miserable enough, I don't need him throwing it in my face. I shake my head vigorously.

"I did some research on Pancho," he says abruptly, a complete non-sequiter. "He was the Cisco Kid's screw-up sidekick."

Pancho? What does my father's teasing nickname for me have to do with anything? And how does he even know about that?

"I don't see you that way," Grissom says carefully. "I'm sorry I called you that."

I don't remember Grissom calling me Pancho. Only my father calls me that, ever since I fell out of a tree at age eight, and broke my arm for the third time. I shake my head in annoyed confusion.

"I'm not sorry I made you promise, but I'm sorry I called you Pancho. That's not who you are."

What did he make me promise? Why don't I remember? But it doesn't matter. I shake my head again, harder this time.

"Nick . . ." he starts to say, but then trails off, staring at me in that pensive way of his, that look that always makes me sweat. Not this time.

Still shaking my head, I push his hands away and stand up. I turn and walk down the hall to my bedroom, carefully controlling the urge to put another hole in the wall. I close the door slowly and then stand by it, listening for footsteps following me, but they don't come.

I flop down face first on my bed and put my pillow over my head. My heart is racing, I can hear it in my ears. I grip the pillow in clenched fists. I'm angry at Grissom, but I don't know why. He was only trying to help. I'm the one who screwed up.

I've always believed everything Grissom said. He's Grissom. He knows everything. But not this time. It doesn't matter what Grissom says, because I am Pancho. I've always been Pancho.

-&-

One more chapter to go. . .