Title: Inside My Coffin

Disclaimer: Slash. Suicide. Angst. Language.

POV: Nick

Chapter Eight: Inside the Box

"Nick, I need you to take this evidence to the locker in the basement," Grissom says.

I look at the older man who is dressed in all black. Again. I wonder if maybe he suffers from depression. He hands me a box with red tape sealing it closed. My eyes glance at the case number. It sends shivers down my spine.

"I was not aware that this case was solved," I remark.

Grissom raises an eyebrow. "The father confessed to everything. Day shift ran through the evidence and found that it fit his story. He'll be in jail for a long time. If we're lucky, he'll get a life sentence." He passes a small brown evidence bag from his left hand to his right. A bag that I had not noticed at first.

"Would you like me to take that to the evidence locker too?" I ask.

An unreadable emotion flashes across his face. "No, that's alright. I'm actually on my way to give it to Catherine. Something for a case she's working on."

"Oh, well see you at the party," I comment.

"Perhaps. It is a slow night. A party might be nice. However, I have other things to attend to first."

As he goes to walk by I catch a glimpse of the bag in his hand. The case number fills me with a cold embrace.

"Grissom, what is that? Why are you hiding things from me that involve my abduction?" I ask. The venom in my voice is masked by the despair.

Grissom turns to look at me. "It's nothing important, Nicky. Just the original contact that let us know what was going on."

"Why are you giving it to Catherine? You said that it was evidence for a case she's working on. Are there new leads in my case?"

He shakes his head. "To be honest, Nick, I lied. I didn't want you to know about this. I didn't want to bring back memories. Catherine was going to bring it to the locker."

The anger erupts from me before I can stop it. "I don't need to be treated like a little kid, Grissom. I wish all of you would stop treating me like a fragile piece of glass that will shatter with the slightest bump. I'm human. I learn to cope. Just ask Greg." I shove the box back into Grissom's arms. "Take your own evidence to the locker."

I storm off before he can even open his mouth. I don't want to see him or anyone else. Not at the present moment. Anger carries me to the quiet garage. A pick-up truck sits inside, waiting to be processed or towed away to impound. Along one of the walls is a rather large, coffin-sized, metal container. It looks sort of a like a sarcophagi. The lid is wide open. Curious as to what it is I walk over to take a look. The inside is empty expect for a trace of fingerprint powder. Bloody fingerprints decorate the outside edge. I shudder and turn my back on it.

The fact that I mentioned Greg to Grissom gnaws at my mind. If he does seek out Greg for information what will Greg tell him? Will he tell him everything that we've done together? The way I phrased things bites into my skin. I made it sound like I am using Greg. Am I? I cross my arms over my chest with a shiver. There's a party with my friends. They're probably waiting for me. Wondering where I am. I close my eyes. Take a deep breath and let it out. My muscles begin to relax. The anger trickles away.

Strong hands reach out of the quiet and push me. Force me backward. I step back to balance myself. My foot hits the metal container. My balance is screwed up and I fall. Fall backward into the yawning mouth of the metal coffin. I never see the face of the person who pushed me as they close the lid.

At first shock keeps me from realizing what has happened. Then the darkness combined with the confined space becomes real. The panic edges its way into my mind. No, not again. I begin to breath faster. In a minute of clarity I tell myself to lift the lid. I'm not underground. There's no dirt above me. My hands touch the cool metal of the lid. I push. It doesn't budge. I push harder. Still, it refuses to move. The panic comes back in full attack. With a cry of despair I start banging on the metal. I cry out for help as everything comes back to me. The night of the crime. Waking up in the box. All the dirt. The ants. The heat. Left with my gun to kill myself if I so desired. In my panic I put all I have into getting the lid open. Having tortured me enough the lid swings open.

I stumble from the container hitting the ground hard with my knees. My hands are bloody but I don't care. The air of the lab greets me. I scramble to get as far away from the box as possible. My back hits against something solid. The pick-up truck. I sit with my back against it. My eyes locked on the empty container. The damn box. I sit there, shivering and crying. Why? Why would someone push me into that damn container? Who's idea of sick joke was this?

The door opens and Grissom peeks. At the sight of me huddled and crying on the floor he comes in. I see him eye the box with the fresh blood smeared inside. He looks at my bloody hands. My panicked breathing. He crouches beside me and places a hand on my shoulder. Even though I know he's there I still jump.

"I thought I heard someone yelling," Catherine says as she breezes into the room. She stops when she sees me. "Nick?"

"Somehow he ended up in that," Grissom says gesturing to the mocking metal container. "From the blood on the inside and the blood on his hands I would say he got closed in."

"Oh, Nicky," concern washes over her. Before I know it she's by my side. "How…" The word brushes passed her lips like an afterthought.

The panic is still strong inside. My breathing still labored. My nerves still on edge. "Pushed," I managed to get out.

Grissom exchanges a look with Catherine before asking the all important question. "Who would want to push Nick into that?"