Title: Inside My Coffin

Disclaimer: Slash. Suicide. Angst. Language.

POV: Nick

Chapter Eleven: Bad Words

The gun jams. The damn thing jams. I don't understand. I know it's cleaned. There's no reason for the malfunction. In frustration I throw it onto the floor of the passenger side. I bang my fists on the steering wheel. Nothing ever works the way I want it to. Tears leave fiery tracks on my face. I rest my head on the steering wheel and let out a yell. My fists clench at the air. The cell phone resting in the other seat starts ringing again. I pick it up and glare at the number. Grissom never knows when to quit. I turn the phone off. As an afterthought I throw it into the backseat.

The clouds from the brief thunderstorm are gone. Once again I'm watched by the stars. Those damn beacons of hope; holders of dreams. The stars that watch over me every night. I climb out of the car. Frustration and anger boil together in my blood. I feel at means end. I feel like throwing something, breaking glass; maybe even hurting myself. That's it. I glance at the cut on my arm. The one that I made. It was so easy. I walk quickly back to the car and pop the glove compartment. Inside rests a small switchblade. Grissom would be unhappy to know that I have it. You just never know when you're going to need it. And I need it now.

I think about how easy it was to make that first cut. A knife is much easier to control than a gun. A knife can't get jammed. I'm the power the knife needs to do its work. I sit on the driver's seat and stare into the night. It's oddly quiet. Being outside the city limits is worth it. Without a second thought I cut into my skin. The blood trickles from the small cut above my elbow. The release that I feel is amazing. The anger and frustration subside, but don't go away.

This is it. This is the way to go. Not with the gun. Use the knife. They have to know though. They have to know why I did it. Maybe then they'll see. That's all that I want. They need to see. I place the switchblade on the dashboard and pull the notebook from the glove compartment. A pen is safely tucked away in the spine. I flip it open. The pen hits the paper and I write what's really in my heart.

Frequently I sit and wonder. Does my life mean anything? To anyone? Have I made a difference? If I've made a difference, will they remember me when I'm gone? Was the difference enough to actually change a life? Sure, my work is to solve crimes. But that just makes me a puzzle solver.

All anyone ever sees is the CSI. They never see the person under the initials. They never think about me and the things in my life. No one ever looks pass the gun. It's always about the gun. What does he do with that gun? Does he know how to use it? Can he defend himself?

Obviously I can't defend myself. That guy got the better of me. He was able to kidnap me from a fake crime scene. I was too dumb to notice the signs. Too dumb to put up a fight. You all watched me as I suffered. You saved me. You think I'm better. I can see it in your eyes. You all see the me that I was before. Before I was locked up in a coffin and buried alive. But that me is long gone. I got passed the babysitter who molested me. I got passed having guns pointed at me. I've even gotten passed being stalked and nearly killed by that maniac. All of those things seem so unimportant. So minor. Why can't any of you see that I'm hurting so bad inside?

Sara, I know that you have your owner troubles. I know about your parents. You think that Grissom is the only one who knows. But I do. And I understand why you are the way you are. I don't blame you. In fact, I believe I understand you better. Who wouldn't be bitter if their mother murdered their father? That is definitely not a happy childhood. Then you fall in love with someone who doesn't return those feelings. Yes, Grissom cares about you. As a friend. You want so much more though.

Grissom, you are the most aggravating person I know. How can you work a job that is all about people when you have absolutely no people skills? I have never met anyone else like you. You find solace in your science and your bugs. But deep down, you'll never be happy. You're ignoring what's right in front of you. Open your eyes. Look at the world as it really is. Not the way it needs to be.

Catherine, what can be said about you? You made a difference in your life. You changed it. Not a lot of showgirls would give up all that money to work with dead bodies. But you did. For your daughter. She is your meaning for living. I catch you staring at her picture when you think no one is looking. Maybe you should take some time off. Spend it with her before she's gone. You'll regret it if you don't. They grow up so fast. Just ask Brass.

Warrick, a man of so many mysteries. You took everyone by surprise when we found out that you had gotten married. I never expected you to settle down. Not so quickly. Personally, I always thought there was something between you and Catherine. But I must have been greatly mistaken. Remember that I'm not that good a detective. Stay away from the gambling. Or she might leave you. Most women like stability. Don't screw it up, man. Someone deserves to find happiness in this life. Take it while you can.

Greg, what can be said about you? Although you have changed my life in so many ways, it just doesn't seem to be enough. The feelings won't go away. The voices are always there. Haunting me. Taunting me. It's never going to get better. I'm sorry that I did this to you.

I'm sorry for everything. For every single time I fucked up. My life is nothing to be proud of. Not in the least. So I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I exist. Sorry that I came into your lives.

And I know that you will try to figure out why I did what I did. You'll never understand. None of you ever will. If you did, I wouldn't be here. Writing this. Forgive me. I'll watch over you. All of you. Stay together. No matter where life takes you. Be a part of each other's lives. Listen and love.

Don't cry for me. I'm not worth the tears.

Love,

Nick Stokes

Satisfied with the note I tear it from the notebook. Standing, I turn around and place the note on the seat. Beside it I place my CSI ID. I leave the gun resting on the floor. Why bother with it? It has never done me any favors. I pluck the switchblade from the dashboard. Closing the car door behind me I walk a few feet into the desert. Not exactly the way I thought it would end. It'll be good. I'll leave this world under the same stars that have said goodbye to countless others. It seems fitting to me.

I fall to my knees in the already dry sand. This is it, this is how it ends. Not by the gun of some crazy person. Not locked in a jail cell for murder. Not even buried alive. It ends by my own hand. I feel the tug of the blade as it slices across my skin once again. This time the flow of the blood is quicker. I shift the blade to my other hand and repeat the slice on the opposite wrist. I smile as the blade falls into the sand. Ecklie is right. He'll be happy that he is right. I am a liability. I can't even take care of myself.

I rest my arms on my legs. My knees dig into the rocky sand. As I gaze at the damned stars I let the tears flow. In my mind I wish everyone a heartfelt goodbye. How will my parents take hearing that I died? My mother will cry. My father will curse me for taking my own life. I don't care. They aren't here to help me; they've never helped me.

Maybe my death is just what Grissom needs to open his eyes. He needs to see that Sara loves him deeply. Will Warrick be there to comfort Catherine? Brass will treat it like any other officer lost in the line of duty. Ecklie will be happy. He'll finally be rid of me. They'll all be rid of me. Free from my grasp.

I fall forward onto the ground as the loss of blood makes me dizzy. There's a throbbing in my head. It doesn't stop me from thinking about Greg. The only bright spot in so many horrible days. If only I could understand his feelings. Will he miss me the way a lover misses their soulmate? Or will he miss me the way a child misses their dog?

"I'm sorry, Greg," I whisper.

The sand works its way into the wounds on my wrists. I feel the cold as it comes to take me away. Finally, to be free of this hell. I close my eyes. The last thing I see are the stars above. Always the stars. The darkness is taking me farther away second by second. I welcome it with open arms.

The sound of tires on gravel echo in my mind. Someone talking. The flash of lights. Footsteps in the sand. The slamming of a car door. More voices. Another flash of light. I close my eyes tighter. My breathing settles in to match the beating of my heart; slower and slower. The sound of running footsteps. A cry for help. A finger to my throat to find a pulse.

It's too late…