Title: Race Among the Ruins
Author: Cropper
Pairing: GSR
Rating: Mature for Profanity
Disclaimer: Sadly, the characters herein are not mine. I promise to play nice and return them when I am done.
A/N: Thank you, csipal, ligaras and Count Dracubeta for hanging with me. I read a very lively and well-argued discussion at YTDAW some time ago where the participants tried to establish whether Mrs. Grissom lost her hearing when she was eight or when young Gilbert was eight. After much debate the issue was never fully resolved and each was left to their own interpretation.
Summary: Too little sleep and too much sleet.
Chapter Six
Grissom roused from his restless musings utterly confused. He was cold, wet and hurt like hell. Damn, he hurt. Slowly the fog receded, his mind cleared and he remembered. An accident. He was trapped and all alone. Nobody knew where he was. But...he had been talking to someone, someone who made him happy and pushed away the loneliness, if just for awhile. But who? He tried to think but it was so difficult. He shakily brought his right hand up to wipe the sweat from his face and noticed that he was still clutching his cell phone. He squinted at the display.
"Sara?"
Sara almost wept with relief when Grissom's raspy voice whispered through her headphones. Archie had set her up with a spiffy hands-free device so she could keep an anxious ear tuned to Grissom without having to physically hold the phone to her head. She adopted her best Mae West voice to mask her steadily growing concern.
"Hey there, Big Boy."
Sara's response was so unexpected and her imitation so terrible that Grissom had no chance to suppress the laugh that wormed through his pursed lips. His body did not respond well to Sara's attempted levity and his ill-timed chuckles were strangled by wet, hacking, choking spasms that pinballed through his badly damaged chest and stole away his breath. Specks of blood-tinged spittle sprayed the accursed steering wheel. When he regained enough control to speak, he chided Sara for her mimicry.
"Funny. Don't. Hurts."
Sara had listened helplessly to Grissom's coughing seizure. Anger and guilt welled up within her frame – anger for feeling so damned helpless and guilt for causing him more distress.
"Sorry, Gris. I was just trying to cheer you up."
"'S okay," he slurred unsteadily. Breathing was a bitch. Talking and concentrating on Sara's words required an enormous amount of effort. The conversation was rapidly depleting his scant energy reserves but he could not, would not, willingly relinquish his only life line.
"You doing okay, Babe?" Sara asked softly.
"Mmm." The reply was noncommittal. "Talk...to...me?"
"Sure. What do you want to talk about?"
"Doesn't matter. Just...talk."
Sara's mind raced frantically as she searched for a nice, safe topic to discuss. They could always resort to hashing out the gangland shooting but she doubted that Grissom had the mental faculties available for something of that nature. What to do? What would be safe?
"Hey," she announced brightly. "You feel like playing a little game with me?"
"Hmmm."
Well, his answer was not exactly positive but she took it as a sign that he was willing to listen and possibly play along.
"Okay, here's the deal. It you had one wish, one chance to get anything in the world you ever wanted, what would you wish for?"
The silence on the other end of the phone was deafening. Either Grissom had blipped out again or he was not pleased with her suggestion.
"C'mon, Gris. Play with me," Sara wheedled. "What's your heart's desire?"
"Grissom? Still there?"
"Thinking. Hurts."
"What hurts, baby?"
"Thinking."
Sara huffed a small chuckle at that. "Yeah, well maybe you're just trying to hard. What's the first thing that comes to mind? You think of anything yet?"
"Yep."
And, nothing. Just a one word answer. Even wounded, the man could be infuriating. Sara tempered her impatience to quip, "Well, are you going to keep me in suspense or are you going to tell me?"
"Can't."
"You can't?" Her exasperation was sliding to the forefront. "You know, that sort of defeats the whole purpose of us talking now, doesn't it? Why can't you tell me?"
"Promised." Grissom's tone was hard, flat and deadly serious. He did not make promises lightly and never went back on his word.
"Who'd you promise?"
"Me."
Birthdays and Christmases came and went. He never asked for anything, never poured over the Sears and Roebuck catalog like the other kids constructing elaborate wish lists to take to Santa. Oh, there were things he wanted, things he would have given his two front teeth for, but he never told anyone. If he did not ask for anything or expect anything, he would never be disappointed. If he was not disappointed, then Father would not be disappointed with him. And if Father was not disappointed with him then maybe, just maybe, Mother and Father would love him again and he would not get hit anymore.
He did not cry when the belt returned. Father lashed him with a single-minded fury but he did not cry. He accepted his punishment stoically, always politely thanked his father and retreated to his room to cry into his pillow. He was never really sure why he was punished. He was never really sure when Father would punish him. It was never consistent and things that were fine one day were major sins the next. He tried and tried to be the perfect son but somehow always fell short. He did not deserve to be loved. He always forgot something or did not do something exactly right and the belt would lash out.
He did not cry when Mother finally lost all of her hearing. Father and Mother cried but he sat quietly in a chair and stared out the window. It really did not matter what he did because nobody was paying attention to him anyway. They were so wrapped up in themselves and their own grief and life drama that they failed to notice the straight-lipped curly-haired boy staring off into nothingness. They were so concerned about themselves that they forgot they had a son that might be suffering as well. They forgot. They forgot about him. He did not deserve to be loved. He cried himself to sleep that night.
He did not cry when Father and Mother went out to dinner or to the movies and left him home by himself. He did not cry when Father and Mother went to picnics and other events where children were invited and he was left alone. He was forgotten, he was ignored. Father and Mother were so consumed by each other and trying to make the best out of Mother's disability that he ceased to exist. They never spoke to him, even at the dinner table. They never asked him how school had been or what he was studying, They never wondered what he was doing or who his friends were. They did not care about him or his so-called life. They had only time for each other, not for him, unless Father wanted to abuse him with the belt. His world had become as silent as Mother's. He lived in a tomb, a great giant sarcophagus. He often thought about running away, just packing up and heading out. Surely live in the cave he had discovered on one of his many afternoons combing the beach would be no worse than life in his house. Besides, Father and Mother would not miss him. They did even know he was around any more. They had forgotten about him. He did not deserve to be loved. His pillow was his only comfort, absorbing his tears and caressing his brow.
He did not cry when Father died on the living room sofa while he was watching television. He stood straight and tall at the funeral, translating condolences for Mother like the dutiful son that he was and listened with a jaded ear while everyone talked about what a good man Father had been. He listened, dry-eyed, while all of his well-intentioned relatives told him that he had to be a good boy and not cry in front of Mother because it would just upset her. He listened to all of them prattle on and on and on about how he had to take care of Mother, about how he was the man of the house now, about how he had to be all grown up and responsible. There would be no more baseball or Boy Scouts. Mother needed him. Even at the tender age of nine he found all of this to be grossly ironic. Mama had abandoned him four years ago and now he was supposed to give up everything for Mother? He had to be there to comfort Mother. Where was Mama when he needed her? He did not deserve to be loved. He was a big boy, now. He was a man, now.
After the funeral, after all of the uproar died down and life again had settled into a predictable routine, he made a decision. He waited until Mother was asleep and slipped out into the back yard. He had the big heavy book about plants and trees and a book of matches. He placed the tome on the patio, careful to keep it away from the dry grass, and created his own funeral pyre. This ritual was not for Father, it was not to help him deal with Father's death. Oh no. This funeral was for the little five-year-old boy who died the day he received the book and disappointed Father. This ceremony was for the little boy who died the first time he felt the bite of the black belt across his bare buttocks. This fire was for the little boy whose parents used to love him. He did not deserve to be loved, now. He returned to his room, the flames spent, and cried himself to sleep. He was a man, now.
The Christmas after Father died, Mother got him his first bicycle. It sat under the tree next to Father's unwrapped sweater box. He acted surprised and full of joy – it was what Mother expected and wanted to see and he could not disappoint her. He might have been happy about the bike had it not been placed next to the reminder of Father, had it not been smartly posed to remind him of the day his childhood so abruptly ended and his parents stopped loving him. But, Mother wanted him to smile, so he smiled. Mother wanted him to be thrilled, so he acted thrilled. She told him that he could go for rides with all of his friends in the neighborhood. He did not tell her that he had no friends. He did not tell her that the other kids had deserted him long ago because he could not keep up. He was always left out of the fun because he had to take care of Mother and be a man. He took his bike outside and went for a ride while Mother watched. He kissed her and thanked her. And that night he went to his room and sobbed into his pillow.
Alone, aching and cold, Grissom mourned. He cried for the little boy that had to be a man. He sobbed for the little boy who never was, for the little boy who had withered away under the lashes of parental disappointment, for the little boy who could never be perfect, for the little boy who wanted his Daddy and Mama, for the little boy who did not deserve to be loved.
To Be Continued...