Chapter 4
So scream you, out from behind the bitter ache
Heavy on the memory, you need most
Still want love, ugly, smooth and delicate
Not without affection, not alone
And instead of wishing that it would get better
Man,
you're seeing that you just get angrier
"Angry", matchbox twenty
"No," Horatio said, after taking one look at Tim the next morning. "You're not staying."
"I'm fine," Tim protested.
"You're not fine. We've discussed this, Tim. You are not allowed to be here if you can't take care of yourself," Horatio said firmly.
"It's not my fault! I'd love to get some sleep, but I just can't," he said with frustration.
"I understand that," Horatio said, gently, "but this isn't a good place for you to be right now."
Tim bit back his first angry response. And then his second angry response, finally settling on, "Fine."
"Did you come in with Calleigh?" Horatio asked.
"No. I drove myself," he said, staring at the wall.
"Why don't I give you a ride home," Horatio suggested.
"I can do it myself," Tim replied, struggling to keep his temper in check. He was just so tired and so frustrated and just plain weary of restrictions and everything.
"Speed, let me take you home," Horatio said, again.
"I. Can. Do. It. My. Self." he said, again, through gritted teeth. He wasn't an invalid, for Christ's sake.
"All right," Horatio acquiesced. "Would you please call when you get home so I know you made it all right?"
"Fine," Tim muttered.
"If you get some sleep tonight and tomorrow night, you can come back Saturday, all right?" Horatio said.
"Fine," he said. "See you." He turned on his heel and walked out of the lab before Horatio could say anything else.
By the time he got home, he was seething. He wasn't even completely sure why he was so angry, but all he wanted to do was pound something. The cats scattered as he stomped into the living room, too wound up to even pause. He paced through the house, angrily hitting his hand against the walls at random.
When that failed to satisfy, he thought briefly about his bike. Calleigh would kill you. And then hide your body. The thought penetrated through the haze and made him stop in the middle of the kitchen. He couldn't ride. Not keyed up like this. He couldn't trust himself enough. But he still wanted something to take his frustrations out on. His eyes settled a bag of potatoes on the counter. Mashed potatoes. Good enough.
He scrubbed and peeled potatoes with a vengeance, and then started hacking them up into pieces smaller than they probably needed to be. But the knife felt too good in his hands. He stopped paying attention to anything other than the satisfying way it cut through the potatoes. Everything stopped for a moment and he didn't know it had happened until the pain finally penetrated.
He'd cut his arm. There was blood running down his hand and he stopped and stared at it in fascination. He had no idea how he'd gone from cutting potatoes to cutting his own flesh, but it had happened.
"Tim?" Calleigh called from the living room. "Are you here?"
He stared at his arm, still disbelieving that it was bleeding.
"Tim?"
He turned around to face Calleigh, and the look of sheer horror on her face was the last thing he saw before collapsing into a boneless heap on the kitchen floor.