I always feel i should write.. but i never really started.. and now is the time to change (maybe) everything..
My Beta was fanofkdc, a BIG HELP.. my Hero.. because i'm a damn Non-Native-Speaker..
Prologue
Like so many days before, he walked through the fields. A heavy rain was his only companion, out in this wilderness, and a hard wind unrelentingly lashed the water against his body. Birds uncomfortable with weather tried to flee, taking shelter in a nearby wood.
He was soaked through to the bone, but he didn't care, even if it meant he would get cold, develop flu and get hypothermia. There might have been some time ago, when he was happy with every second of his life, happy with just living, but that time had passed. And now he was a different man altogether.
Every morning, when Grissom looked in the mirror, he asked himself what sort of man he was. Like a riddle without an answer, he was a problem that would never be solved. He would get so angry with his face that he would repeatedly punch his mirror, but the glass was unbreakable.
His dreams were filled with her ghost, night after night, and all too often he caught himself getting lost in a daydream that was as perfect as summer, all their worries a million miles away. He would feel her soft kisses on every part of his body, his eyes seeing her heart-warming smile, a smile that was brighter than anything else in the world. He would remember their walks through the meadows, kept company by hundreds of butterflies, and thousands of flowers in every colour that Mother Nature had designed would invade his senses.
The smiled that climbed through his nostrils would reach every part of his brain, and the sunshine soaked his clothes, his skin, his heart with never-ending happiness.
But that was all just a dream now, a long-faded memory. In the past, bliss had been his friend, but now sorrow had taken its place, not looking like it would relinquish its new-found role.
Absorbed in his thoughts, he had not noticed that the rain had stopped.
The sun had won the fight against the huge wall of clouds, and the sky revealed a beautiful blue that had been concealed for weeks.
Before he entered the house, he cut a rose from the garden; the rose was, always had been, and always would be, his most favourite flower. He placed it carefully on the table, and undressed himself, flinging his clothes haphazardly on the floor.
Almost reverently, he picked up the rose and turned it over in his fingers, then, taking a deep breathe, he closed his hands and brought the rose up to his chest.
He dragged it over his flesh, the sharp thorn scratching him. The blood flowed quickly at first, then slowed, and when it had done so, Grissom dipped the index finger of his right hand into the blood, then brought it to his mouth. He could taste the iron on his tongue.
One moment, he was actually grinning about the self-inflicted pain; the next, he made a mad dash for the bathroom and collapsed, vomiting into the toilet bowl. As his insides vacated, hot, angry tears streamed down his cheeks, the anger being caused by the fact that he might never find a way out.
Later on, he showered, trying to wash away all visible signs of his foray into death - his body may have been cleansed, but his soul was still sullied with the dirt of endless pain. His scarred chest was already starting to smart, so he reached for his bottle of 20-years matured scotch, splashed a little of the liquid on to both hands, and rubbed them over his chest. It burned, burned like Hell, but he wouldn't scream.
For just a few seconds, he wanted to believe that he could be a hero.
TBC