Title: Deja Vu
Disclaimer: Language, violence
Chapter Fifteen: Ticket to Heaven
Light began to dance before his eyes and he thought that he was hallucinating. His stomach was emptier than it had ever been before and his throat ached with the need of water. Now he understood, now he knew what it felt like to die. He had given up all hope, for what did he have to hold onto? The others weren't looking for him. They would have found him by now if they cared to look. Whoever kidnapped him had to have left some sort of evidence behind. They could trace the kidnapper, make him talk, maybe find out where he'd been in the last few days, weeks….how long had it been? He closed his eyes, laid his head on the hot metal floor, and drifted off. There was nothing else for him to do.
There came a loud bang. It started him and he shot up into a sitting position. Someone had opened the door. He'd been asleep and someone had come by. How did they know when he would be out of it? Were they watching him? Did they have cameras on him at all times? Paranoid and slightly hopeful he turned on the flashlight and searched over every spot of the metal shipping crate. There weren't any cameras. Even if there were, how would they hide them, and where? The weak beam of light fell on a bundle near the door. He crawled toward it in hopes of finding food.
Instead he found a manila envelope. He ripped it open and explored the contents at his leisure. A new set of batteries had been given to him so that when the old ones wore out he could still see the walls of his cage. Next he found a pencil and two pens. Why did he need writing materials? He dumped the rest of the contents on the floor. There were a few pages of notebook paper, some photos, and a note. The handwriting was the same as the original note and the message gave him no hope. This one told him to write out his goodbyes, to leave something behind for those who found him. He sat hard against the wall, picking up the photos. They brought tears to his eyes, and a touch of fear.
The first photo was of his son and his ex-wife. They were playing together at the park, sitting in the sandbox and building castles. This person knew about his son. Trying to keep his thoughts positive he looked at the next picture. Angela, Zack, Hodgins, and Dr Goodman all stared back at him. He recognized the photo from Brennan's apartment. He had taken it himself. He gave it to her as a Christmas gift one year, surrounded by a silver frame. According to Angela she cried when she saw it. The memory was bittersweet and he felt himself smile. The last picture sent chills down his spine. It was of him and Brennan together, the night of their date. The last night they would ever spend together. Whoever had taken him had been following him and those he cared about. What had he ever done? Who had he pissed off?
Dropping the photos he looked at the paper and the pens. He really should leave them something. Anything to remember him by. They should know that he thought of them when he was confined. He thought only of them and how much he wanted to see them again. He wanted to play with his son. He wanted to hear Zack describe something he didn't understand and probably never would. And most of, he wanted to argue with Brennan.
Putting pen to paper he began to write. There was little else to do. At first the words did not come. How could they? He never thought he'd be writing a note like this. He wanted to die peacefully in his sleep or while doing his job. Either way, he wanted it to be quick; the sort of death that would leave people saying that he never saw it coming. That would be better than suffering. Anything would be better than starving to death.
He went to reach for the flashlight to make the paper easier to see and it rolled a few inches away. As it rolled a flash of silver caught his eye. Curious he grasped the light and turned it toward the envelope and its scattered contents. There, laying amongst everything else was a knife. He hadn't seen it the first time, maybe he hadn't wanted to. Gingerly he plucked it from the floor. It was of a good weight and the blade extra sharp. Only one cut and his suffering would end. He smiled. That's probably why the poor bastard gave it to him. Maybe his captor was tired of his existence, of the fact that he was still alive. Booth dropped the knife. He would not give in that easily. It gave him a touch of hope to know that he was pissing off his kidnapper. He had to piss off someone.
Returning to his paper he wrote one quick little note. One message that would say everything that was on his mind without taking up more than one line. Smiling, he slipped the piece of paper back into the envelope and wrote a few words on the outside. Picking up the pictures, pens, leftover paper, and batteries he returned to the back corner and settled down. Eventually his captor would return. This person would see the envelope and the intended message. Booth wished he could see their face as they read what he wrote. But he knew that wasn't going to happen. He knew he would be lucky if he lived another few hours. Things were starting to get really bad. The little popping lights kept invading his vision and then he would pass out. Only a few hours would pass in which he would have nightmares. He would awake to find himself in the same damn place, never free.
Maybe it would never end, he thought as he closed his eyes to sleep once again. Maybe they really will find my bones. Months or years from now, someone will open this shipping cargo and they'll see me, a pile of bones. Only then will Bones and the rest of them get peace. What a way to go.