Summary: Have you ever felt like your life was nothing more than a song eternally set on repeat? … Wait. I forgot. Part of making this work was details. No one was going to read this anyways.
Timeline: Sequel to Poisonous Fear (recommended that one is read first), Early/Mid Season Six
Spoilers: Grave Danger, Bodies in Motion, Daddy's Little Girl, several references to other episodes in several different seasons
Disclaimer: This is all written in fun. Everything CSI is not mine and never will be. It belongs to the creative talent of the actors, the writers, the directors, and the producers. I am not making any money off of this. Only meant to offer something new on something already so great. No reason to sue.
Title: To Whom It May Concern
By: duffshel
Author's Note: Well, if you're here, that means you were willing to wait and see what was going to happen to our heroes after Poisonous Fear. And I thought today's date was appropriate since the other started on Halloween. This is a new story, but you need to know what happened in the other, so I strongly recommend you read that one first, as I have said probably too many times as it is. I have tried something new with this story, I hope it works. There are some jumps between different people and view points. I have tried to make them as clear as possible. So, sit back and let's start a new round of madness, shall we! See y'all at that end!
"A man who has been in danger,
When he comes out of it forgets his fears,
And sometimes he forgets his promises."
---- Euripides - Iphigenia in Tauris (414-12 BC)
Chapter 1:
Have you ever felt like your life was nothing more than a song eternally set on repeat? No matter what you do in life, there is never a way to get ahead and prove yourself.
My doctors think this writing thing is the best thing I can do right now. Talking about it just makes the night terrors worst. But writing it, I don't have to say a word. Odd how that works.
So here I am. Black ink pen in hand, a gift from my mother. Just like her to give a pen on her last visit. And it runs smoothly across the paper. This is harder than I'd have ever thought. I've read plenty of books in my days, but this is different. This time there are no helping words to create the images in my head. Now, it's me giving words to my visions.
No one will read this. It is my personal hell.
That is my mantra to get through this. It's the only way I'm going to be able to tell this to anyone even if it is Mr. Mead Notebook. He'll understand and not judge. Never did when I was failing advanced literature in college since I was dumb enough to mix it with two chemistry classes and advanced calculus. Something had to suffer.
I wished I'd learned to meditate. That might help right now. Images are running wild, no control. I can hear sounds I never wanted to hear again. See things that should have never been seen in the first place.
I wonder if the two of them see things the way I do.
My house is quiet. Almost too quiet. Sometimes it's what I need and other times, it scares the living hell out of me. My hands fumble with the remote to my radio in the room, hitting the power button on, then quickly off. Thought I had that nervous tremble down, but seems to sneak back in at the most inconvenient times.
But again, I get off topic. I'm not supposed to be telling the tales of the present. Only of the past. The recent past only this time. I think if I tried to write everything that has come in my life involving harm, I'd never leave the house.
After all, I have such incredible luck.
Hmm, but where to start? Does the beginning seem correct? Obviously the end is not a good place right now. I'm still living in the ending. In fact, I think it'll always be the ending. But would the middle be too much? I'd have to check my pill quantity first before I get to that part.
Think like a criminalist. Sometimes let the evidence take you through the events. My evidence is purely mental. I didn't process that last scene, my scene. Don't need to be a scientist to know that blood was mine. Had to have plenty of it replaced.
The doctors had to do a lot of work to keep me in this world so I would be able to write this. Can't wait to see that bill when it comes in the mail. Costs an arm and leg to survive now a days. Though, I don't think I could ever complain about it. Living is something I do enjoy most of the time.
But again, I'm at the ending.
Just need to take a deep breath and accept what happened. He came back and not alone. Never alone. Doubt he would be able to do anything alone. And he didn't take me alone either. As bad as it sounds, I'm kind of glad. Alone can really suck in those kinds of situations. And it was still hard enough as it was. Mentally and physically, he challenged me as I have never been before.
"The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time."
I have to disagree with that Mark Twain quote on those thoughts. I haven't had time to live fully. No one has let me. Might be against nature or something. Have to look it up. Internet has to have some uses after all.
He harmed us with fear before. Now he introduced full terror into my life. I will forever see his face in my hall of fame. It is getting full way before it ever should. Hell, it never should've started to begin with. Too many faces, too many experiences.
It all started out as another normal day. I got up in the afternoon when most people come home from work. Breakfast contained of nothing healthy. Though there are vegetables in that salsa. The gym was on my list of to-dos. Won't be going there anytime soon.
Work was going to be busy on that normal day. There was that case that was still going from a week before everything went to hell. I had been looking forward to getting somewhere on it. Always to move forward in a case. That's how it works.
Wait. I forgot. Part of making this work was details. No one was going to read this anyways.
So here we go. Details. All of them.
My name is Nicholas Stokes. And I should be dead.
!#$&()!#$&()!#$&()+
The sound of the pen slapping against the paper was loud in the bedroom. Nick reached up and brushed at his long hair that had settled down across his forehead. It was getting almost too long for his old style now, but he had no desire to go out and change it. This was just a new part of him, part of the Nick he was just getting to know. Changes to that new structure might be monstrously bad, for him and others. No, best to leave alone. Let it grow some more so people would really be able to see it.
He kept his brown eyes down on the paper, rereading the words that had so quickly poured from his brain. This was part of his new therapy, new program. Nick took a deep breath and let his eyes shut out the black ink on the white page. This was supposed to help. But all it did was make his stomach do flip flops all around within his body. His throat itched in the back, acid shooting up every once in awhile.
Grunting, Nick pushed himself away from the notebook and got to his feet. There was only one large lamp on in the room. It haloed a small oval of yellow around the oak desk, but didn't do much to battle the darkness beyond that reach. He could only make out parts of the bed and the dresser. A bright white came from another area, but it wasn't made to light a room. Nick hesitated, mouth going instantly dry. His hands shook and his knees almost seemed to knock together.
His right foot moved one step forward, then another with his left. Darkness was encasing him, wrapping him in a cloak of chills. Acting without thinking, Nick's arms came up and wrapped around his torso. But his hands were cold and little could be done to fight off this reaction.
"You will not win. You will not win. You will not win," Nick stated in a loud, crisp voice as he starred straight ahead of him. He could see the outline of the doorway, the freedom beyond. There was light from the kitchen. Always a light on in every room now, big or small.
Nick swallowed the lump that had taken up residence in his throat and walked quickly forward. His right hand released his body and jumped to flip the light switch. The sudden eruption of light in the hallway forced him to squint a little, pupils shrinking quickly. But it suddenly was a little warmer. Both arms collapsed to the sides of his body.
Looking back over his shoulder, Nick could now see the entire structure of his bedroom. It was dirty and unorganized. But it was calming and home for the Texan. One of the small sanctuaries left in his life now. It was a place to hide. Hiding better with a light on though. Whether it was from the ceiling bulb or the pathetic little nightlight he had purchased, it didn't matter all that much.
Exhaling a strong rush of air, Nick walked further out into his hallway, feet carrying him into the next spot of light. The kitchen had an overhead lighting system. There were four lamps hanging down from the ceiling and Nick could position them in any direction he wished. Right now, they were all in different angles, trying to stretch as far as they could in every direction.
He stood on the cool tile of the floor, hands on his hips as he looked around the 'grand' room of his townhouse. The living room was dark, the television screen dancing with shadows and lights from different areas. It looked as if that part of his house was dead. In fact, every area of his house looked to be dead with nothing, but darkness within it. His kitchen was the only room alive at that moment.
Shaking his head of these new, odd thoughts, Nick turned to the fridge and opened it. There wasn't much food left. His visit to the hospital had been longer than he had even predicted and most of what he owned had gone bad in that time. Sara and Greg had taken the time to clean the gross stuff out, but not to stock it with anything new. And well, going to the store was one of the last things on his mind. Nick sighed and closed the door.
Hunger wasn't calling to him. He just wanted something to snack on. To have that comfort movement, that normal habit of every human on the planet. There was nothing different, wrong in eating. But there wasn't anything he was willing to eat at that point in time. He would have to work up the energy to stop at the store on his next infrequent trip from his house. Not after another fun round in the therapist's office though.
The back of his throat itched a little more and Nick figured drinking something was the next best thing to eating. He reached up and opened a cabinet slowly. His hand froze for a moment, breath staling in the back of his throat. The door was only open half of the way. Nick forced himself to finish opening it.
Nothing jumped out, nothing sleeping amongst his glasses. Nick reached up his right hand and grabbed the large glass tumbler quickly. The cabinet slammed closed. It bounced once before coming to its resting position.
Nick stared at the small door for a second longer. It didn't move. His lower body turned away first before he could peel his eyes from it. All the while his hands were working with the faucet, he kept his eyes moving all around, taking everything in. Even once the tumbler was full, he had to study and observe the crystal clearness the water offered through the glass. He drank it down quickly before he had anymore chances to think too much on it and break it like so many others.
It shook as he set it down in the stainless steel sink, but didn't fall over. Nick's stomach swished on itself now being completely full of liquid. There was a slight pain to it, but it wasn't anything he couldn't deal with. No, it was internal and would go away. He could deal with it. Or bury it. Either way, it would be gone.
The silence roared and filled his ears. He needed something to distract himself. Part of Nick yearned to grab up the phone and hit a series of numbers then wait for a voice to pick up. His friends had told him time and time again that he was welcome to disrupt their daily lives. They would come over in a minute if he needed them. Nick didn't need it, want it. The other part refused to admit them into his personal life anymore.
He walked past his cell phone without another thought on the matter and forced himself to face the stillness of his living room. Glancing through the wisps of his eyelashes, Nick reached down and turned the switch on one of his lamps. It wasn't much, but it was a source. And he was trying to become less dependent on them. Can't work graveyard and be afraid of the dark after all.
Outlines of all the furniture were clear and fine tuned. There were three remotes in a line on the coffee table, on top of his latest National Geographic magazine. A couple of DVD's were thrown in a careless manner across the rest of the wooden table. He sighed at the empty soda can on its side in the middle of it all.
Nick flopped down onto his couch, the cushions shifting around him. It was comfortable and he could almost relax a little. He learned his head against the back and allowed his eyes to shut. It was still silent in the room, but now it didn't seem so oppressive on him. Creating his own darkness as opposed to having it forced upon him was something he had come to terms with over the past couple of weeks.
Something moved outside his window. Nick didn't think before he reacted, jumping to his feet. His knee slammed into the table, pain shooting through every nerve, tendon, and muscle. The joints were still tender, but nothing he couldn't deal with. It always hurt now when he did something stupid like ramming it into anything available.
There was an animal call and another shift of his bushes. Something ran away and called out into the night. Silence rained down upon the townhouse again. Nature would leave him alone for only so long it seemed. Nick wasn't safe from anything suddenly anymore.
Throwing his hands down, Nick got up from the couch and stormed back into his bedroom. He threw himself down into his chair and forced himself to reread the words he had just written. Allowing his right hand to think on its own, Nick picked up the pen and pressed it down onto a new, blank line.
He could think of things, lots of things. But getting them down onto paper was a new thing. It was hard, getting harder by the days he tried to force himself to do this. Nick bit his lip and just let go. The pen began to move. His story began to tell itself. Those days were right in the forefront of his memory, crisp as if they were only hours old. He would be able to see it until the day he lay on his deathbed. He jumped back in time, mind going back into recent history.
!#$&()!#$&()!#$&()+
The alarm was always something that always annoyed me. Nothing more wrong than a small machine with a face in glowing, red numbers telling a person what to do. But, no matter how much I hated that thing, I never failed to set it.
I had set the beeping to go off at eight o'clock sharp. That always gave me two full hours to get up and moving before heading off to my office. Always made me laugh to say that. I remember the time my second oldest sister asked me what was in my office. My reply of lots of dead people didn't humor her. In fact, I think it earned me a good punch on the arm.
My body protested all movement as I forced myself into an upright position. My eyes seemed to be on their own circuit as they took in the room around me. This was normal though. Well, since…then, that other time. People living in your attic can really fuck you up.
Nothing was amiss. My clothes were still spread on the floor where I'd thrown them. One sock did seem to think the lamp shade was a good place to rest though. My dresser still had two drawers hanging slightly open. Nothing was popping out from them. No ants running loose.
The bedroom was safe. I groaned myself to my feet and shuffled towards the open doorway. The bathroom needed to be placed closer. There were way too many steps between the bed and the toilet. A man should never have to walk that far between two of the male hot spots.
My hand brushed around on the wall until it found the light switch. It forced my eyes to scrunch up slightly. Pupils took a moment to adjust. Once I was ready, the porcelain throne was calling my name.
When I was little, I had tried to write my name in the snow with my urine. It was a complete disaster. Not only could you not read what the word was, I ended up having to change pants immediately. Hard to aim at that age.
But again, I digress. Details about the recent past only. Recent months only.
With the flush of the water, I pulled off my night shirt. My skin goose bumped in the chilly air. But soon the shower was steaming up the small room. Doorway open, as always recent.
One thing that Warrick never forgot to harass me about was my choice of shampoo. I couldn't have the two-in-one. Nope, I had two different bottles, each demanding a full minute of my time. And, heaven forbid, they smelled like fruit. At this time in the evening, it refreshed the mind as well as the scalp. And the stuff works well.
But I do have the ordinary blue bar soap that smells, well, like soap. All those body washes at the stores creped me out. Never before had I seen so many gels or liquids in so many colors or smells. Though, I have to admit, I do enjoy those smells on many a lady.
The knobs for the shower turn off with simple turns and I blindly reach out for the blue towel. It is soft and always feels good against my clean skin. There is plenty of towel to go around my body and tie into place. Now the hair on my face is softer and it makes it easier to shave off. I'm not allowed to have any scruff according to Catherine and Sara. Might have to try a mustache sometime though.
Just as I was tapping the last of the shaving gel and severed hair off into the sink, I heard a ringing. Knowing that it could be that lead I was dying to get, I dashed out of the bathroom. There was water still dripping off my chin, but I ignored it completely.
My cell phone was resting on the bedside table. The small window on the front of the phone was lit up and revealed my caller.
"Stokes."
It was Catherine. She had been my partner on this homicide case, which turned triple with the others on their case. There were three total victims, all had been shot twice. One bullet was found in each lower back, the other, the back of the neck. But there was nothing to connect the two besides the death pattern, not even the bullets. Vega was looking at a couple suspects and was supposed to bring them in if they checked out.
"Hey Nick. Wanna come in early tonight?"
"Why would I want to do something like that," I tried to play it cool and collected even though I wanted to start jumping up and down on the spot.
The smile could be heard through the phone, "Well, I talked with Sam and he seemed to have something I do believe you've been waiting for."
"He got a lead!"
"But of course. When has he ever let us down? Now, get your self into gear and get in here."
There was no chance for more words as the line went dead in my ear. The small grin came to my lips without my full consent, but considering, I wasn't in the mood to lecture. But then I quickly became aware of the damp towel still wrapped around my waist. Catherine would love to see me run into the lab dressed in nothing, but that.
Without using much of my thought processes, I reached into the closet and literally tore a shirt from the hanger. Still open at the buttons, I almost ran to the dresser and grabbed on of my many jeans. This was always a problem of mine. Getting dressed with out the zippers and buttons. Clothes were all on, but not closed off.
My brain had left my body and was covering the ground that we had covered in this case. I had to be ready. This was my moment to prove myself again. There hadn't been many since that fateful day. I needed this.
TBC…
Extra Note: Thanks to sherryw and rojaji for their help in getting this going!