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Castaway Dreams

Section Three: Sickness

By Duckie Nicks

''Tolstoy said that happiness is what gets families together. I think what really connects human beings is what makes us miserable.'' -- Alejandro González Iñárritu

Horatio

Here we go.

They are the words, uttered lightly – cavalier almost – he told her as he grabbed her soft, cool, pale hand in the hospital.

Here we go – the three words that define their inexplicable relationship. She's young, and he's not. Marisol is sick but gorgeous, while his health is fine, and yet, his face, lined with age and stress, belies that truth. She spends her days going through the vicious cycle of throwing up, taking medication, and getting high; he merely spreads the ever-present blood on his hands.

They are an odd pair, the kind of couple people stare at, probably even frown upon. But they work; she needs, and he gives. She doesn't want to die without experiencing life, and Horatio doesn't want that for her either.

He isn't what she expected – Horatio is aware of that fact. Marisol believes that someone with his job should be jaded, should want out of the job. And she thinks that their dating has in some way restored his faith. She believes that she's seeing a special side to him. The redhead doesn't have the heart to correct her.

The unfortunate reality is he only knows how to give, to protect. This is old hat for him, the same façade he always wears, an extension of it.

Horatio has heard through the grapevine that this is the first woman he's cared about since Yelina. And he's both amused and annoyed by the office gossip. The redhead likes control, likes to believe he can conceal his emotions at will. But alas, it seems there isn't a police officer who doesn't see him as the man in love with his brother's wife.

And the truth is, contrary to popular belief – the way he feels about Marisol is very different than how he thinks of his sister-in-law. This relationship is based on compassion, not desire.

He's had sex with Marisol, but it's devoid of passion; it's always careful, gentle, quiet. In the end, their relationship has the same appeal as wool socks on cold feet. It's comforting and comfortable. Safe.

And maybe that's why they can both enter into this marriage. The burden of commitment is lessened by the shared knowledge that she will die soon. The clock will keep on ticking, and their time together will last just long enough to outdo the newness of their relationship, he thinks. They both pretend that it's possible to ignore her sickness, but the disease is always there, undermining and fueling their relationship.

It's barely romantic, but at least she will have been loved the way she always wanted, and he will have had the opportunity, the man believes cynically, sarcastically, to play hero one more time. Horatio thinks that this is part of his penance – to attach himself to her only to lose her.

But only weeks after marrying her, it's not the cancer that gets her, but her association with him. And he understands then that redemption is out of the question.

The first thing he does when he arrives in Rio is visit the mammoth Christ the Redeemer statue. Located atop the Corcovado Mountain, the figure stands proud, the thick layer of soapstone glistening in the warm sunlight. It's early, and having opted to walk, Horatio has beaten the tourists. He'd easily been able to lose Eric, and finally, he is alone, able to think through the anger and guilt suffocating him.

The redhead is crouched down, resting on one knee. His breath is coming in quick spurts – the combination of thin air and adrenaline is an exciting one. He begins to pray.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…

The words come out in a fast mumble, a soft whisper in the mountain wind – over and over. He repeats the words, but still…the shadow of the statue looms over him.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…

To no effect. He's still in the darkness. And eventually, Horatio gives up – accepts what he is about to.

"Here we go," he says to no one in particular.

And he walks away.

Calleigh

The gun is cocked, each individual click crisp and dangerous. It's a sound she's memorized, obsessed over since earlier in the day. It's that gun.

Calleigh turns in recognition. But she doesn't understand – and in horror, her green eyes watch as John pulls the trigger.

She doesn't understand.

Her entire life has been about witnessing the proverbial train wreck. Childhood was learning to avoid the collision, adulthood about preventing one. And this was right in front of her, but she hadn't seen it. Even after the fact, the disbelief is still there. How could she have missed it? How could she have not known?

"I know how hard you work…"

Calleigh had seen the sad, haunted look in his grey eyes. She had known that he had obsessed over Ray Caine's death. Perhaps she had even realized he was on the edge. But… the blonde had no idea that this would happen.

"And I would really love to be friends with you, John."

Part of her knows he would have seen through a lie. Even if she had kissed him and said that he was a great cop, it wouldn't have mattered. The truth was Hagen had never forgiven himself for not knowing his partner was a dirty cop, and he probably never would.

He had said that her words hurt him, but she knows that the right words were hardly strong enough to combat his gut-wrenching, all encompassing depression. John had been on the outside for years, had carried this guilt around, and it would be foolish to think anything she could have done would change that.

And yet, for all she knows, Calleigh still feels guilty.

But the blonde doesn't cry over him, refuses to do so. She understands that the rest of the crime lab thinks she's soft and warm and kind, but she's not a crier. It's another unwanted lesson from childhood: emotions are weapons others will use to hurt you, and rarely get you the result you want. Calleigh feels awful, responsible, but she won't give into her despair.

The tears remain unshed.

She continues on with her work, pays extra attention to the way the grooved metal in her hands jerks as she fires the gun at the target. But when the single drop of blood falls onto her sleeve, she can no longer ignore the overwhelming feeling of loss and guilt.

Looking up, she knows – the writing's on the wall, so to speak. A crimson smatter flecked with John's light brown hair and spongy gray chunks of brain are slowly drying, seeping into the ceiling.

Her first reaction is disbelief. How could a crime lab miss this? How had she not noticed it – now having seen the blood, she can smell a distinctly metallic undercurrent in the air.

She looks away and down at the gun in her hand. Calleigh's loved guns her whole life – respected them. But now, the warm metal lying flat on her palm feels only like a dead weight. She thinks she can't do this anymore, doesn't want to try either. The "bullet girl" is no longer fascinated, intrigued by the weapon.

"The right piece of evidence can make you a hero," she'd told Eric. "He just couldn't put it in context."

John hadn't figured out what the map meant. He was, in the end, she thinks, always one step behind. And she, on the other hand, has only ever felt ahead of the game. She's good at what she does – no, great at it. Yet, she had clearly missed something – hadn't realized that the series of clicks from a Ruger meant more than just her life being in danger.

The mystery of it all had lingered on. And even when a person was good at the game, Calleigh thought, it was one that was impossible to win. The gun in her hands clunks unceremoniously onto the counter in front of her. For the first time ever, this is a game she is tired of playing.

Speedle

Timmy.

Her quivering lips open to utter his name, but her throat tightens, no sound comes, and she cannot speak. Alexx smiles apologetically at him because she is unable to do the one thing she likes to do for all of the people that come through. Heaven may not exist, death may not free the soul, but talking in this room seems necessary. She wants to console them, guide them through a procedure that shouldn't need to be performed.

But she is unable to do this for him.

Her white-gloved hand reaches out. She strokes his dark brown hair before raking it away from his forehead, as a mother would push back sweat-slicked hair from a fevered brow. The words unsaid – I'm sorry, baby. And she begins.

Surrogate mother and son once joked that she could undress a dead man in her sleep. In the back of her mind, a thought whispers – if he were alive, Tim would be appreciative of this fact now. And indeed, through an almost dream-like haze, she undresses him. Only the slight faltering over buttons and boots betrays her.

Her hand grabs the shower head, turns the water on. Blood-tinged liquid falls off his body in rivulets, and she pauses, looks at him when he is finally clean. With only the deep, visible hole in his chest to remind her otherwise, Alexx thinks – is almost able to believe – that he is sleeping. The normally strong-headed and logical woman can almost pretend that the unnatural ivory pallor of his skin is the result of the flu. Caused by something – anything but this.

But reality can no longer be ignored when she picks up the scalpel. The sharp edge digs into his cool flesh, and she drags the blade downwards, all the while using her other hand to soothe the cut, broken skin. It's another useless apology.

When her job is done, she writes down her findings, including the cause of death. But it provides her little comfort. Alexx knows the how, but not the why. Y – the shape of the incision on her baby's chest.

A room that is usually filled with her chatter is left silent. Only the why echoes through out the building.

Yelina

Two blue lines on a piece of plastic.

It took ten minutes to confirm what she already knows: Ray never could rest in peace.

Pregnant. The word feels harsh and foreign to her. It hadn't even crossed her mind that the overall sick feeling, coupled with regular vomiting, might be anything more than the flu. With her only child now a teenager, pregnancy is a state of being she is unfamiliar with. And as Ray Junior's attitude as of late had been less than pleasant, the memories she had of swollen ankles and tiny fingers had a greater feeling of antiquity.

Of course, not everything felt so old. Years had passed, but once again, her husband had left her. Only there would be no reunion this time.

And now, she gets to start all over again. The thought alone is enough to make her feel nauseous; she doesn't need a baby for that. Yelina gets to rebuild her life, and instead of a scared little boy, this time, she's left with a teenager who blames her. Once she tells him that she's pregnant, the mother knows, he'll hate her.

Because he's not a child anymore, is no longer fooled by storks with babies dangling from their beaks. "I'm pregnant." Two words will forcefully end the ceasefire she has so desperately worked towards. "I'm pregnant," and Ray Junior will know the horrible truth: for all of her protestations and anger, his mother could be swayed, was a hypocrite.

The baby inside of her is unwanted proof that her husband wasn't the only one addicted. Raymond couldn't resist the allure of drugs and darkness, and though she hates to know that it's true, Yelina couldn't resist nurturing, loving Ray's lost soul when he needed it. And the situation she had wanted – needed – to be black and white is now undoubtedly gray.

If her husband were alive, she thinks, she would kill him right about now. He's left her with two children to raise by herself. And the curly-haired woman is sure that no man will want her again – if not for the two babies, then for the uncountable amounts of baggage she carries around. Perhaps it's selfish to think like this, but her mind cannot avoid going down this road. It's easier to think about how, in the very least, Horatio will never touch her (which is perhaps the only reason Ray never wanted to let her go) than it is to imagine her life in a year.

She looks down at the plastic applicator. Two strikes against her, but she's already out.

With a slap against the wastebasket, the test is thrown into the trashcan, and Yelina allows herself to sink onto the cold bathroom tile.

While other women would be joyous over the result, the Colombian turns her attention to her husband's obvious absence. She should play the part of grieving widow, but all she can imagine are the ways Raymond might have suffered in his last days. She hopes it hurt – as ugly as she knows that is – hopes that his final hours were just a taste of the retribution he has earned.

Her jaw is clenched firmly; her green eyes are dark – almost brown looking, as she lets the anger wash over her. But even as she envisions broken bones and blood matting in Ray's dark hair, something inside of her stirs. She hates the asshole, but just as the child growing in her womb proves, it's never been that simple.

If only.

Eric

He neatly stacks the white rolling papers at the edge of the glass coffee table. It's part of the routine he's created for himself – for Marisol. From the corner of his dark eyes, he can see his sister, huddled and shivering, on the couch watching him.

His strong hands reach into his coat pocket, groping the leather pouch until Eric finds what he's looking for. He pulls the plastic sandwich bag out, and, he idly thinks, as he places it onto the table, that if the cops had caught him, they'd have arrested him for distribution.

Methodically, he takes one of the rolling papers and sprinkles the brownish leaves onto it. His fat fingers go to work, twisting the paper into a thin joint. And it's all proof of two facts: Marisol's treatment isn't working; the marijuana is barely doing its job.

Taking a look at her, Eric's not sure how much longer his sister – once bright and vivacious – will be alive.

Still, he thinks, it's better than nothing, as he watches her light up the cigarette. The man had always thought that he would rather his family members die quickly and painlessly than to linger on, suffering. Yet, here she is, barely able to eat anything even after smoking joint after joint…

Marisol is dying slowly. This is also an inescapable fact: she is dying, fading out with a whimper. The fire inside of her is now barely at a smolder, and Eric hates it – hates himself even more because he would rather watch her suffer than bury her.

It's an ironic twist, considering the brother had wanted something like this to happen when he was younger. He wanted to be the strong one, wanted her to be the one in need, the weaker of the two. And now that this is the case, Eric would do just about anything to go back to the way things were.

Wants to return to Marisol being the perfect older sister, instead of what she is to him right now – little more than a disease. He thinks he's never been a good brother, but this is as bad as it gets. Clinging on to her, or rather, what's left of her.

Keeping her here in this state just so he won't have to say goodbye is incredibly selfish. Like some silly game, he wants to believe that by buying her an illegal lifeline, they are even for this, for all he is putting her through. But he knows that's not the case.

Never been even with Speed – never will be even with her. Another fact of life.

IAB is sniffing around, and Eric knows that eventually he will be caught. Keeping her alive is a heavy burden, one that constantly threatens to overwhelm him. But until that moment, when he gets caught or gives up (whichever happens first), all he can do – all he will allow himself to do – is sit with Marisol and watch both of their lives slowly extinguish.

Alexx

The house is silent, save for the occasional crackle of hardwood expanding and shuffling in the oppressive Miami sun. Her husband is at work, the kids at school, and now Alexx has nothing to do. It's only eleven am, but usually, at this hour, she's elbow deep in intestines and intrigue.

There is nothing to do. Her body seems to thrum under that knowledge, desperate to do something. As she sits at the kitchen table, plates covered in sticky syrup and soggy pancakes call out to be scrubbed. But she is unwilling to move, her seat vacant only for a few minutes when she got up to unplug the phone.

Even though only a few hours had passed since dawn had broken, her colleagues had felt it necessary to bombard her with calls. First Horatio, and then Calleigh and shortly thereafter, all the words of concern and condolence had melded into one long conversation, their voices indistinct but ever present like gnats.

The medical examiner knows why they're calling; she's not ignorant to her own behavior, nor to the actions of her friends. Everyone on the day shift understands how she works: her body is supremely strong, her mind stubborn, and Alexx Woods doesn't do sick days. Her colleagues know, just as she does, that she only takes this kind of time off when the darkness associated with the job threatens to overpower her.

It's an ironic twist in events, given that her first sick day ever was taken out of the desire to spend more time with the man of her dreams. Alexx had been the most intense resident of her group, and she had heard more than once the various whispers that she needed to get laid.

Her husband had certainly provided that, but more than anything, with his unkempt afro and slight beer belly, he had given her a freedom – momentary glimpses of what it meant to be carefree – that she had never known before. Sure, they were adults, and he had demanded at times responsibility and maturity from her, but he had also allowed her to relax. To think of herself for a change.

And so, when faced with spending the day in bed with her soul mate (a word the doctor typically hated and rolled her eyes at but knew, in this case, to be true) or going to work, she had chosen the sick day.

But lately in these last few years, that carefree attitude has all but disappeared. She no longer plays hookie. Sick days are taken, usually, because her life has been put in danger. And it worries the medical examiner because she loves her job, loves the people. But it cannot compete with her family.

Alexx wonders when the time will come when she has to give up what she has spent her whole life working towards. Her almond-shaped eyes dart over to the clock hanging near the kitchen table. The hands are on twelve, but she begins to understand that the time is now.

End 3/5