Disclaimer: I do not own anything. Nothing belongs to me.
Author's note: This story practically wrote itself, but that was pretty much 10 minutes ago, so if there are any mistakes, I'll try and fix them later.
Killer
He was always the good kid. He never smoke, did drugs, or drank illegally. Hell, even after he was legal, he still only drank occasionally, and very lightly. Had never even gotten drunk. Too scared of the possibility of losing control.
He didn't know why he was like that, just that he was. He figured he could probably blame his mother. It didn't matter. He would always strive to be good.
And so, he hated to be in trouble, hated to break the rules, even if he'd never be caught. He hated to disappoint.
It nearly killed him through collage. The first low test score he'd got, the lack of human touch or contact – having no family to supply it and no friends. He'd wanted to break down, give up, cry for just a little while. But he couldn't.
Because he'd always been good. Always been, or pretended to be perfect.
Too perfect, too good. Too concerned with what others thought, too concerned with hurting or upsetting others.
And so, he'd never smoked, never done drugs, never illegally drank, never gotten drunk. He'd never confided in anyone, never contemplated hurting himself, or killing himself. Or considered dropping out of the class he struggled with.
Because he couldn't bear the thought of hurting his parents, or disappointing them. Because he wanted to be perfect. And because above all, he was scared of being useless.
He'd always wanted to do something to make a difference.
And now he had.
Now he'd killed. Killed a boy. A kid. Someone's child. Someone's brother. Someone's friend. A future husband. A future father.
Gone.
Killed.
Killer.
He was a killer.
And he hated that.
But he also didn't know what to do.
He didn't smoke, do drugs, get drunk, hurt himself, or confide in friends.
He had no friends. Oh, he was friends with everyone. Prided himself on making them laugh, brightening their day, taking their abuse to make their lives a little easier. He was a friend to everyone, always.
But they were not friends to him. He didn't let them.
And he knew they didn't realise this. Was glad they didn't know: he thought the knowledge might hurt them, because he thought they might consider themselves to be his friends.
So he was so very alone.
And it was killing him.
Killing him.
He was a killer.
And it was killing him.
Maybe he did hurt himself, just never physically.
Maybe he was committing suicide slowly.
Maybe the Killer was killing himself.
Maybe it was Justice.
He never smoked, did drugs, got drunk, contemplated suicide, or confided.
And now, he rarely slept.
But he did dream.
It haunted him. Enough that he'd broken one of his rules.
He'd confided. In Sophia. One little phrase. He hadn't meant to. It slipped out. Left him with the resolve to strengthen his shields. But the damage was done. He'd confided. Now she'd see him as less than perfect. Oh, he'd slipped before, and Sophia was very astute. Sometimes he hadn't needed to confided in her for her to offer advice.
But still, an outright confession. I just want to be able to sleep again. Hadn't done that it a long time. Even after his lab exploded, when he was expected to confided in others, he did so only slightly.
He did what was expected of him, but he doled out the least amount of information that he could. Made light of everything, because he didn't want them to feel they had to worry.
And he'd never told his parents.
Oh God. His parents.
He was so very grateful, so ungodly relieved, that Grissom had left it up to him to contact his parents, and assumed he had.
But he hadn't. And wouldn't. Maybe he couldn't, not anymore.
They, like everyone around him, only knew what he wanted them to know. Only knew the him that he wanted them to.
They didn't really know him anymore.
He didn't know if there was a person alive that truly did.
Except maybe Aaron James.
Killer.