Sound
It was Haley's poetry book. She had kept scraps of paper in it, poems of others, a few quick lines of her own, each indistinguishable from the others, all her own hand. It had been in the dresser, forgotten in her haste to go into witness protection.
Insanity is vanity,
To think you have the luxury,
And the audacity to imagine,
That any one would notice,
The unraveling of your mind.
Where had she found it, this poem? But he knew. This wasn't a copy. It rang with her clear voice, hardened by the life he gave her.
Your inner world expressed before you,
A refuge, a pretty one,
Hiding you from the reality of life,
Making you a weakling,
A pale piteous thing,
Pretending you can go insane!
There was no date. But the edges had yellowed, the ink curled on itself. This was her steeling herself for the phone call where she'd told him how it would be. She would have Jack, and he could visit, naturally. But she wouldn't be his wife any longer.
With whose permission and by what right,
Do you refuge in your spirit?
Call on courage, summon resolve,
Walk forward without help or pity,
What you seek in insanity,
Is only human vanity.
He put it in the box for Jack, when he was older. He deserved to know all about his parents, even the bad, when he was old enough that it didn't confuse him too badly.
The slow motion of his life, Jack's life, suddenly made him want to break something. A picture. A chair. Foyet, again and again.
Insanity is vanity.
She may as well have spoken in his ear. What good would it do? She had had Jack. Jack kept her sane by his presence. Now he would be Hotch's reason to not give in and go over the edge. Who would take care of his baby, if he didn't? Insanity is vanity.
It didn't sting, now. Not any more then iodine on a cut. Her voice was still in his ear, encouraging.