Something Is Rotten In Redmund (20)
You walk away from the team with an excuse, needing to be alone, on your own, as bad as it is- and you already feel Lisbon's eyes burning the skin of your back, ready to tell you it's not healthy, that you shouldn't. but there's not another way.
You can't be with them and listen to them talking about Benjamin, you don't have the strength to. You are not even mad at them because they don't understand (though, from the burning sensation in your back, Lisbon probably does, Saint Teresa, always there, caring for the others and never for her). you just can't, not now, maybe not ever.
You aren't mad with Rigsby- you are happy for him, you know his forceful side will now be sweetened by this child, you know he'll do his best to be a better father than his own, and you saw the happiness (and yes, the fear) radiating from him in the last few months. You aren't mad, and you aren't even really jealous. It's not even sadness. It's hard to say.
You just know that you can't keep the mask on any longer until you are around them, in this situation, and that the pinching sensation in your heart is back, back full force, as strong as it was only when it happened, that terrible day, when you were all alone, closed in a white hot room with only your thoughts.
You miss them, and as never before, you miss your little child, your beautiful daughter, Charlotte.
No child should survive their own parent, it's a law of nature that's too often broken, but it's one thing when it's broken by nature itself- as hard as it is- another one is when you are the one who made it so that the law was to be broken to begin with.
And you did it. You created that situation.
You couldn't keep your mouth shout, couldn't stop thinking about yourself- because it was it, you weren't thinking about them when you did it, it was you, always you. You couldn't keep your mouth closed and you made the wrong person mad, you endangered them without even realizing it. You did it.
You killed them. You killed Angela. You killed Charlotte, your beautiful, little baby, your precious daughter.
You did, and you'll have to live with its weight upon your shoulders until the day you'll meet your death will come. You'll never suffer enough, never will you pay enough. You did it, and there's no turning back.
Right now, solitude feels all right, the best option available. You can't have them back, you'll never have her back, nor will another child, if there will be another child, be able to take her place, make you forget. You did it.
You'll never pay enough.