|Every Rose and its Thorn
Author: Chloe Winchester PM
Tag to 2.08 Patrick's key to Red John is gone, and his hope has gone with it. Lots of Angst because it's my specialty. EmotionallyHurt!Patrick No Jisbon as usual. Please R&R ONESHOTRated: Fiction T - English - Hurt/Comfort/Angst - Patrick J. & Teresa L. - Words: 1,020 - Reviews: 5 - Favs: 8 - Follows: 1 - Published: 11-27-09 - Status: Complete - id: 5540081
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Every Rose and its Thorn
So close. So, so close. It's not fair. WHY DOES HE HAVE TO DO THIS TO ME?!
I walked away from the corpse, away from the one person that might have been able to tell me who he is, where he is. And why he's taunting me this way?
I rounded the corner, away from the yelling paramedics, away from people away from everything. My head screamed at me, roared that he had been right there. RIGHT THERE! He was in the building. He was right here under my nose and I missed it! I missed it. I slammed my fists into the wall again. And again, and again, and again, and again…
My hands were bloody and I still didn't stop. So close, so very, very close. I'd never been more angry.
I had her. I had her, the key to it all. I was willing to wait for her to give in because at least that way I had hope. And he had taken that away from me. Again.
My hands were numb. I couldn't feel any sort of pain as my hands continued to drive into the drywall.
I had nothing, nothing left. Maybe if I looked through Sam's case files…
What if they were gone? Surely he wouldn't leave the case files. No, no they were gone. Another shred of hope ripped away.
I was in this dark hallway, turning a wall to dust, away from it all. Alone.
That son of a bitch, that son of a bitch had the audacity to come in here, so smug that he wouldn't be caught. And he was right. We hadn't. I hadn't. Oh, god, please kill me…
Such blind rage, the edges of my vision were a red mist; that face painted on the wall flashing over and over. Blood, so much blood. His blood? My daughter's blood? His blood? My wife's blood? His Blood? Their blood? Mine? Maybe. His or mine? Who dies first? Who wins? Good guy bad guy. So simple yet so complicated. Who will die first? I want to kill him. Gotta catch him. Catch him or die. Catch him or die. And keep pounding the wall.
Hands so bloody. His blood or mine? His or mine? Mine. His. Does it matter? Ours, then. If I die he's coming with me.
My daughter's laugh. My daughter's scream. My wife's smiling face. My wife's blank eyes and pale skin.
THAT SON OF A BITCH!
And it was to the wall again. The wall was him. The wall was myself. The wall was everything that I wanted to hurt, wanted to destroy, wanted to kill. Him first. Him then me. That's how this should end. And if I die first let me. I'll be with them again. This numbing, cold, empty, helpless, pathetic, sad, hopeless, helpless, agonized feeling will die with what's left of me.
Still at the wall. I can't even tell if I'm doing anything to it. If I'm hurting it as much as I want to.
"Jane!" Distant echo of a voice. I can't hear it. So angry… "Jane, Jane, stop it!" Hands pull at my arms, stopping me. I fall into the corner. How did I get on my knees?
Crying, hardly able to comprehend what's going on.
"Patrick, Patrick, look at me," A hand on my face, gently coaxing it up. Tears sting, burn and blur. It's like bleeding. "It's okay, shh, it's okay," Lisbon? I fell into her chest, holding my hands against my own. My chest hurts. Sobs tore from it roughly, ripping, ragged. Throat aches, face is wet.
"Shh, it's okay, it's okay. We'll get him, alright? I promise. Shh…"
I want her to be right. I want it all to be over. All of it…
I ran down here as fast as I could when I heard. I didn't know what he would do. Would he scream? Would he laugh? Would he cry? I had no idea.
I found out soon enough. I saw the paramedics in the hall, yelling. Uniformed officers walking around looking for something to do. I didn't see him, until I looked down the hallway next to me.
He was on his knees, hitting the wall over and over again, blood on his hands, tears on his face and he was saying over and over again: "Why?!" I ran down the hall, making sure I wasn't followed.
"Jane!" He didn't respond. I don't think he even heard me. "Jane, Jane, stop it!" I forced his arms down with less effort than I anticipated. He fell, sobbing violently, bloodied hands on his face.
"Patrick, Patrick look at me," I touched his cheek, urging his hands down and his face up. "It's okay, shh, it's okay," I think he recognized me now. He fell against me, crying so hard and so quietly at the same time. I don't know how that's possible, but he was doing it.
Pain etched in every line of his face, crystal eyes bloodshot. He was so angry, so torn up inside. And this just pushed him over the edge.
"Shh, it's okay, it's okay. We'll get him, alright? I promise. Shh…" He cried harder.
I don't know how long we stayed here. It didn't matter.
I hoped it was right. I wanted it to be over. All of it. For him.
My bearings are with me again. I'll be alright. I'll be okay. In front of them, anyway. A thank you to Lisbon and I walk out, acting as if nothing had happened as usual.
I watched him walk away, bottled up again. One of these days he would burst, and I might not be there. That scared me. But I'll follow him upstairs as if nothing happened as usual.
--Thank you! Please R&R--