Disclaimer: Not mine.
CHAPTER ONE – THE END
It was eight o'clock. Greg Sanders knew that he should be at work, and that they would probably be looking for him soon, but none of that mattered anymore. He threw the beer bottle to the floor, sighing when he realized that it was the end of this six pack. I should have bought more than two.
The phone rang, but he stumbled past it, dropping to the couch. He closed his eyes, but everything was still a blur of colors and sounds. He rarely got drunk, but even he knew that this was going to end in a hell of a hangover. He leaned over the arm of the couch, immediately regretting it as a wave of nausea hit him. He latched on to the phone line and tugged, almost smiling as the room was bathed in silence once more. It was probably just one of his bosses calling to see why he wasn't at work yet. Greg hadn't missed a scheduled day in six years.
"Fuck work." he muttered to himself as he rested his head against a pillow, looking up at the ceiling as he tried to keep his headache in check. No, now that I think of it, fuck life.
Greg looked at the end table that lay just beyond the couch, near his feet, and groaned. On it sat a framed picture of Catherine, Nick, Warrick, Grissom, Lindsey, and himself. Judging from his hair, he decided that it must have been at least four years old. It was Lindsey's birthday party, back when the night crew was still a little family unit. Back before everything had gone to hell. He picked up a beer can from the floor and threw it at the frame, missing by several feet in his drunken haze. "Why won't you just die?"
He rolled until he was lying flat on his back on the couch, then tilted his head back. He was a man on a mission now, and nothing was going to stop him this time.
It was still there, right where he had left it earlier. He picked up the razor blade and set it on his chest. Greg took one index finger and trailed it across the fresh cut from that afternoon. He had been weak then, but now it was time. It was tomorrow now, and he had always said he would do it then.
He picked up the razor once more and brought it to his skin, lightly skimming the surface. Good, I don't even feel it now. And he wondered what the point was if he couldn't feel it anyway, but his pondering didn't stop him from dragging the blade across his wrist. He winced a little as the blood began flowing freely from the wound, but it was more about the drama of it all than the actual pain. He moved to the other wrist and repeated the motion, finally satisfied when the bleeding matched it's twin.
When will they notice? Maybe I should have left a window open. Grissom was always talking about how suicides left windows open so neighbors would notice the smell. What else did Grissom say about suicides?
As his mind drifted toward the peaceful oblivion he had so longingly sought, he remembered the other thing Grissom said about suicides.
Suicide is the ultimate form of selfishness.
These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase