Write Me A Flower
Disclaimer: Don't own anything, song by APC.
Spoiler: Lost Son
Lying all alone and restless
Unable to lose this image
Sleepless, unable to focus on
Anything but your surrender…
It's colder than I thought it would be. Images surrounding my tunnel vision are becoming more frightening by the second. Voices are no longer distinguishable; they all blend in and distance themselves from me. I don't hear Horatio any longer, or any one else for that matter. Gunshots ring in my ear, but I don't see anyone taking out their guns, and I focus on the past remembering the sound of the bullet that will surely kill me.
I feel warm liquid seep into my mouth, and I know it's not saliva; it's too thin to be saliva, but not too thin to be blood. I find it ironic that my last thoughts don't surround around my life, or my family, they surround trace. It's funny how I realize now my life was my job and I loved every minute of it. It doesn't bother me at all, and I know I need to calm down Horatio because the look of fear in his eyes is scaring me more than my impending doom.
Tugging a rhythm to the vision that's in my head
Tugging a beat to the sight of you lying
So delighted with a new understanding
He's staring at me in disbelief, and I want to ask him if I look that horrible, but I know humor isn't what I want to be remembered for. I'm not brave, and I'm not a hero, I don't need to go gracefully. It's my fault anyway, so I whisper the most clichéd phrase.
"I can't feel anything."
Hoping Horatio won't tell me to hold on, there's no use. And pretty soon with the help of my girlfriend he'll find out that my gun jammed because I didn't take proper care of my weapon, and never used the cleaning kit he gave me.
I mumble incoherently to myself, because that's easier to cope with than the blinding pain in my chest. It's incredible that I'm not done breathing yet. I can't think straight however, so I close my eyes, and swallow as much blood as I can, if I had the strength I'd roll over on my stomach, but I know that movement can just be the final straw. My body can't handle any more abuse, and I wont subject it to any either.
Something about a little evil that makes that
Unmistakable noise I was hearing
Unmistakable sound that I know so well
I think about random things I never got to do, but what really sticks out in my memory is that I never got to take Marsala, Cal's cat, to the vet, to check if she really was pregnant, like we'd suspected. I also remember that I was going to make Calleigh's favorite again today, and I never got to do that either.
My mom told me she always remembered the little things she forgot to do with my granddad when he passed away, because, as she claimed, nothing else really mattered. Life forms from young age to old, and so does progress. I agreed with her, but only because I was 14 and had to listen to her instead of playing video games.
I never took her seriously but now I understand. I understand what she meant by little things. I'm going to miss waking up sneezing because Calleigh's hair was in my face, or being late for work because we made love in the morning. Or the incredibly weak coffee she brewed that got her more hyped up than that time that she accidentally sniffed some cocaine on the job.
Spent and sighing with a look in your eye
Spent and sighing with a look on your face like
It makes me smile, and I remember the warm evenings we spent together, drinking tea and watching the stars from her balcony, and every so often she'd lean in for a kiss, and my lips would brush over hers teasingly, and she'd whisper a seduction in my ear before laying her head on my shoulder.
I open my eyes but I no longer see Horatio, my vision is slowly closing in, but then I think of those warm evenings and the images are no longer frightening, and the place I'm in doesn't feel so lonely. All the pain is gone, I don't hear ringing in my ears, and I don't choke on the warm blood in my mouth.
And I'm definitely not cold anymore.
Thinking of you, thinking
Thinking of you, Thinking of you, Thinking of you…
Sweet revelation sweet surrendering