Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, premises of or anything to do with the television show, CSI. I make no financial gain from the production of this twisted tale. All recognizable material is the property of the creators and the television networks who hold the contract rights there of. All "original" characters are fictional and any similarities to existing or deceased (or other fictional) persons is completely coincidental and no harm or offence is intended.
Rated T for Teen: Coarse Language
Author's Note: Oh look, angst. Something new and different for me. I'm sort of working on two larger fics, but my brain keeps wandering off. This is the result. As you can probably tell, I was in a bit of a mood when I wrote this one.
Feedback is always greatly appreciated. Translation: The author loves feedback so much that the downstairs neighbors have complained about spontanious bouts of jumping up and down.
Thanks to my beta-reader, HoneyLynx86 for looking this over for me!
A CSI Ficlet
Damn them all. Damn them all to Hell.
Damn Greg for his puppy-dog love. He turned her one true friendship into some kind of sick play on his emotions. Damn Warrick for his mistrust. All she ever did was her job and he hated her for it. Damn Nick and his casual comments that hurt her so much. She didn't need to get out more. Damn Catherine and her bitchiness. She never did anything to deserve her hate. Damn Grissom, damn him most of all. She loved him and he never let her in.
They never saw her, not for who she was, not until it was too late. She was their rock, pulling through everything for them. She worked hard and it showed, but did she ever get a thank-you? No, the closet I think she ever got was a sneer from Catherine. None of them reached out to her, not really. They had to have seen it, the pain behind those dark brown eyes. They didn't care. They thought they'd have her forever. Night after night, month after month, year after year. She was their workaholic, their Grissom in the making. She'd never leave. They all thought she'd stay forever and take their abuse.
She was always destined for something more. When she reached out and grabbed at the brass ring, that's when they suddenly cared. They turned what should have been the sweet honeyed taste of triumph to bitter ashes of defeat in her mouth. All they gave her were accusations and resentful goodbyes.
It's their fault.
No, it's mine.
For all of their mistreatment, their use and abuse of her…I am truly the one to blame. I should have reached out for her. I should have let her know. I cared. I cared so much it hurt. It physically pained me to see her leave.
She left. Though her head was held high and her shoulders back. She walked away from Vegas and she walked away from them. She walked away from me and what we could have had together.
They miss her. They never expected that they would. They never realized how big a part she played here. They scratch their heads and wonder why their workloads increased or why their close rate has dropped. They keep thinking it's the tools, or the procedures. Idiots. The best thing you had walked right out of the front doors and you didn't even try to stop her.
I miss her. I miss her smile, I miss the way she hummed under her breath. I miss the way she'd work a scene with me. I miss the subtle smell of her shampoo and the way wisps of her hair would escape her ski-cap and frame her face. I miss her.
Damn her for leaving me like this, and damn me for letting her go.
Author's Note: The Narrator, or Secret Admirer shall remain secret, but feel free to paste the face of your choice into the blank area.