Note: this is my first "Kommissar Rex" fanfic, based on Moser's POV.
Disclaimer: "Kommissar Rex" is owned by Mungo film, SAT.1 and ORF, or in other words – I don't own "Kommissar Rex". (But I wish I did…)
Story: Autumnal Thoughts
Autumn. I can hear the wind rushing outside. The windows are closed but I can see the curtains waving – it's obvious that the windows aren't hermetic. Well, what else I could expect of the house that is on lease… If I wasn't working double time at the office, maybe I would repair this house faster, but… The truth is – I really don't have any time. To be straight, sometimes I get jealous when I spot Rex dozing blissfully during the work time. I wish I could do the same. All I can allow myself is to make coffee unnumbered times a day. A short break, and again – work, work, work. As soon as we solve one case, there is another in a row.
It may seem that I don't like my job, but it's not like that. It's quite opposite. Sometimes I get too tired, that's all. To be honest, I can't imagine a usual day without my colleagues – Stockinger, Hollerer, and of course Rex. Rex is like a guardian angel, saver from my sorrow. In a way we both helped each other to outlive the ills of life: these hard times when Rex lost his boss, and I lost…
I lost? I have no regrets – I'm doing perfectly without her. It was her who decided to divorce, and she knew what she was going to throw away. I have to confess that she has never missed me, never tried to make contact. The last time I heard from her was that damned day when she phoned to the office and informed that she was taking away her furniture. (And apparently she had mistaken some with mine.) By the way, Stocki was the one to answer that call, not me. And Gina was lucky – if I had a chance, I would have cussed her out. And that would be the smoothest way to express my feelings – believe me, there was a period of time when I had been allergic to the words 'wife', 'divorce', and especially to the infamous name 'Gina'. My usual reaction to them was clenching fists upon the look for any cause that could let me pour out all the fury that I was repressing.
The past will never repeat itself – I'm glad that such a law exists. I don't feel like having willingness to relive anything from my past.
But during these rainy autumnal nights I always remember the worst and the most offensive things that have ever happened to me. My memory is like a certain time machine, carrying me back anew... against my will. And although during the 'journey' I could jump out of the machine, I have never tried: it seemed to me that by doing this I would definitely hurt myself.
A/N: Should I continue?
P.S. I would be pleased if someone shows me the grammar mistakes of this story. Thanks!