Disclaimer: I do not own CSI.
AN: Yes, this is another new story that I created instead of finishing certain other fics. This one should be short, and yes, that's my defense.
Sara sat down on the ground and stared up at the sky. Cold rain showered her face, but that was okay. She was very warm. She had her brother's sweatshirt on. And even under that… she was warm.
She wondered if it was right that it was raining; that it looked like the sky was crying. It had rained when her brother left, and that had felt right. Wasn't this just as sad? Shouldn't it have been?
Sara shivered and brought her knees to her chest. She could hear laughter. Her mother laughed a lot. Especially lately. It wasn't hysterical; her mother wasn't insane yet. It was cold. Cruel. Sara didn't like it at all.
Especially now. It was… wrong.
It was supposed to be directed at her, not… not a corpse.
Sara clutched desperately at her head as the thought made itself known. No. Her mother wouldn't murder anyone. Her mother… Murdering someone wasn't right. Her mother wouldn't do something that wrong and then—and then laugh about it. There had to be something she wasn't understanding.
She had been trying to behave. She always tried. But she also always made a mistake. She had been too noisy, and her father had woken up from sleeping on the couch. Her father hated being woken up. The punishment for waking him up hurt. They went to the hospital a lot because of it.
She didn't know why she ran. She was used to being punished. It was normal.
But… she ran anyways. All the way up to her room. Her father had followed, and… she had fought with him. She had tried to get out of the punishment she'd earned. She shouldn't have done that.
And then her mother had started yelling about hidden drugs. She had come inside Sara's room with the knife, never quieting her voice.
The knife hurt a lot. Sara had made enough bad mistakes to know that. The knife was dangerous. There was always blood because of it.
Her blue walls didn't look good covered in blood. Maybe it would when it was dry… purple. She had always wanted purple walls.
Sara looked down at her hands. The rain was washing away the blood. Sara watched it flow into the mud for a few seconds before taking off her brother's sweatshirt and throwing it into a bush. It was cold out here. She shouldn't be so warm.
She was, though. The blood coloring her shirt was still warm. Sara stood up in the pouring rain, and waited for the water to wash away all of the blood.
She took out the hunting knife she had found under her brother's bed and sliced her palm open. She wanted to laugh—the hysterical kind, the kind that her mother should've let out while she murdered her husband—when that also seeped away. She felt dizzy with hope and happiness at the discovery.
Maybe if she stood there long enough, it would wash her away, too.
Sara looked up at the sky again. She liked the rain.