I do not own Monk. Please review if you like it. Sorry if you didn't like it.
They were all over the wall, in different positions, each as straight as the next. Some, she was alone, and in others, he was with her. She would always be smiling the smile he dreamt of now, always laughing the same laugh he heard when the streets were silent and he was alone with his thoughts. She wore different things, but sometimes, there were pictures where she would be wearing the same blouse, or pants. Clothes that he hung in the closet in the hall, not yet prepared to do away with.
There were some from years ago, and others that were recent...not recent, really, considering that it had been years since she had gone.
She had been going to the store, and he remembered every word she said that morning, because he ran that morning over in his head when he was awake, and when he was asleep, and he would cling to that one last feeling of happiness when he felt like giving up.
There were times when he would take them down- when there weren't any cases, any plans. He would sit in a nice comfy chair, and he would look over each one as though it was the first time he had seen them. He would remember when the pictures were taken, and he'd laugh, or smile weakly, or cry. Sometimes, he would sit there for hours, just remembering, and just being glad he could.
There were times when he wished he had never known her, so that the pain he now felt had never existed. But when he looked at the pictures, he remembered that he could never wish that, because he loved her more then anything, and even though she had left him a broken man, if he could go back, he would do it all over again. Because he loved her too much to choose to lose her.
There were times when he would just stare out at the street, waiting for her to come home. It wasn't the same house they used to live in. It wasn't the same neighborhood. But sometimes he just expected her to come. Even after all these years.
The pictures make it all seem recent- like it's okay to grieve- that people will understand. The wedding ring on his finger is always looked at in confusion by those who knew her, and he knows that that means that it isn't really normal. But he doesn't care, because he loves her too much to care about something as menial as other peoples' opinions about him.
He doesn't care because she was the perfect woman, who loved him simply because of who he was, and not because of a guise like others who were in 'love'. He doesn't know how anyone could ever think they are in love, and yet not break inside and outside when the person they love goes away. He loved her so much, and seeing her every morning, greeting him with the smile he loves more then the sun, more then any broom or mop, more then any praise he might receive for his job- it makes everything worth it. It makes him stop before he breaks down. It makes him grow the tiniest bit of hope.
There were times when he wished he could throw out the photographs so, if nothing else, he could try to forget about her.
But he knows he couldn't.
And he knows he wouldn't ever want to.
P.S- My one story got one of my first bad reviews, so now I feel empty inside, like I could cry (holds in sob) (The story did suck, and I wrote it at like, midnight, after a VERY long day, but that's beside the point : p )Please refrain from flames, though I'm sure it'll be tempting...