Just a small one shot about Ziva and her return, how she deals with it and stuff. There will be spoilers for some episodes so that's the warning. I needed to write this to get me back on track for false accusation: deliverance as I was having some kind of writers block, but it is gone now and I should be updating that soon to.
My document manager is still not working…so I am sorry again if the format is all confusing….and I know it is off putting to read stuff that's in bold….
Right rant over now to the fic… Bit angst…..
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The days go by slowly, weeks drag on and the mouths seem like years. For Ziva David, the days seem to be frozen, the rain that taps on the window never stops, the clouds outside always seem to be grey, and even the faintest of smiles it deemed impossible.
From her desk she has a perfect view of the outside world, the grey of the sky, the dim green of the trees and the black of the road all seem to blend together, creating nothing but a colourless blur.
But she always seemed to find herself in the same place when the day ended. Strolling through the door into the darkened gym, the deserted hall free of the preying eyes marines, the chatter of female agents and the shouts of the trainers and drill instructors
The only thing that kept her alive, was working herself half to death.
A thin sheen of sweat covered her body as she pounded the punching bag, her firsts just a blur as the continued to hammer the brown leather of the defenceless object. White wires crawled up her chest, over her shoulders and crawled up to stop at the small circular earphones that rested snugly in her ears.
The only sound being that of her heavy breathing and the
Of her fists.
Suddenly she stopped, sucking in deep breaths. Glancing at her knuckles she had barely felt the skin split, didn't feel that trickle of blood and didn't feel the sting of the wound as she punched the bag again, falling to the floor in an exhausted heap.
How ever, she did feel the warm tears that fell from her eyes and trailed down her cheeks, did feel the emptiness of her neck when she reached up to touch the necklace that was no longer there and did feel the very real pain in her chest, the cold feeling that wrapped its glacier fingers round your heart.
She was always taught that crying was a sign of weakness, but if there was no one there to see her, then no one would deem her weak?
She knew that when she went home, she would crawl under the cold sheets of her empty bed, waiting for troubled sleep to take her, the night being filled with images of violence pain and suffering.
The violence being that of all the things she has done, all the life's she has taken
The pain being that of a father that never cared
And the suffering, payback from her crimes, vengeance for the life's she has taken and a constant memory of something that she rather forget.
OH god! I have actually made my self depressed by writing that. Ah well. I will be fine once I have had my cupa tea and gone to bed. Hope you enjoyed it….