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12 January 2007 @ 06:06 am
Theatrical Muse: Week 160: Question 160  
Name: Dr. Sid Hammerback

Fandom: CSI: New York

Word Count: 593


What song best describes your life?


Sometimes he lay awake at night now, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, from his side of the bed, head resting on his pillow with his half of the sheet and blanket covering him. He didn’t stretch out, to encompass the other half of the bed which was now, in a way, his in an entirety, because it didn’t feel like that. He didn’t sell the bed either, because he knew, regretfully, that he would use it with someone else one day, because to live a passionless life, for him, was impossible. He wanted to be held, when he stared at the ceiling, blank and expressionless and devoid of interest and happiness, but the person he wanted to hold him, was the one person, perhaps in all the world, that he couldn’t have, and could never have again. And that wasn’t fair, in the slightest. And so, his thoughts, his memories and his blanket and sheet tumbled over him as silken threads do over fine, unblemished skin.

Help, I have done it again.

He got drunk a couple of times, onetime to a point of severe and unforgettable excess, but eventually the usage of alcohol as a numbing factor died down, because he felt bad, even worse, then he had before. This was a good thing, perhaps even better because he hadn’t been doing it for very long at all.

I have been here many times before.

Some kind of unbeknownst music pushed through his body sometimes. A surge of longing that felt as if it would accompany some tragic classical piece, a memory that might seem to fit a strong romantic ballad. There were even moments where he forgot, and then remembered, his situation, that would fit, perhaps, long guitar strums, full of longing and hopelessness and, something unable to be placed quite exactly.

Hurt myself again, today, and the worst part is there’s none else to blame.

Time passed by though, as it always did, and while he still looked at photo albums, while he still, kept all her stuff, their stuff, and never spread out his body in bed, the inner, unheard music changed. He would get up, and see a bright day ahead, a day without her, without them, but a bright one nonetheless. He would get excited about a sports game, or a hot dog, and he would grab his things, like he had once before, and race out the door. Sometimes, he would even talk to the bodies in the morgue, a habit occasionally displayed, and having been gained from a friend, two friends, actually, who he lived very far away from.

If I close my eyes, it’s all the same.

Years later, he’d still get angry at the terrorists, at the government, at the people who hadn’t been able to stop the planes plunging into the towers, into his life and causing irreparable damage and loss. He still sat awake at night, sometimes, remembering her smell, and the joy on all their faces when his sons first learnt to use cutlery. He kept seeing people who looked like her, like his boys, on the tables, and even though he was not seeing things, he got on with life, he remembered, but he lived also. He managed to move past the first, terrifying, gripping moment of realisation and pain, and while it still tore at him sometimes, stopping him in his tracks, preventing him from moving, he would, in time, break free, and, he would raise his head and succeed once again.

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.
 
 
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
Current Music: Breathe Me - Sia