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12 October 2007 @ 11:15 pm
Theatrical Muse: Week 200: Question 200  
Name: Dr. Sid Hammerback

Fandom: CSI: New York

Word Count: 936


Smörgåsbord! (Five prompts to choose from: Follow the link for the details.)


When Marianne, Christopher and Michael died, the world tilted upside down and started to shake him violently, altering how he saw people wherever he went. Librarians were no longer kind, or attractive, they were stale with primitive expressions of distaste, they were people who wore the clothing of wallflowers. Sid would take walks at night, and all the security guards, all the night watchmen that he saw as he slunk through the shadows would flick their lights upon him. To them he seemed insane, not looking like a criminal, just a well dressed man with a nice face, a sad face, walking around the city at three in the morning. How could he explain that Marianne wasn’t there? That Christopher and Michael weren’t there? Sid Hammerback, the man who had been married for decades, who had loved her for so long, was now just a little boy, lost to the world, and when he hung in hallways, talking to people, passing over to them the information that they needed, memories of his past life haunted him. When he got drunk and fell down the stairs, still then it wouldn’t turn off, and sometimes he wouldn’t even sleep at all, staying up until past dawn. It got better thought, it did, eventually.

When he felt better, eventually he started to pack up some of their possessions, clothing, shoes. He used up her shampoo and threw the empty bottles out, but other things, the children’s drawings, the shopping list on the fridge, he couldn’t bear to touch. They were the remainders of their lives, as they had been that day, when they had ended. They were things, which would never be done by them, that they had intended to do. He kept their school reports, left the children’s bedroom like it had been, kept her scrapbooks, her umbrella, things like that. Of all the things he packed away, they went into boxes, got stored away, and maybe one day he would throw them out for good, but right now, all the boxes, didn’t cause him any trouble. Some rooms in the home stayed the same, and some changed, but it was still familiar to him, it still reminded him, his home, of what it had been like when they were there.

On one particular night, he had been invited out to a charity event on the large balcony of some high rise club. Alone, he stared up at a shining full moon, pale against the brilliantly lit city sky. Multicoloured drink in hand, wind whirling its way through his hair, he felt like a vulture, a crow, perched on an infinitely high bough. He didn’t want to jump, he was past that thirst for reprieve now, but he wished, for a moment, that he could fly, and maybe then, he could outfly the pain and the sadness. He wanted to reach dizzying, exhilarating heights, he wanted to live life again, feel passion and closeness and just a bit of romance, but he was grounded by loss, stripped of his feathers, his ability to soar, through depravation and grieving. Many years later, he was better still, but the hole in his heart wore at him, it kept him in some places, yet finally, eventually, let him into others.

He lay her down carefully, shimmering flesh exposed to the light bulb above. He cleaned her body, wiped her clean, and wrapped her up in cling wrap. She was lead out to a table of smooth, cold stone and there she became a platter upon which food was laid out. She didn’t move, she barely breathed, and the look of terror and pleasure that swirled through her eyes as people examined what she had to offer, was a beautiful and significant sight. She played dinner plate for him that night too, once the event was over and he finely decorated her once more, an artist long since used to using food as his colours, his paint. There was nothing he couldn’t use in some way, and every kind of food that he would eat. Sid had never been a picky eater.

Had he deserved her love? Had they deserved each other? In her absence, he questioned himself for briefly illuminated moments of thought, wondering, really, if all that they had had together, all that they had felt, done, experienced, created, was as great as it had been, as significant as he had felt it was. They had swung, high, low and all around, but in the end, after those few, tiny, insignificant moments of wondering were done, he came to a reassuring conclusion. They had done all those things, sexual, devious, normal, or otherwise, and yet she had always come back to him. They always knew where their first and foremost loyalty lay, and it created between them, an impenetrable bond. Some people, it was true, didn’t deserve to be loved by whoever they wanted to be loved by, because they were not a good type of person at that moment in time. She had loved him though, and he had loved her, and in that, they had deserved each other’s affection for as long as it had been around between them. They hadn’t been deluded, they hadn’t been ignorant, they had truly loved each other, for decades and decades, and when it all came to an end, he loved her still. After so many years of playing that role, of lover and partner, of husband, and meaning every moment of it with entirely evident truth, he wasn’t sure if he could ever stop loving her in some way, not ever.
 
 
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