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10 December 2008 @ 07:27 pm
Theatrical Muse: Week 260: Question 260  
Name: Dr. Sid Hammerback

Fandom: CSI: New York

Word Count: 1167


Five for Five (Five prompts to choose from in honor of TM's 5th anniversary! Follow the link for the details.)


One day, out for a walk, he tried to remember what Marianne had been doing five years before she had died. He tried to remember what his boys had been doing, and came to the realisation that one of them hadn’t existed as a living, breathing, flesh and blood born baby back then. Five years before she had died, it had nearly been half of three decades, something like thirteen years, and that seemed an age ago, it seemed a boundless eternity away because over half of the time since had been spent without her.

It hadn’t felt any different then, those final five years they had together, that beautiful half a decade that she had left to live, all those circumstances, fuck them, that had been working in harmonious conjunction to bring about her untimely end. He hadn’t known, and it felt like he should have, so he could have changed it all, but one man couldn’t do that. Sid Hammerback couldn’t do that; he couldn’t affect what had been, couldn’t turn back time and alter the course. If he had known, would it have made things any different? He remembered Michael, he remembered Chris, and wondered, if he had known, if he had been told they weren’t going to live, would he have loved them as much, or would he have rejected them because they wouldn’t be there to suffer the consequences anyway. And how could he have possibly known, how could anything different in those five years have possibly changed anything? It was so far away now, that as his feet hit the pavement of Central Park, his heart ached at the thought that a few words or impulses here and there could have changed his world.

He missed what he couldn’t have. No more telephone calls with her, no more trips to the opera, no more singing favourite songs, no more children’s toys on the floor, no more doing the ironing while she was away so they could watch TV together while the boys played Lego. As the man walked, all the memories bubbled inside him as he thought of those five years before his whole life had changed, and how things that had seemed meant to be, the birth of his second child, had come into them, not at the start, but somewhere soon after. He thought of how the years that were left then, had seemed magical and complete, how he and Marianne, finally had the family they had been talking about for so long.


Crammed into his head, piece by piece, were the kept memories and the tangled desires and passions and successes of three people who no longer existed as living, breathing beings. While they were alive, he had needed them, loved them, more than air, more than water, more than food, and without them, all the memories of them couldn’t satiate his hunger, not quite.

Finding himself back on the street again, he headed back towards his car, found himself, in time back in the building that held his work, his morgue, his table, his things. He was on time, rested and well prepared for the shift ahead, the bodies that would, inevitable come to him, in some way or another, or to which he himself, would travel. The way went like that, for it was one of those days were memories stretched themselves into figments of the imagination, into shadows and nudges and a singular kind of very mild madness. A Priest killed in a hit and run, the cop who had been nearby with blood on his hands, a noble act. Someone who had bashed up a young gay man so far so that what remained of his face was a bloodied pulp, and he worked on it, kept working until it was all over and he could go home.


He went for another walk later, as night set in at full force, angry and tense that the wishful imaginings of changing a past nearly a decade in separation from the present had managed to haunt him the whole day. Wasn’t he meant to be over this? Wasn’t he meant to have dealt with all these thoughts and worries and imaginings? He had loved her, he still loved her and he couldn’t stop, so this was just a bad day, where the death and the dying were ok, but hers, theirs, wasn’t.

There was an ice cream parlour that he nearly passed, he had walked so far. Its doors were shut, but it’s lights still illuminated the pavement, and he recognised the girl inside. He had brought Marianne there was, maybe all those years ago, certainly during the five years before she had died. He eyed her carefully, a lonely man, a sad scarecrow man watching from the outside in, wondering how his mother might be going, wondering what he was going to do for dinner the next day ahead, trying to lessen the screaming memories that raged siege against his mind. He understood suddenly what she was doing, sitting at a closed ice cream parlour, paramedic jacket hung over the back of a chair. She was revisiting the past too, wasn’t she? Why else would she be there as someone far younger than her swept the floor and cleaned the counters? Why else would he be there, on this walk, if not to revisit the past? Things like that were possible.


Sid Hammerback snipped home the quick way, legs un-tired but mind exhausted. He came inside, showered and fell numbly into bed, covers slipping themselves around him like they knew he needed them. There was a five by five reprieve; twenty five minutes of dreaming about Marianne, dancing in the rain, laughing, waving, talking, her face pale her words, delicious. There was twenty five minutes he was given to reset and reacquaint his senses before the phone rang. It was Mac, and Mac needed him, and so as he moved into motion the five years before she had died, before his boys had died, slipped into the past. That was what it was, the past, and to continue, he had to remember that it could never be brought back, changed or reversed.

Five years before they had died, though, five years before she had died, when only one child had existed, he wouldn’t have changed anything for the world. When Michael had come along, still within that half a decade before the Towers fell, if he had known, if he had been forewarned, it wouldn’t have changed how much he loved them. He had always loved them, and now, he would always love them still. No five minutes, no five hours, days, years or decades, could change that. Not at all.

Five years before she had died, he had danced with her in the rain, and now all the memories of that time, of all the time they had spent together, stuck on his eyelids, the dust of the past, never to be rubbed off.
 
 
Current Mood: lonelylonely
Current Music: Five Years - David Bowie