CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 570
What are you happy about right now?
The thirteenth, really and truly, this is getting dreadfully boring. I suggest you, for once, use your mind, and think up something better to ask than this pansy excuse for an inquiry.
I’m not the happiest person in the world. I was barely married for a year when my wife was raped, murdered by stabbing and had her wounds stuffed with bandages so the blood wasn’t evident when I walked into our bedroom. I thought she was asleep. I worked on the case because we were short staffed, even though I shouldn’t have done so. I found the killer, he’s in jail, but still I feel guilty. I should have been killed as well, because we both had our enemies. I still do.
I’ve even contemplated suicide once or twice; I know I could end my life, quick and painless. Pills or a gun to my head, maybe both. But I’m not that stupid; please don’t mistake me for some idiot, because I am no such person.
When I was eight my parents were murdered in a strategically planned home invasion. I’d only gone to get frozen peas because it was Christmas day and we’d forgotten to buy some. I suspect if I had been home I would have been killed too, but I was out, and they didn’t bother coming after me because I didn’t matter, they wanted my father. My mother was slumped across the kitchen table; my father was lolling back in the couch in the living room. I still live in that house, there’s still blood on the table, just a faint stain. Sometimes I wish they’d taken me as well.
My father was in the army, a Sergeant in fact, and the way he brought me up has rubbed off on me. I live my life in a strict, daily routine that I hardly ever break. I don’t get drunk, I don’t break the law, I’m a public servant and I do my job well. I give everything to my job, and I do my work to the very, very best of my ability. I grew up with my aunt, who was, and still is, a very strict religious woman. Greek Orthodox to be specific, I’m in fact Greek; even though my parents came from Virginia and I’ve been told I look otherwise. I used to scare little children with stories about headless horses when I took Sunday school. So, sometimes, I can be a terrible, terrible person.
I work with a man called Grissom, although smart, he can be a bit of an idiot. I know he loves Sidle, I know Sidle loves him, yet the man does fucking nothing. And, believe me, one day he’ll lose her and regret it for the rest of the life because he didn’t do anything. In my case, I should have done more.
I tell people who don’t know that I’m divorced because it’s better than saying that my wife was killed. I don’t keep animals, and I tell those same kinds of people that I’m allergic to cats because I don’t want them to give anything like that to me.
So, really, I’m not the happiest person. I’m good at pretending I am, and for a lot of the time, I do feel happy, but the sadness is, always, deep down, there. It’s present and I know it always will be, in one form or another.