CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 851
Do you tend to make friends easily? Why/why not?
I have never been terribly partial to having friends. In my world, in my life, friends are not useful things to have around. They want to get to know you, they want to get inside your caged life, no matter how you may try to ward them off. Friends want to be close to you, they want you to know they care, so much, about you. Friends get in the way, of life, and of success, and I don’t need that. I’m good at feigning that I care though, because, really, it’s an art I’ve been practicing most of my entire life, and, most definitely, from a very young age, at that. My “friends” from school, the few that I managed to make, still assume that I’m ok, they still assume that dear little Conrad is just peachy fucking fine. They’re not really my friends, just mere acquaintances, oddballs who sat with each other so the bullies didn’t hit them, and the teachers didn’t worry about them being antisocial. We all had our reasons for being grouped loners, mine were just more serious than the others.
Michelle, now, Michelle, she was my best friend. Michelle made the day better, the sun brighter, the sky bluer, the grass greener, she made everything greater. She gave me the window back to my eyes, my soul, to the happiness I had been searching for since the death of my parents. She unlocked a door I had held closed for so long, that I thought it unlockable, that I thought the strength needed to keep it shut, would eventually kill me. She opened up my life, opened it wide, wide, open, and gave me everything I had been searching for, without asking for payment, without asking for anything in return. She didn’t ask, because she knew, that, I was, in loving her, already giving her so much. She knew that, I was paying her back, by my love, by the way, I loved her, so much.
I sometimes imagine what my life might have been like, had none of this death, this destruction of free will, happened to me. I don’t even know what I’d be doing, because my interest in death, sprang up, or took full hold, from their demise. Of course, I had already shown an interest in helping, in solving, puzzles and mysteries, but it was a hobby, until they died, just, a fucking, hobby. I might not have even ended up at the Las Vegas crime lab, I might not have even, ever, in my entire lifetime, met Michelle. She wouldn’t have died, and, I guess, without my parents having have died, either, I would have, might have, had a normal life, spent a happy childhood, or, at least, had the chance to do so.
My parents, my mother, my father, my wife, my lover, they were my best friends, and, in their death and resulting remaining of spirit, they always will be. I am left with my aunt as my best friend now, and I know, already, that, quite soon, quite, so, very, soon, she will leave me as well. Until then, I will take care of her. Until then, I will protect her, with all my might, with, all the might that I have.
I would have sacrificed anything to have kept the ones, the people, that I love, alive. I would have died for them, I would have sacrificed any part of my body, for them. My heart, my eyes, my fingers, my toes, my abilities, my strength, my brains, my anything. I would have given anything and everything for them, to ensure that they would stay by my side for just a little longer. It didn’t happen like that though, and, really, I know the reality of my situation, just as I did that day when I came home, only to discover my parents dead, and gone, only to discover, the deadly, morbid inspiration in my spirit, in my soul, in my mind, in my body. The one, the one which has fascinated my whole life, and twisted itself so tight into it, that it is impossible to get rid of because it is so twisted into my being, into the core, of, my, very, being.
I stare politely at the sky, now. I curse a God that probably isn’t there, for taking away all that I held dear to me, and for promising that he would continue to do so, until he had squeezed the very last cubic inch of happiness and resulting life, out of me. I lie down on my bed at night, wondering what went wrong, what happened, that caused me such dreadful pain, that caused me, such dreadful unhappiness. I don’t have the true answers, and I never will, until I die, so, until then, I’ll just keep solving mysteries, and completing puzzles, endless mysteries and puzzles, so, very, very, endless in nature, spirit and being. Why? Because it’s all I can fucking do, and, it will be, until that last, final, moment, has passed by, all that I can, fucking, do.