CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 1002
You've temporarily turned into a child, what do you do? (Child muses are temporarily turned into adults!)
The child closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of fresh air, his mouth hanging open a little to catch the taste of freshly roasted chicken. His small hands, one free, one tightly grasped into one of his mother’s, his right, her left, flexed slightly, excited, exuberant, exhilarated beyond belief. It was, such childlike ease of nature that made Conrad Ecklie a particularly enjoyable child to his mother, to his father, his aunt. He was curious, and, a bit odd, but not odd in a bad way, more in one that was brilliantly, and fantastically, intelligent. His large, excited eyes would widen as he picked up a new object, and dance with merriment as he continued to learn the truths and strengths of the world. At four years old, the boy was not much of a hindrance to his parents. He knew how to be good, and where being good, would ultimately get him, but still made sure to leave time for those moments, where, he did, indeed, just act his age, just acted, like any other child. This was very true for him, because, he was, just like any other child, except, unique, in his own ways, as each individual person eventually turned out to be.
The boy’s father couldn’t be there that day with him and his mother at the picnic they had organized together. He had gone away a few days previously, to work, to go something, somewhere else. He’d hugged and kissed his son, and said goodbye, and, the boy was intelligent enough to grasp the concept that Daddy would be back, and that he did important things. The promise of a picnic though, had ensured in removing any lingering sadness from his mind, for the day, from missing his father.
Looking up at his mother, he squeezed her hand, taking in the warmth of her skin, and sniffing again. He helped her pull the picnic blanket out from its many folds, and laughed and giggled when, after dashing under it as it flew up and across the air, his mother tickled him fiercely. He kissed her gently on the cheek as, after the blanket was finally put in place, she began to empty the contents of the picnic basket. He helped her, as any kind four year old would, to make chicken sandwiches, and, successfully tried, with help, to cut them up into triangles. They were perfect, and something within him, bubbled and jumped with excitement, and he eyes his mother with tremendous glee. Chicken, butter, bread, lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise, it was, perfect.
The thing was, he recognised it was perfect, idyllic. Although he could not express this feeling in words, although his tiny face scrunched up, trying to make clear how happy he was, although he did not yet, fully, understand the complexities of the world, he was happy, so, completely happy.
Eating their lunch they shared a drink of cordial, and, hiccuping softly, the boy smiled, grinning once more. Raising his arms, he was picked up by his mother and whirled around. A picture of them later, showed him in the arms of his mother, smiling, wide eyed and brilliantly happy, with her grinning alongside him at the passing by stranger who had been asked to intrude, and capture, that particular moment.
Rested back in his chair, the man let out a brief yell and his eyes snapped open. He focused, onto Grissom, just shutting the door to his office closed. No one had heard the yell, and no one had seen the terror that had sparked briefly in his eyes, and then settled to a dull monotony. Grissom had seen it, barely, briefly, but he had turned his head away, refusing to acknowledge it for the sake of his co-worker. Conrad Ecklie, was not a man who shone with fear, or terror, at all, for he did not show it. Only when he was alone, did he ever let his guard slip, and even then, barely, at all.
“Photos, Conrad?” the Nightshift Supervisor said, addressing the other man with an unusual amount of decency. Ecklie snapped the book shut, hiding away the photographs of a smiling woman, and a grinning child who had far more hair than he did currently.
“Memories Gil.” the Dayshift Supervisor answered, with an unusual amount of honesty. And, together they looked at each other, under Grissom uttered a single “Hmm.” of contemplation, delivered him the results of, something or other, and, left him to his office, his darkness, his contemplative memories. Something, the man thought, as he looked down at the results for a DNA test he’d been running, the other man, the other, Supervisor, the Nightshift, would do anything just to know something about him. He didn’t wish him luck, because he wouldn’t have any. He was Conrad Ecklie, he was elusive, fighting, dark and powerful. If he chose to, he could keep everything and anything, from everyone and every single person. He would, he could, and he did. So, investigative methods, measures, instigated by the very man he chose to openly dislike, hate, even, were useless, pointless, beyond want or need.
He wished he’d stop trying. He wished, he hadn’t thought about the memory, brought out the photo album, and fell asleep, drowning in memories, moments, contemplations. Well, he, didn’t, really, wish that, he hadn’t thought about all those wonderful memories, he just, wished that, Grissom would stop trying so hard, to see inside his head, and understand him. It was pointless, and he knew it, himself, and, Grissom knew it, himself.
And so, there he was, alone, lonely, quiet, dark, contemplative, mysterious and hidden. Secretive from the world that had already harmed him so much, because, when it all came to a final, ultimate end, he had stopped caring about certain things, so long ago, that he could only remember chicken sandwiches, cordial, and brilliant, wonderful, happy photographs of a childhood spent, so gratefully and joyfully, until disaster had struck him short, and ruined him, completely.