CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 1044
If you could have any mutant/super power, which one would it be, and what would you do with it? (If you already have a mutant or super power, what one would you trade it in for?)
I wouldn’t, full stop, because I don’t dabble in make believes. I explore hypothetical situations, in order to solve a murder, and I have an imagination, so I can continue to do my job, in the sense that I always need to think about the possibilities and intrigues of murder, but that is about it. I don’t spend my time, imagining that I am some superhero, with superpowers, because, they don’t exist. If they did, the world may very well be closer to a utopia, in certain areas.
Michelle liked to believe that there were superheroes somewhere, out there. At least, in a way, she did, because, although she was just as serious as I am about our work, and the integrity it takes to be a good public servant and criminalist, she was still, in so many ways, such a free spirit. But now, she’s gone, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
I used to be her superhero, and she’d tell me almost every single day, even before we were married. She didn’t even have to say it, because, the way her eyes shined when she smiled at me, told me everything I needed to know, and she smiled at me so often. Even when she wasn’t smiling, she shone on the inside and outside, because her eyes shined with cheeky happiness, and alluring beauty.
I couldn’t stop her being raped, stabbed and murdered, though, and I will pay for it every single day of my life, because it is a guilt that no shrink, no comforter, friend, or even family, can ever take away. Not that I have any family or friends anyway, hardly, at all, really. Not that I care, I don’t need friends, I have my work, and I work hard, and, as for family, I have my aunt. But, still, I couldn’t stop her dying, and, I failed, because I couldn’t stop her death at the hands of a sadistic torturer. Even if I did end up capturing him, it doesn’t make, much, or any, difference, emotionally wise, for me, because, she’s still dead. And, I want to turn back time, but, I can’t.
I was her Superman. I was her Clark Kent, I was her everything, and I knew it, and, she knew it, and, everyone, everyone knew, how close we were. Everyone knew, how devoted we were, how loving we were, how much we loved each other, how much we adored each other, and, really, how strong we were, together, as a couple, as partners, as husband and wife forever. And, I let her die, and, it’s all my fault, and, I couldn’t stop it, and, I cant, turn, back, time.
I can’t turn back time. I can never undo the wrongs wrought against her strong body. I can never undo the way she scratched, and tried to bite, the way she fought for every last breath, every last, single, movement. He made her die. He stayed at her until she was dead, and, he did things to her body, made it, so I wouldn’t notice, that I would think she was sleeping. And, I did think she was sleeping, even though, he’d stabbed her, over Andover again, and raped her, I didn’t see a thing, didn’t notice a thing, until I went to wake her. How does someone get away with raping, and stabbing, and make it unnoticeable to a well trained eye? I don’t know, but, I know, that he did it impeccably, not, perfectly, but, impeccably. He took my wife away, and hid her death under cleanliness and order, and, I didn’t notice, until I looked up close at her dead body, and, touched it.
I’m tired. Every now and then I press my gun against my head, and hold the trigger, the slightest pressure applied, pretending, that I’m going to die. I’m careful, I never squeeze enough, and really, its only just pretend. Because, I don’t want to die. At those dark times, though, those rare, dark, times, I doubt whether I could die. I doubt, whether a bullet could hurt me, because, how could it, after all the death I’ve witnessed and touched? All that death, and it’s never hurt me, physically at least, to the point where I am beyond function, beyond living, beyond life and feeling. The reality is, I know I would die if I shot myself in the head. I’m not stupid. It’d be painless, and quick, and I’d make sure I got the right part, so I wouldn’t die, wouldn’t survive, wouldn’t feel, or think, or anything, ever again.
The truth is, I’m never going to kill myself. I’ve worked too hard to survive. Eventually, I will retire, and die of old age, if one of my enemies don’t come and hunt me down. I wouldn’t be surprised if that happened, after all, enemies are why my parents are dead, why I’m an orphan, why my wife is dead, and, why I’m a widower. In the end, I was her Superman, I was her Clark Kent, I was her anything and everything, and she was my Lois Lane, my sexy, smart, wonderful woman, my wife. She was never my kryptonite, and never will be. My kryptonite is the fact that I let her die, that I didn’t protect her enough, and that her death, is, in part, ultimately, my fault. And that kryptonite, will eat me from the inside out, decay my insides until I retire and die of old age in the same house I grew up in, and the same house that started, and will, in time, finish, my world of torment and toiling.
I am being eating from the inside out with grief, and there is nothing I can, nor anybody can, do about it. I don’t want to feel numb, because I need my feelings, my scope, my imagination, my creativity, my strength, my hypothetical situations. I can’t die, not now, not yet, because I’ve worked too hard not to, I’ve worked too hard to survive. So, I will live, and die when nature, or the cruelties of the human world, take me away. Until then, I work, and carry the burdening reminded that I let my own personal superheroes, down.