Conrad Julius Ecklie (conrad_ecklie) wrote,
Conrad Julius Ecklie
conrad_ecklie

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Theatrical Muse: Week 242: Question 242

Name: Conrad Ecklie

Fandom:
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation

Word Count: 745


Write about a time that you were the bearer of bad news.


“They’re dead.”

“She’s dead.”

It was the same each time, the same kind of words, a similar situation, the same feeling of seamless, painful, loss, the presence of which soon dripped away into unfeeling nothingness. Those murders, his murders, they were not things he would ever get rid of. Nothing would cleanse him of the memories of discovering the three most important people in his life, dead. Nothing would let those memories stop haunting him, let him ever, be like so much of his outside world, ever again. There were librarians, veterinarians, nurses, doctors, social workers, so, many, people, so many other lives that weren’t normal, but, so less pained.

He was the bearer of bad news, words so horrible no sane human being should ever have to utter them about their own family, once, let alone two, and three times. The thing was, once the funerals were over, once the words written in newspapers or on office memo notes changed to different topics, hardly anyone noticed anymore. Hardly anyone commented, and it suited him, so ideally, it only served to further enhance the bitter feeling of regret he felt over his personal loss, his familial absences. He should have been destroyed, he should have been knocked down, broken, never to go again, but, he was still going. He kept moving on, kept living, because he had to, because no matter how typically he could have acted when faced with becoming an orphan, a widower, he hadn’t, he couldn’t have. He was better than that. He was lost to the world, because so long ago, the world had lost him beyond hope of a reasonable retrieval or salvation. Yet he had risen above that, and succeeded, in other ways that it couldn’t take away without killing him.

“They’re gone.”

“She’s gone.”

No matter what death looked like, it was, when absolute, a final matter. It was not like running out of biscuits, where more could be bought or retrieved from somewhere else, save after a drive in a car, a search through the store. When death came and wormed its way into his life, it could not be removed or scrubbed away, and no matter who it had been, it had always hurt him in a way deeper than anything physical could. Death hurt him, in such a mentally penetrating way, that the damage never showed, and would never, ever, really display itself during his lifetime.

People hurt, people died, and he had been the bearer of bad news more times than he should have deserved to be. Murder, itself, the act of desired death, was the most horrible act, with the most finishing finality and the most undeserving victims. He had never wanted his life to turn out the way it had, but it had, and he had dealt with it.

He always dealt with it. In the most efficient, purposeful way possible, he lived his life, marred by circumstance and affected by history. No one except those who remembered, who had been around at the times, would ever know about him, might ever talk to him about it. He was the bearer of bad news, and although this fact of informed pity and compassion from others was true, it would never extend or spread to anyone else in the present future that he lived in. The victims, in many circumstances, in his circumstances, were the pictures of innocence, people who didn’t deserve what had been wrought down upon them in holly hellfire and spitting rage. He was the bearer of bad news, the messenger of his own particular deaths, and he was cursed, he was marked invisibly by tragedy, and would be, for the rest of his life, and beyond.

He could have been there when the deaths had happened, but he wasn’t. By some cruel twist of fate, he had survived not one, but two situations in where he should have died, but simply wasn’t there. He had never been able to change anything about those situations after death took hold of them. He had never been able to change anything, he was just simply, the bearer of bad information, news so horrible it should never be widely known, at all. He was empty. It was him, it was him, it was always, him. He was damaged, he was tainted. He was Conrad Ecklie; he was beyond repair, beyond saving, beyond anything and everything. Alone except an aunt, empty inside, save nothing.
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