CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 966
If you could completely start your life over from scratch, what would you do differently the second time around (if anything)? Why?
Conrad Ecklie was busy at work, typing up things on the computer in his office. Case reports, evaluations, emails, order forms, the list was endless, and not all of it was computer worthy. There was still a copious amount of handwriting to do, not that he minded. It wasn’t that he was incompetent with, or ignorant of, his paperwork either, it just naturally came in sheer mounds of differently marked paper, each day. The best he could do was work through it methodically and carefully, being sure to avoid mistakes and misspellings of words, facts and numbers. Briefly, he stretched out his arms in front of him and rolled his neck around, having become stiff from sitting there straight backed in his chair for such a long time.
Getting up, the man made the quick walk to the break room, took an apple from the fruit bowl, washed it in the sink, and left. He passed by the receptionist and checked on whether any mail or messages had been left for him, and seeing that he had none, he continued on a quick walk around the lab to stretch his legs, eating the piece of fruit as he did so. Passing by Grissom’s office, the man saw that his opposing supervisor was in early, already working through his own mound of paperwork, which was more numerous than the one back at his desk, largely because of the reason that Grissom did his paperwork as he pleased, not as he needed to. The man inside the office looked up at him and acknowledged his presence with a passing nod that Ecklie did not return.
Slipping back into his seat, the man discarded the apple core into the bin and continued on with his work. He stayed behind, closed in inside his office, for an extra hour that day, and then drove home. He parked in the driveway to his house, and was soon securely inside, where he put his things away and began the rest of the day’s tasks. Everything that needed to be sorted, was sorted, the garden was looked at, the plants that were due for watering were watered, he even went and posted some bills off that had come in the mailbox. When late afternoon rolled around, he began preparing for dinner, and then cooked and served it to himself. He sat at an empty table, and shortly after dinner, took a phone call from his aunt, and agreed to take her out on the weekend if he wasn’t called in to work. They would see a movie, or perhaps take a trip to the park. He washed up the dishes in the sink, because that day had been a busy day, a simple day, and there weren’t enough dishes to warrant using the dishwasher machine. He watched the news, went and had a shower, read in bed, and then went to sleep.
If things had been different, if he could have started his life again, things may, or may not have turned out differently. As a young boy, he had thought of the idea, entertained it briefly before pushing it away, having labelled it unreasonable, irresponsible and impossible. He couldn’t travel back in time, first off, and, if even if he could start over, he might not end up remembering all the mistakes he had made in his life. He might just make them all over again, and then, there would have been no point to it to begin with. There really was no point to it at all, however which way it happened, because, really, it was all impossible anyway, and shouldn’t be thought about, when he had more pressing issues at hand. They were certainly very complex thoughts for an eight year old.
Even as a grown man, decades older and with much more pain than he had possessed at eight, he had kept that decision made, and had never changed it. His life, was what it was, his emotions, or lack thereof, were what they were, and his lack of contact or emotional familiarity with people other than his aunt, was what it always had been. They were family, just family, and they had needed each other’s company and contact for the longest continuing time since his parents’ death. Even though he missed his mother, his father, his wife, even though, it seemed it might have been a nicer, more peaceful life had they remained alive, they hadn’t. They had all been murdered, and there was no going back, no turning back time, no doing the impossible. It wasn’t even worth wasting the merest amount of energy thinking about it, because it was not possible. It wasn’t, and never would be possible, so, in his life, he took what had been given, was grateful for it, and used it to his advantage, to make sure that he was never, ever given the chance to be hurt again, and even so, was prepared not to care if that day did pass by him once more. His life, was what it was, and that would not change, it would never, ever change. He enjoyed it, as much as he could, and worked hard, so that, at the end of the day, he could shift silently from work, into housework, and just keep working, keep just continuing onwards. In the end, his aunt would die, he would die, and then, nothing would matter anymore, not even stupid, briefly contemplated thoughts about time travel, or any other such silly nonsense as that. He could never turn back time, he could never go back and change things, so he would live, and deal, with things, with what he had now and then, and be perfectly content, and totally fine with that, and just that, only.