CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 844
Sometimes the appropriate response to reality is to go insane. (Philip K. Dick)
He sat alone, featureless, a skinny, shivering, pathetic child in a world of people who had not suffered like he was. He was once again, exposed to the world, and, he could feel himself, swiftly, rapidly, becoming the shell of the person he had become. Emptying out all the unnecessary emotions, feelings, bright jokes and shining sparks of life that she had shown him to be real. They weren’t real now, however, they had fractured and become corrupted and turned into things far too terrible to remember, let alone posses in his mind. She had made him happy, and now he was gone, so, without her, he shouldn’t really be happy anymore. He could function well enough, and had functioned adequately enough, for years before she even entered into his life, so, now that things were back to the way they had once been, he would become the person he had been beforehand. He would stop caring, stop laughing, stop being happy, because his whole reason for having discovered these feelings, for having continually experienced them over so many days, had, gone, had, been violated and murdered. There was something about that fact that had made him change, had made him revert back to his former self, his former shell of no emotions and no outward happiness, enjoyment, brightness. She had been snatched from him, but, he had already changed, had already become the man he was before, by the time he got off from their bed, and later on, began the investigation. It mattered to him, her death, but she nothing else after that could hurt him. He would simply function, robotic and perfect, and get the job done.
And he did. At the cost of shutting down every bright part of his mind, soul and body, he did what he needed to, wanted to, and caught the bastard who had destroyed his wife, had ended her life. Whether it was vindication when he saw him caught, or the empty rattling space in his body that she had so completely filled, echoing his loss, he could not simply decide. It was probably a bit of both, but still, no matter what he succeeded with, no matter how much evidence he gathered, no matter how real the man’s arrest and sentencing were to him, nothing could remove the insanity of his silent war of grief, nothing, not even his aunt, could ever again fill that empty hole in his heart, where so much had once filled it, and which now stood, empty, and devoid of life.
Insanity for him, was not real insanity. He did not lose his mind, he did not scream, or kick, or shout. He simply handled death with a cool, grim certainty. To him, it was sad, it did make him sad, but those dark emotions could no longer affect him as they might have had once. They were all he had left, and because they were all he had, they could never, ever, damage him. His change was complete the moment after he had realised she was dead, and, after that, he would never be like what he was with her in his life, ever again. It was so simple, that anyone who had known about it might have thought he had cracked, splintered, and gone insane. But, he wasn’t, he had never, been insane, just purely methodical and smart. There was no reason in being happy if his reason for being happy had gone, had been destroyed so violently and completely. It was a simple equation, that was all it was.
Standing up, the man stretched, tired, exhausted, fatigued, his mind still buzzing, his heart, still empty. He had resolved, in the matter of a few seconds, that he would not miss being happy. He would miss Michelle, would miss his very reason for being happy, but seeing as she wasn’t around anymore, seeing as she was gone forever, then his emotions, his bright, happy emotions, were gone also. When there was nothing that could ever bring them back, then his reasoning was, that really, and honestly, there was no reason in missing them, at all. There was no point in it, and he had far, far better things to do. He was not a child, the looks of concern people gave him were becoming less and less frequent as he moulded his surroundings to his liking. He was being treated properly, and with respect, and in continuing his job, he had nothing more to lose.
He would be ok. It would be ok. Things would be ok. They already were. He had lost everything, and he had changed for the better because of it. Changed for the better, because his reasoning was correct, was flawless and the results worked perfectly, harmoniously in his favour. He would be by himself now, would be left to his own devices, his own thoughts, his own reasonings and terrors, and, really, he did not mind that fact at all. No, he did not mind it, not at all, not, at, all.