CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 979
If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about any one thing you wished ~ concerning yourself, your life, the future, or anything else ~ what would you want to know?
In the months following the death of his wife, he found himself looking in the mirror, examining his face for any sign of terror or pain, carefully scrutinising his emotions for the barest sign of a crack, which he could soon pave over with another layer of Kevlar strength emotional protection. Emotional protection in the form of a hardened expression, and equally as diamond thick words that would cut and slice into anyone who dared to question his sanity or emotional security. And while his mind screamed at him sometimes, him missing his wife so terribly his head began a dull thudding rhythm of intellectual despairing, the thudding wasn’t so much physical as it was emotional, and, after a while, that disappeared also, as emotions were put away in their proper places, filed under unwanted, unneeded and unnecessary.
Nothing would ever hurt him, not again, not ever. He was sure he would never find happiness again, like he had, in Michelle, so all he had to be concerned about was protecting himself against everything else, against false happiness, against real pain, and suffering, against life and all its miseries. He had already done that, and would continue to do that, and had, really, come out the victor, already the winner, because he was, already, a strong man, a good man, a man who would not be beaten down and triumphed over by the world’s many cruelties.
For those who knew of his wife, and her absence, they learned quickly to not ask how he was doing, and were even quicker in not mentioning her existence, and pretending to have forgotten her. It was not, at all, that he was pushing her out of his life, because she was dead, but simply because he did not need any more people than reasonably possible to know about his wife, because knowing about her might prompt unwanted questions. Might prompt unnecessary investigations and unneeded sympathy, when all he really desired was to be left alone to continue on with his work, and his ever moving climb up the professional, career, ladder. For those people who had known her, who still knew him, and has suspected or known about something between them, these people kept quiet, mostly about of respect, and also because of the significant threat that his diamond like words could pose to a person’s wellbeing.
Michelle was gone. When they had taken her body from the autopsy room, to a waiting car, to be transported to the funeral home, so she could be prepared for her funeral and eventual cremation, he had walked next to the trolley, a silent witness. As they drove her away, her death slapped him once more, again, in the face, and it hurt more than many things. More than not solving a case, losing a witness, having a stupid jury or an even stupider judge. He would keep up the stony face of perfected, unreadable emotion though, because that was how he truly felt. Some stone could rot on the inside, and never show the damage they were suffering on the outside, and that was going to be just how he was like, and was, really, just how he had always been. He was damaged, ands had been damaged at an early age, but he would never show it, because he was not weak, was not small, was not a decrepit emotional mess of a human being. He was Conrad Ecklie. He was a strong man, a victorious man, a man who would treat his dead wife with the respect she deserved, but, at the same time, still get on with his life, because he could not, simply, stop in his tracks and never move again. He was Conrad Ecklie, the man who would miss his wife, but who would continue, because it would have been what she had wanted, and would nonetheless, have expected of him. He was strong. He had strength. He would not be beaten. At the very least, not by pointless, trivial emotions, ones that got in the way of him leading a good, productive life.
In the months following his wife’s death, he looked in the mirror and saw an impenetrable face, and impossible to pass expression of strength and braveness. When he went to work, he kept his face in the same way, and, soon, time passed on, and people moved on with their lives, and eventually, those who knew about him and his personal tragedy, stop giving him looks of pity, and instead, learned to fear his brevity when he spoke with inclined cruelty. They learned to fear him again, and gradually, as new, unknowing faces came into the lab, they learned to fear him too. He had been before the death of his wife, and since the death of his wife, a feared man, however, since Michelle’s passing, he had one more notch of pain on his belt of painful life experiences, and this in itself, made him a force to be reckoned with. Hardly anyone dared to question a man who had almost no one to live for, and everything, within legal and professional limits, to gain. It made him seem hard and uncaring, but dedicated, and those things, those very qualities, were exactly who he was, because he didn’t feel emotional pain, and had never, and would never, let it get to him, even if he did. He did not need any crystal balls to know about his future, because his future was secure. He was a hard working man who never broke the rules, but could, if he desired, twist them just a little. He had an acerbic mind, tempered with a great knowledge, gained from both education and life experiences. He was Conrad Ecklie, and the man who would never be beaten.
He was Conrad Ecklie, and he would never be beaten. Ever.