Conrad Julius Ecklie (conrad_ecklie) wrote,
Conrad Julius Ecklie

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Theatrical Muse: Week 253: Question 253

Name: Conrad Ecklie

CSI: Crime Scene Investigation

Word Count: 899


His hand slammed down on the car horn as a young female driver on a mobile phone cut in front of him, and it was not so much an incredulous act, as a device for her to learn her place in society, through the action of his own palm. Cold anger crept through his veins, but this was not a new sensation, simply familiar anger and irritation at a world which had already wronged him more times than anybody should have to suffer through. He slowed down to let her get in front of him properly, augmenting the direction he was driving in, as the sudden intrusion of the woman had caused him to go slightly to the left. Luckily, it was early morning, and there was no one else much around, save the few early, early morning commuters, and the late night revellers returning home as the first dawn sunshine breached the sky, the light encroaching on a previous, inky darkness.

When the woman, or the girl, moreover, made another sudden lane change and nearly drove someone else off the road, Ecklie took note of her licence plate number, burning it into the back of his memory, and made thought to give it to someone later. Keeping an eye out for such things, putting pressure on someone to behave, or correct their actions, could often prevent something else, more disastrous, from happening. Not always, but if he made the effort, then at least one person was trying.

At lunchtime he carefully stole out of the lab, thankful that his paperwork was done and his day was going slowly; empty, for a period of time, from death and destruction, at least, recent happenings of the like. As he drove away his head was distracted by a street side booth, fresh flowers, someone hawking his wares in a way that seemed mostly, if not entirely illegal. His slid his car over to the side of the road, down the street, and got out, sliding effortlessly thorough a throng of people, hookers, locals, holiday makers, gamblers. After sliding a few coins out of his wallet, picking up some flowers, making the transaction, he was off again, slipping away where no one cared or bothered about him at all. Like they ever did.

The Dayshift’s car slid around into a park outside the church graveyard and seemed to utter a sigh of familiarity as he turned it off. He constructed another thought in his head, to fill it up later and bury his head under the hood for a few minutes when he got home, to see if everything was ok.

The flowers, shaded and protected by the roadside stand, now looked weakly coloured in the bright sunlight, their ruby red frills of petals threatening, at any moment, to droop and lose placement at the top of the stem. Inwardly, the man heaved a sigh, and his outward appearance stayed the same. The car door slid shut, he locked it, and walked away through the maze of graves, some fresh, most, decades old.

Ecklie crouched by one particular grave, and then knelt, his eyes aimed at the headstone as his legs folded back on themselves, too used to stretching to even try and complain. The man placed the flowers onto the top of the grave, and then with a second thought, took out two flowers and placed one each onto two graves nearby. His hands empty, they became pressed together, and he adjusted his knees slightly on the ground, before settling down to pray. It was one of the same basic prayers he had learned in childhood, protect thy loved ones, take care of those passed, keep some soul or another in your eternal heaven, oh God. The prayers, for him, always, never made any different. They changed nothing and brought no one back. They lessened no pain and nor did they give him a reprieve at night from his nightmares, or during the day, from his dark and exhausting thoughts.

As it almost always happened, as he prayed, the same awesome feeling rushed through him, pure and unadulterated, blinding, hot white fury and rage. His gun weighed at his side, an impenetrable force of justice if he handled it correctly, and he knew, with a few words, he could get where he needed to, and could end the life of at least one of the people who had ruined his. The fury dripped away through, his heart thudding the same monotonous beat, thud, thud, thud, thud, as his hands dropped to his sides. It was all about him now; it always had been, after he had had no one left and hardly anyone to turn to.

That’s what Grissom didn’t get. Grissom got only some variation of pain, which made up a charmed life compared to all the sheer horror he had been through. Grissom still had a shred of humanity left, whereas he had killed all his off, just to survive. Grissom could be saved, Sara would save Grissom, and he, he had lost his salvation in a rush of a knife blade, and bandages. The anniversaries would tick by, he would continue and the anger, the rage, would be managed, redirected into fighting a war he knew he would never win. But at least he was trying, and when he didn’t want to try anymore, he’d already be dead.

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