CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 957
Lines. (Lines in the sand, waiting in line, pickup lines...whatever your little heart desires.)
“Thank you. Are you married?”
One word summed up his condition, his way of being, and the matter was finished. The way the old woman had been eying him, it was the first thing, the always ready excuse that came immediately to mind. It was better than saying his only wife had been raped, stabbed, killed and stuffed with bandages, because that would throw the suspect off their concentration, and besides, it wasn’t about him, it was about them. His work was not meant to infiltrate his personal life; Michelle had been the only existing excuse to date where he had let that happen. His work was important, his work was meant to be quick and efficient, and so would his work be, for it should never be allowed by him, to be anything else.
“They’re just about weaned. You want one?
There, two words, another excuse and another satisfying lie as to why he didn’t give a crap, why he didn’t want personal contact or something, someone he had to give devotion to. It was a perfect way to detract from the imposing words of Al Robbins, the man who wanted to shove a purely defenceless money gobbling animal into his care, to say he couldn’t take it because of health reasons. No one would question such an apparent truth, even when, really, it was just a cleverly come up with lie. He was so good at lying now, the words dripped off his lip without hesitation, and he was satisfied at what he had said, what he had done, to avoid change.
“What would you like me to do?”
The words were sharp off his lip, vindictive and self assured in their vicious, venomous toxicity, poisoning and damaging at the same time. At that moment he hated the incompetent Phillips, the so called Assistant Coroner who apparently couldn’t even keep track of a body correctly. His words were justified because of the man’s incompetence, and he revelled in the look of pure unadulterated terror that had swam freely across the man’s face as he shouted at him. It was that hesitance, that fear that he could play on, turning the younger person from an individual into a weakened and submissive underling. They were true, all these thoughts that he was contemplating as he rested at his desk in attempted and successful silence. The man was beneath him, he was more important than he was, his job held more worth, and if he so desired, he could control him. However, when the dead man, Billmeyer, turned up, he granted the bumbling idiot some grace, and let him go, satisfied that the inherent fear he had now stabbed into his mind, would torment him for a long time into the future.
“What are you drawing?”
It was a simple enough answer as they lay together on the picnic rug, her back against his chest, his free hand somewhere near her hips, or perhaps her thigh, his fingers dawdling an awkward way across the thin cotton fabric of her dress. A fresh floral print, too antiquated in its pink and red little flowers with their curling green leaves, to be very modern. She had bought it from a thrift shop the day earlier, and he had sat in the car waiting for her, surprised at her sudden impetus to stop and shop for something so trivial. This was a revisiting of a memory, though, and while he could still imagine he could smell the flowers around them, could still remember the slight roughness of her dress, it couldn’t bring her back. It had been a long time since he had thought of his wife in that way too, and he surprised himself on that day, thinking of her like that, during the shift he got caught up, lowering himself from the heights of rule to the peons below.
She had asked him why he was drawing lines then, inquired as to why it was this shape he chose, and not something more abstract, so as to draw out a pleasurable sigh or an errant hurried word from her mouth.
“Lines for the future.” he said, ever the dutiful husband, wanting to answer and satisfy whatever she voiced an interest in.
“Lines to think, lines to create, lines for thinking, lines for waiting, lines for creating.” Ecklie continued, rambling for a minute until he fell into silent and whispered things in her own ear, instead of the other way around.
Now, here he was, shouting at people, deflecting their answers, the cruel, unfeeling stone giant he had become. He was a behemoth of destruction in the workplace, a man who now had more information and power than he had before, and was talented enough to use it to his constant advantage. There were no more lines into the future for him, no chance at happiness or carelessness or carefree afternoons spent in the park on a picnic blanket with his wife. Instead, there were only lines to the past, grabbing, terrible lines that haunted his nightmares and his waking moments, constantly drawing him back and surrounding him with all the tragedies of his yesteryears. The lines into the past would draw him back, they would strangle him and make him remember every horrible detail, until eventually the future caught up with him and he was dead. When he was dead, then the lines would stop, and he would finally be free. For the time being, he would lash out and be cruel because almost everyone was beneath him, and they so thought that they had lines into the future, chances for eternal happiness, that they should be punished for such ignorance and stupidity.