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All That Matters
Is What We Do
24 January 2008, 01:52
RotM Prompt 1.91.3
She does not, despite popular opinion, sleep with her gun.
It has, for the last few months, rested on her nightside table, but that's quite beside the point.
The point is, when she awakes in the morning, the first thing her fingers brush is not cold, lethal steel. It is soft, sentimental, pretty, everything she does not allow herself to be.
She used to hide it, as a child; her father wouldn't abide such things. Even now it remains under the covers. It's too childish, too insipid for the woman she's strived to be. Still, she keeps it at her side at night.
There was a time, scarcely remembered, when she felt entirely comfortable displaying it. When the one who gave it to her was still there to comfort and assure and understand. When, really, she didn't need it quite as much.
No one is there to watch her fall asleep now. No one is there to hold her hand when she wakes up in a cold sweat. No one is there, and usually that's all right, but sometimes she thinks she couldn't bear it if not for this silly little thing resting beside her.
Remnants are all she has left, and she'll hold tight to them, image be damned.
It has, for the last few months, rested on her nightside table, but that's quite beside the point.
The point is, when she awakes in the morning, the first thing her fingers brush is not cold, lethal steel. It is soft, sentimental, pretty, everything she does not allow herself to be.
She used to hide it, as a child; her father wouldn't abide such things. Even now it remains under the covers. It's too childish, too insipid for the woman she's strived to be. Still, she keeps it at her side at night.
There was a time, scarcely remembered, when she felt entirely comfortable displaying it. When the one who gave it to her was still there to comfort and assure and understand. When, really, she didn't need it quite as much.
No one is there to watch her fall asleep now. No one is there to hold her hand when she wakes up in a cold sweat. No one is there, and usually that's all right, but sometimes she thinks she couldn't bear it if not for this silly little thing resting beside her.
Remnants are all she has left, and she'll hold tight to them, image be damned.
13 November 2007, 21:23
Prompt 1.82.2 - Trouble
I knew I was in trouble when I started getting lost in his eyes.
It's not the sort of thing I do. Even when I was a kid – there were a few boys, but it never got serious. I never wanted it to; too sensible for that, too distant, too busy.
Even back then, I knew what sort of life I wanted, and there wasn't much room for romance.
Looking back, I should have made some – not for that, maybe, just for people. Friends.
He was, you know. A friend. Someone who understood, someone who I could trust, someone who cared. I laughed with him, like I did with the guys, but I never felt like I was putting anything on, not since the first time. And hell, I think we were being pretty sincere anyway.
I could have lived with that. I liked living with that. Except here was this handsome, smart, lonely guy with the same kind of job, and I don't know exactly when I started to fall for him but I did, and I couldn't stop. Not even when I learned the truth, and that just makes it harder.
This world, it's scary as hell, and I can't quite forgive him for letting me see it, or for keeping it from me. I thought I knew him, and now…
I don't know. I don't fall in love, especially with murderers. Because he is, or he was, and that's harder to get past than the undead thing, honestly. Even if he wasn't I don't know if I could, well, try what I daydreamed about when I was alone at night.
I'm not sure I even want to be his friend anymore, and it hurts too much, and I can't make it stop.
Maybe this is why he stopped. Stopping loving, stopped caring, stopped trying.
It fucking hurts.
It's not the sort of thing I do. Even when I was a kid – there were a few boys, but it never got serious. I never wanted it to; too sensible for that, too distant, too busy.
Even back then, I knew what sort of life I wanted, and there wasn't much room for romance.
Looking back, I should have made some – not for that, maybe, just for people. Friends.
He was, you know. A friend. Someone who understood, someone who I could trust, someone who cared. I laughed with him, like I did with the guys, but I never felt like I was putting anything on, not since the first time. And hell, I think we were being pretty sincere anyway.
I could have lived with that. I liked living with that. Except here was this handsome, smart, lonely guy with the same kind of job, and I don't know exactly when I started to fall for him but I did, and I couldn't stop. Not even when I learned the truth, and that just makes it harder.
This world, it's scary as hell, and I can't quite forgive him for letting me see it, or for keeping it from me. I thought I knew him, and now…
I don't know. I don't fall in love, especially with murderers. Because he is, or he was, and that's harder to get past than the undead thing, honestly. Even if he wasn't I don't know if I could, well, try what I daydreamed about when I was alone at night.
I'm not sure I even want to be his friend anymore, and it hurts too much, and I can't make it stop.
Maybe this is why he stopped. Stopping loving, stopped caring, stopped trying.
It fucking hurts.
11 October 2007, 23:09
Prompt 1.78 - Lyrics - Everybody's Talkin'
"Now, let's go over the crime scene again…"
She recounts every detail, because she sat there for hours after he left, after the despair eased enough to let her see through it. She does not speak of the marks on his next, the dust on his clothes, the money stained with blood.
"You should take some time off, Kate."
She knows what grief is. She knows what isolation is. She tells them she can handle it in as few words as she can.
"Haven't got him yet, huh?"
She shakes her head, and agrees that they'll catch the bastards, and knows that justice will never be served, only vengeance and ashes.
Everybody's talking at me
I don't hear a word they're saying
Only the echoes of my mind
She looks at them, and she speaks to them, but their voices come from a distance, a gaping chasm she cannot cross, and eventually they stop trying to rebuild burned bridges.
She is left to her nightmares and her retribution, and it is just as well because she should bear them on her own.
He taught her how to be alone.
People stopping staring
I can't see their faces
Only the shadows of their eyes
She is not Lockley's girl anymore. She is not the lady cop. She is not the success story.
She is the obsessed, the morbid, the pitied.
She sits alone, eats alone, works alone. She investigates in ways no one comprehends. She gives herself a reputation
She ignores their furtive glances and because they don't matter; nothing matters but making things right.
He taught her how to be an outcast.
I'm going where the sun keeps shining
Thru' the pouring rain
Going where the weather suits my clothes
She knows that this work is thankless. She knows that no one will sympathise, no one will believe, no one will understand.
She is tired of cases that are never solved, closure that is never given, violence that is never ceased, cruelty that is never punished. She will separate herself from them, to fight a fight they will never know.
She knows that it is a battle that will never end.
Backing off of the North East wind
Sailing on summer breeze
And skipping over the ocean like a stone
She knows that it is worth it, and that one day, she will make a difference.
He taught her how to sacrifice, and his will not be in vain.
She recounts every detail, because she sat there for hours after he left, after the despair eased enough to let her see through it. She does not speak of the marks on his next, the dust on his clothes, the money stained with blood.
"You should take some time off, Kate."
She knows what grief is. She knows what isolation is. She tells them she can handle it in as few words as she can.
"Haven't got him yet, huh?"
She shakes her head, and agrees that they'll catch the bastards, and knows that justice will never be served, only vengeance and ashes.
Everybody's talking at me
I don't hear a word they're saying
Only the echoes of my mind
She looks at them, and she speaks to them, but their voices come from a distance, a gaping chasm she cannot cross, and eventually they stop trying to rebuild burned bridges.
She is left to her nightmares and her retribution, and it is just as well because she should bear them on her own.
He taught her how to be alone.
People stopping staring
I can't see their faces
Only the shadows of their eyes
She is not Lockley's girl anymore. She is not the lady cop. She is not the success story.
She is the obsessed, the morbid, the pitied.
She sits alone, eats alone, works alone. She investigates in ways no one comprehends. She gives herself a reputation
She ignores their furtive glances and because they don't matter; nothing matters but making things right.
He taught her how to be an outcast.
I'm going where the sun keeps shining
Thru' the pouring rain
Going where the weather suits my clothes
She knows that this work is thankless. She knows that no one will sympathise, no one will believe, no one will understand.
She is tired of cases that are never solved, closure that is never given, violence that is never ceased, cruelty that is never punished. She will separate herself from them, to fight a fight they will never know.
She knows that it is a battle that will never end.
Backing off of the North East wind
Sailing on summer breeze
And skipping over the ocean like a stone
She knows that it is worth it, and that one day, she will make a difference.
He taught her how to sacrifice, and his will not be in vain.