Title: Witness (1/2) Author: Agent Myers Rating: R Summary: I lie awake now, listening to the sounds of the house. The hum of the air conditioner, the drip of the nearby leaky faucet, the ticking of the clock...and I think. Keywords: DRR, Doggett/Reyes, MSR reference, Doggett POV Spoilers: Season 8, (slight TINH) Archive: Gossamer, Okay. Anything else just let me know, I'll probably say yes! Disclaimer: You know. Authors Notes: This one didn't come easy. So I hope it doesn't suck. BIG MAJOR NOTE! I probably missed some of the background story on Doggett...I don't know if his wife died, or left him or what. Hell I guess I don't even know if he had a wife. So I'm going with my own story. Ditto for Doggett/Reyes. Don't know if there's any romantic history between them or not. But hey, this is MY fanfic! I was having major writer's block! This story is just basically Doggett's POV, and his random thoughts in the middle of the night. So if the story seems to jump around, that's good, 'cause that's what I was going for! Feedback: Of course!!!! Bring it on!!! Nadjjaa@hotmail.com. **** And when we're done soul searching as we carried the weight and died for the cause is misery made beautiful right before our eyes will mercy be revealed or blind us where we stand? Will we burn in heaven like we do down here will the change come while we're waiting everyone is waiting... "Witness" -Sarah McLachlan *** Witness by Agent Myers I lie awake now, listening to the sounds of the house. The hum of the air conditioner, the drip of the nearby leaky faucet, the ticking of the clock. And I think. It's been six months since I've been assigned a new partner on the X-Files. And it's strange to think that she's sleeping next to me tonight. I look over at Monica. Her dark hair is spread across the white pillow. I can barely see her face in the glow of the street lamp flooding through the window. Her eyes move rapidly underneath her eyelids, and I wonder what she could be dreaming about. I touch her hair softly, carefully, so that I don't wake her. And I wonder if this is how Mulder feels when he looks at Scully now. I think about how it must have been for them, working together for eight years, the tension between them growing day by day. I knew Scully loved him the moment I met her. The way she talked about him, the way she would never give up the search. The way she cried when we found him...dead. In the law enforcement business, you lose partners sometimes. It's hard, but you move on. But Scully had not lost a partner. The way she cried, she'd lost a best friend and a lover. And I'll never forget the look on her face when we found out he was alive. Something so hard to believe; yet she embraced it with no fear whatsoever. And right there in that hallway, I knew that what they had together was what we all want. I knew that kind of love was something that very few people ever catch a glimpse of in their entire lives. I felt like a witness to something divine, something magical. It made me want it too. I've never been one for tension. If there's a problem, I like to solve it...whatever way I can. For Mulder and Scully, two people who would obviously die for one another, to work together and not give in to that which they both needed so much seemed unreasonable to me. But then again, I'm not them. So when that same tension began to mount between Monica and I, I didn't waste time. It's not the same with us though. We were lovers once already. After my wife died, before my son died. That space of about eighteen months, Monica and I were lovers. It was a great year. But when Luke was abducted and killed, things fell apart. I was emotionally unstable, and I made the mistake that men of my heritage always make. I kept it in. I became a hard shell and anyone who touched me simply shattered. I pushed Monica away for fear of hurting her. I couldn't love her then. I couldn't love anything. All I did was feel pain, but I never shed a tear. Never. Things fall apart. She left. I told her she should go. It was the final phase of my self-destruction. But, like all things, time has a way of healing you. I found what release I needed in my work, in my utter aloneness, I found peace. For everything, there is a season, they say. That was my healing time. Of course, I'll never get over my son's death. It's a void in my soul that can never be filled. I realized that I have to stop trying to fill it; maybe then I can be at peace with it. I don't think Monica ever hated me for the breakup. She understood me; she knew me. I appreciate her so much because of that. It seems too much like fate that she's back in my life. Not only in this way, but working together. It's uncanny. We began to have those moments. You know, when you catch each other's eye, where you accidentally touch one another, where you catch yourself making a comment about your past? Must be something about that office. I'm not a mind-reader, but I knew that she wanted me to kiss her. So I did. Right there in the office. I remembered how much I liked kissing her. And I think she liked kissing me too. We used to do it all the time, among other things. As I sit here in the dark, watching her breathe, I think about the past. It was a really good year. I laughed silently, thinking of the time that we met for lunch and made love in the bathroom of the Kennedy Center. We came out, our faces red our clothes wrinkled, walking a little funny. We made inside jokes about it for months. I realize that my laughing has caused the bed to shake. I stop. And my mind rewinds just a few hours. After I'd kissed her in the office, something between us re-activated. I asked her to come over. She nonchalantly replied that she would, around seven, eight...perhaps nine. She was at my door at 6:15. I don't think we said a word to each other until after it was all over. She burst through door and started ripping into me. Words got lost in the violent removal of clothing, the fervent kisses, and the roaming of hands. "I missed you." She said to me, when it was over. I smiled. I had missed her too. I was afraid she'd leave then, but she stayed. We had an intimate dinner of macaroni and cheese and leftover egg drop soup, watched a couple of movies, and then... At it again. It was just like old times. Monica stirs beside me. She takes a deep breath, and pushes it out with content sigh. She doesn't wake up. I gaze at her. Her face is relaxed, her body is curled up tightly against a pillow. And I realize that I could get used to this. I could come home to this. It's silly, that I should sit here and dream about having a wife, and kids and the perfect little life after one night with this woman. But you can never know what will happen. I don't know what her intentions are, if she could perhaps forgive me, and take me back and feel the same about me as she once did. You just never know. Maybe, in the morning, I will know. I feel her move next to me. I watch her stir, her body willing itself to come around. She opens her eyes lazily, and focuses on me. "John...what are you doing up?" She asks, finishing it off with a giant yawn. I shrug. "Just thinking." She pauses, studying me. "Are you okay?" She asks, a little bit more awake now. "Yeah." I say, smiling. "I'm good." She closes her eyes and smiles, and her arms seek me out. I lay down underneath the sheets with her, allowing her to snuggle into my arms. I kiss her forehead. My arm finds its rightful place on the curve of her waist, and I relax. And we sleep. Title: Witness (2/2) Author: Agent Myers *** "Deep within I'm shaken by the violence of existing for only you..." - Sarah McLachlan *** I'm home. I feel as though things have finally come full circle for John and I. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but I'm hopeful. Tonight, it's my turn to watch him sleep. I woke last night to find him staring at me in a most thoughtful way, as though he had been watching me for quite some time. When we endeavored to sleep this evening, entangled and slightly sticky from sweat, I knew that I wouldn't be able to sleep. And so I lay there, listening to him. His short, quiet breaths turned to long, deep ones. And his face, that stone face...melted away, and he looked more like a slumbering child than a man in his late thirties. When he is asleep he looks so peaceful, as though the horrors that created the lines on his face never existed. I can't see his eyes, either. The icy blue pools can hypnotize me sometimes. That's why I catch myself staring at him. No one really knows John Doggett. You'd never guess that this man was human sometimes. When they found his son, out there in that field, John didn't cry. He didn't even tear up. Everyone on the task force thought he had lost it. Some probably thought that he broke down later, when he was alone. But I know better. I know John Doggett. He never cries. He held it all inside, just like he did when Linda died. He would let it eat away at his insides, like acid. Although I'm sure it wasn't easy to hide all the damage inside of him, he would never, ever let anyone know how much he hurt. Except me. The one and only time he cried, was with me. It wasn't an explosion of tears and emotion, but it was momentous for John. Even as I held him, and his body quietly shook with silent sobs, I was happy. That for him to share this with me, to bear his innermost soul, had to mean that I was special. That I meant something in his book. But he still needed his solitude. I gave it to him. I think he still feels guilty, but I don't want him to feel that way. He didn't break our relationship off because he didn't love me, or because he tired of me, but because he knew that his path was one of total anguish and self-destruction, and he wanted only to protect me from it. He didn't want to bring me down with him. And as much as it hurt me to leave, I appreciate that he cared enough to protect me like that. I knew his son. I knew his little crooked smile, the way that he looked so much like his father. He loved baseball, and he loved his father. After Linda passed on, his father was all he had. He wanted to be just like him. I heard the boy say, on more than one occasion, that he wanted to be a cop just like his dad. It hurts so much sometimes, to think that he will never get that chance. As I lay in bed, I feel those old, painful memories sneaking up on me again. I try to put it out of my mind. Before Luke's murder, John and I had a wonderful time together. The work kept us busy most of the time, but we spent time together nearly every day. We never moved in together. I knew that Luke liked me, but I was afraid he might believe I was trying to take his mother's place. I know that feeling...when my mother got remarried, I hated her new husband. He tried to do things with me, take me places and so on, so that I would accept him as my "new" dad. I didn't like him, and refused to accept him as anything, until I was about ten. Looking back, I realized that he never wanted to replace my dad, he just wanted to be a family. I was afraid that Luke would look at me in the same way that I looked at my step-dad. And I could say that I didn't move in simply for Luke's benefit, but really, it was me...I couldn't handle that kind of rejection. I think John always knew that. But looking back at our relationship, I can honestly say that I have never loved anyone as I loved John Doggett. And given the chance, I would fall in love with him again. Hell with it, I already love him. I never stopped loving him. So, as I sit here and remember our second night of shameless passion, I feel excited, and a little scared. Sure, it's been a great two days. But it's too early to tell if this is for real. Unbeknownst to John, in the deepest darkest dungeons of my mind I have been contemplating spending the rest of my life with him. Bearing his children. Kissing him goodnight and waking up to him each morning. But they are just fantasies. The last forty-eight hours could be explained as simple as the stress of our work, or the lack of companionship. Not love. I guess I will know soon enough. John Doggett does not beat around the bush. It he wants me, he will tell me. If he loves me, he will tell me. If he wants me to stay forever, he'll ask. And I'll be damned if I won't say yes. You'd think he's boring. He isn't. He loves beer and Nascar, and camping. You might think he's probably not a very good man to be in a relationship with, because of his work. But I've never met a man so devoted to making me happy. He's not really a flowers and champagne kind of guy...but a midnight ride on a motorcycle and a shared six pack is more in line with my tastes, anyway. John Doggett is a man that is good at everything. And if he isn't, he doesn't rest until he is. You can count sex among those things he's good at. I look over at him, still sleeping soundly in the same position...and my stomach flutters just thinking about it. I've never had a lover who was so devoted to giving me pleasure. The things he can do with his hands...God. But he's not an animal or anything...I don't go for that. But he's madly passionate. He takes his time. He pays attention to my reactions. He talks to me. Not dirty, but lovingly. He tells me how beautiful I am. He touches me in places that other men would completely ignore. Like behind my ears. I tingle all over suddenly. And I watch him now. He's lying on his back and slightly on his side, with one arm at his side, the other lying across his chest, which is half-exposed by the white sheet. My eyes move down the sheet, and I can see the outline of his body underneath. I ache to touch him. I wish I could do it without waking him, but that's not something you can do to an ex-marine, and expect him to sleep through it. And so, I am content with my own provocative thoughts, as I imagine what's under that sheet. I smile in spite of myself. You've got one dirty mind, Monica. But then again, a dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste... I snuggle down into the sheets, moving close to John. I lay my head on his shoulder, and my hand on his chest. As if I cannot control it, my hand begins to move, smoothing across his tight chest, to his arms, down his stomach... Bingo. I look up at his face, and he's smiling. "Somebody's awake..." He says, in a slow, rusty voice. But I wasn't sure if he was talking about me, or... Before he has a chance to open his eyes, I plant my lips on his and kiss him softly. His smile gets bigger as I touch him. My kisses travel down his neck, to his ear, and back to his mouth again. His free hand slips under the sheet to pull me closer. And we dance. ~F~ *** Please let me know what you think....I'm thinking of writing a sequel, maybe another series of vignettes like this one, continuing their relationship. But I need opinions! From: "Moore, Dawn" Date: Tue, 22 May 2001 14:25:22 -0400 Subject: "Witness: Prequel" by Agent Myers Source: direct Title: Witness: Prequel Author: Agent Myers Rating: R (violence, language) Summary: I started to walk towards the cluster of men in blue. They turned towards me and looked at me. Their eyes were sad, some worried, probably for me. They began to walk slowly away from the scene. Suddenly, my body became numb, and my eyes were transfixed on something on the ground. I walked towards it, dread filling me with each step. This is not happening. Please, don't let this be real... Keywords: DRR, A, Doggett POV Spoilers: Season 8. Mostly Empedocles and Pre-XF Archive: Gossamer, yes. All others please ask, I will surely say yes! Disclaimer: You know. Author's notes: I've gotten a lot of great feedback on Witness I and II, so I decided to write a prequel. It may seem like I'm writing them out of order, but in good storytelling fashion, I think this is the best way to do it. MAJOR ANGST AHEAD. I was in a deep state of depression by the time I got done writing this, (LOL) but I think it's a story that needs to be told. I really don't think I could have written Witness: Prequel without writing I & II first. Like Star Wars! Enjoy, and please gimme.... Feedback: Yes, yes, yes. I'm dependent on comments! *** It was only one hour ago It was all so different then. Nothing yet has really sunk in Looks like it always did This flesh and bone. It's just the way that we are tied in But there's no one home. I grieve for you You leave me So hard to move on Still loving what's gone. Still, life carries on Carries on and on and on and on... ~Peter Gabriel "I Grieve" *** Witness: Prequel by Agent Myers "It's gross, Dad." I was preoccupied with the headline of the newspaper, I didn't comprehend what my son had said to me. "Hmm? What's 'at, Luke?" "My cereal. It's gross. I don't wanna eat it." I sighed and put the newspaper down on the kitchen table. I glanced up at the clock. Luke had to be at school in twenty minutes, and it took ten to get there. Maybe I could drop him, but now that he had a new bike, he would never let me drive him. "Give it to the cat. What do you wanna eat, then?" I asked him, a little perturbed. "Pop tarts." "Ah, there's a nutritious breakfast. Did you get your books in your bag and your baseball uniform?" "Yeah, Dad." Luke said, as though I had asked him a dumb question. I ruffled his hair as he walked off to make his pop tarts. He swatted my hand away and laughed. "Any big tests today?" "Naw," my son answered me. "Got a spelling test on Friday, though." And it was Monday. Another day getting my son ready for school, although he seemed more able to do it himself these days. He hated it when I asked him if he had his books, if he'd brushed his teeth and put on clean socks. But I'm a Dad, and old habits die hard. When Linda passed away, I vowed that I would always do those things that she had done for our son. It had been hard to become both Mom and Dad, but I had been doing it for almost two years now. "Is Monica coming over tonight?" He asked me, as he stuffed a piece of blueberry pop tart in his mouth. "Yeah, I thought we could all go down to the park or something. Do you like her, Luke?" Luke nodded his head, yes. It wasn't an overwhelmingly positive response, but it was a yes. I had been seeing Monica for almost seven months, and things were going extremely well. I would have taken the relationship to new levels long ago, but I wanted my son to be okay with it. He was, after all, the most important thing to me. I watched him, sitting down at the table, and thought about how much he'd grown in the last two years. His brownish-blonde hair was in dire need of a haircut, but he hated haircuts almost as much as he hated going to the doctor. Just like his Dad. He'd grown a half of a shoe size since the last time I'd bought him sneakers. I smiled. He was getting really good at baseball, too. "What are you lookin' at me like that for, Dad?" "Hmmm?" I broke out of my revere. "You're lookin' at me all weird." "Sorry...I was just thinkin'. You look a lot like your Mom, you know?" Luke just smiled. I think he missed his Mom a lot, but he rarely ever came out and said it. He was so much like me. "I gotta go to school, Dad." He said, jumping up from the table. A pile of crumbs was on the chair. I knew he was late, so I decided not to make him clean it up. I stood up and gave him a big hug and a kiss on the top of the head. He hugged me back, and hung on for a few seconds this time. I think he sensed that I was missing his mother. "Love you, Son." "Love you too, Dad." And he was out the door. **** I made some pen marks in a case file and closed it. I had a good mind to toss it out the window. I laid my pen down and rubbed my eyes. I hated paperwork. The clock said it was close to lunchtime, so at least I could look forward to that. The phone rang. "Doggett." A shrill voice spoke on the other side of the line. "Mr. Doggett, this is Majorie from the school. We were wondering if you had forgotten to call your son in sick this morning." I was confused at first. "Uh, no. Why...is Luke sick?" "No, Mr. Doggett...you're son's not here." "Not there?" I tried to hide the concern in my voice. But a million thoughts were going through my head, not one of them good. If Luke had come down sick and gone home, he would have called me. I asked Majorie some more questions, but everyone of them turned up the same answer. My son had never made it to school. I hung up the phone, as panic rushed through me like the effects of a stiff drink. I dialed the number to home as fast as I could. It rang four times. My own voice greeted me. "You have reached 242-5396. Nobody's home, so leave a message. *Beep*" "Luke? Son, if you're there, please pick up. It's Dad. Luke, pick up." I tried to stay calm, but my voice kept on rising. "Luke, PICK UP!" I waited as the silence and the occasional crackle of the phone line filled my ears. I closed my eyes, as genuine fear took hold of me. I grabbed my coat, and left the office. *** On the way to the school, I was numb. My mind reeled with possibilities, all of them were terrible, horrible things. But somewhere, in the back of my mind I believed that it would all come out right. That everything would be fine. My cell phone rang. "Doggett." "John? It's Monica." "Hi." I said, a little disappointed it wasn't my son on the other end. "What's up?" "Well...I just...is everything okay?" Monica had some kind of sixth sense about her. I never asked her about it, but she always seemed to sense when something was wrong with me. "Actually, Monica, everything is NOT fine. Luke never made it to school this morning. He's missing." "Oh, God John." I didn't like her tone. It frightened me more than the sound of Majorie's voice telling me my son was not at school. It was as if she knew something...something I didn't. "I'm on my way to the school." I said. "I'll meet you there. And I'm calling in help, okay?" Christ. She was calling in help. This was for real, I told myself. Now it was not a sick child, but a missing child. Not only a missing child, but it was a case. My son was a case. Once again, panic seized me. "Okay." I said shakily. I hung up the phone. *** I stared at the bicycle in total disbelief. "Is that your son's bike?" Someone asked me. I nodded, not taking my eye off of the bike, and the backpack that lay beside it. I picked it up and stared at it. My breath grew short, my chest felt like it would cave it. "John..." It was Monica. I turned to look at her. The look on my face must have been something horrible, because her face began to reflect my worry. "He's been abducted. Someone's taken my son, Monica." I said. "Oh, God..." She put her hand on my shoulder. I expected her to offer me something along the lines of, 'It'll be okay, John. Everything will be fine.', but she didn't. For some reason, that worried me. *** Three days later.......... I stood in the field and looked on. I could see the officers gathered ahead, all looking down at the ground. Bile rose in my throat. I could see Monica there too. She turned her head and looked at me. I knew then what they were all looking at. No. This is not happening. It can't be. Please, don't let it be true. My feet refused to move. I couldn't walk over there and see this. My body, weary from the past few days with no sleep, felt like it would give way under my own weight. My heart felt like it was dying, physically, really dying. Ceasing to beat. I almost wished it would so that I wouldn't have to endure this. I started to walk towards the cluster of men in blue. They turned towards me and looked at me. Their eyes were sad, some worried, probably for me. They began to walk away from the scene. Suddenly, my body became numb, and my eyes were transfixed on something on the ground. I walked towards it, dread filling me with each step. This is not happening. Please, don't let this be real. The world seemed to be in slow motion. The sounds of the rustling leaves beneath my feet, the voices of the officers, the sounds of nature...all faded away. I walked as though in a trance, a cloud. All I could see was Monica. And as I approached her, my son. My hands started to shake as I looked down at him. Face down. Blood. Motionless, still. Dead. Dead. My breath was suddenly taken from me. But I didn't fight it. Monica's voice sounded far away. "John, I'm so sorry..." She sobbed. I think she put her hand on my shoulder. I closed my eyes when I felt the tears. I sucked them down, swallowed the lump in my throat. I knelt down by my son's lifeless body and stared. Monica walked away. I could hear her sobbing. My breath came out choppy. And I slowly died inside... *** It was fitting that the rain should come down the day of my only son's burial. Warm rain, like a replacement for the tears that I am not shedding. I stand amongst the sea of black suits and umbrellas, and I feel like this pain could stop if the ground would just swallow me whole. Monica stands motionless at my side, a steady stream of tears streaming down her face. Her hand is in mine, and she squeezes it from time to time throughout the eulogy. The song, played at the funeral, repeats over and over in my head. Here I am, Lord Is it I, Lord? I have heard you calling in the night I will go, Lord If you lead me I will hold your people in my heart Though the song was beautiful, I hate it's sweet melody as it plays again and again in my head. My son...called? Called to die this horrible, tragic death at such a young age? Bullshit. God can't be that cruel. I refuse to believe that God would allow my son to be lead like a lamb to the slaughter. Not to pass peacefully from one world to the next at an old age, but to be murdered by evil's own hand and to die with his face in the mud. How can I not hate you, Lord? I feel Monica squeeze my hand as I begin to tremble. With pain. With guilt. With fear. With hatred. I want to kill. I want to be killed. I want to drown in the abyss of darkness. I can already feel it filling my lungs. All I have to do is let go... *** Numbly, I am lead through the door of my house. I haven't been here for more than an hour in the past few days. Monica sits me down on the couch. I lean on the arm of the couch, and cover my eyes with my hands. "Want me to get you something to drink, John?" She asks me. It seems like a silly question to ask, but then again, everything seems wrong. "Yeah..." I respond. "There's beer in the fridge." I hear her behind me. She doesn't move. "John..." "Don't fight me, Monica." She pauses, and then walks off toward the kitchen. My eyes wander to the mantle, where my son's pictures sit. I fix in on his baseball picture, his gentle, smiling face. I leap from the couch, not wanting to look, and go in search of my beer. Monica is rummaging through the fridge as I come into the kitchen. She looks surprised to see me. "Here." She says, handing me the bottle. She gets one out for herself. I crack it open and take a huge drink. And then I see it. The pile of crumbs on the kitchen chair. From his pop tart. <"You're lookin' at me all weird."> <"Sorry...I was just thinking. You look a lot like your Mom, you know?"> I close my eyes as anger sweeps through me. Like a volcano ready to erupt, something's gotta give. "John?" I hear Monica's voice, but my eyes are transfixed on the beer bottle in my hand. "GOD DAMN IT!" I roar, as I pitch the bottle across the room, where it shatters into a billion pieces against the wall. The amber liquid splashes on us both, and runs down the wall. Monica is frozen with shock. "WHY?" I bark. "WHY, MONICA? WHY IS MY SON DEAD?" "I don't know, John...I don't know!" I put my hands down on table and lean over it. "I'll probably live to be a hundred, but my son won't know what it's like to be ten years old! He'll never play baseball again...he'll never graduate from high school...he'll never have a girlfriend..." I feel the lump slowly rising in my throat. This time, I can't contain it. The tears begin to rise out of their hidden depths. The dam breaks open wide. "Jesus fucking Christ..." I shout. My vulgar words are a protest to God. "How can...this happen? How can a child's life just...be taken away like that?" And how can a father lose a son after already losing a wife? How can there be any force, if not God, that is that cruel? I don't say it out loud, but I think it. Monica takes a step forward in an attempt to console me. I step away, avoiding her. "It's not goddamn fair, Monica. Why is my child's life over? Why, when millions of kids get to grow up...WHY is *my* child the one that is dead? How is that fair?" No one ever said life was fair, now did they? She didn't answer, only stared at me with a sorrowful expression, and tears running down her face. I wasn't yelling at her; I wasn't seeking answers from her. I hope she knew that. "Why...?" I manage to get out. The word is followed by tears. I think Monica is shocked when they begin to roll down my face. "Why..." She steps forward and takes me into her arms, and I don't fight her. I am desperate for her comfort. I have never needed human touch so badly...I let it out, crying quietly against her. She's caressing the back of my head, so much like a mother. She holds me tighter, and I cry harder. For a few moments I forget that I am John Doggett, and that I never cry. I forget my father, who told me that I was overreacting when I cried at my grandmother's funeral at the age of eight years old. Right now, I am a man who has just buried his only son. *** How will she ever understand? I sit in my living room, now dark. Alone. Alone in spirit, alone physically. My head is in my hands. Monica left about thirty minutes ago. I told her that I couldn't handle this relationship right now, that I had too many other things to think about. She was hurt, hurt terribly I fear, but she said she understood. I've lost my wife, my son, and now I have thrown away the only thing in my life that was good. She's gone, because I told her she should go. Will she ever know that I did it for her? That I only wished to protect her from the blackness that was swallowing me up? Does it make any sense in her mind...does she understand it the way I do? And will she ever forgive me? Of course she will. She loves me. I am so foolish. I went after her. But it was too late. I realized too late that I had made a mistake, and now, even if I were to call her and try to make things right...it wouldn't matter. I've already said the words. I've already hurt her, and it's not something I can take back because she knows that it was the truth, and so do I. I would only hurt her. As much as I feel love for her, I can't love her. My heart is broken, my mind is filled with darkness. I don't think I'll ever smile again. How could I possibly give her what she's given me? I can't. And so, I sit her in the darkness. I can only stare at the empty space that was once a home. And I wonder if this will ever go away. I know there is only one thing that will heal this brokenness. Time. I stand up and walk to the fireplace. I pick one of the many pictures of my son, and hold it in my hand. I sit down again, and stare at it. It's a picture of my son in his baseball uniform. I close my eyes and remember the sound of his voice. I remember his face, and the way he looked so much like Linda. I remember him. And I try to smile, but... For now, it only comes out as a tear. *** Let it out and move on Missing what's gone. Still, life carries on Still, life carries on and on and on... *** ~F~ *Sniff* I hate unhappy endings. If you're suffering from angst overdose, I prescribe a re-read of "Witness I & II". They are much happier and set *after* this story.