sunday_reveries - This Is The End of the Innocence
(Since my Lindsay is not pregnant, she's around for canon events.)
Sever us from our disguises. ~Gregory Maguire
She held a test tube up at eye level, but she was staring through it, without even seeing it. She had been waiting for the liquid to change color, and it had, but she hardly noticed.
Again her mind wandered. Wandered to the ugliness the last case had brought. There was always ugliness in the world, but this actually made her heart ache. The words, the actions, the intentions...they all made her sick. What stuck with her though was that man.
A young, respectful man, full of faith. He knew how he saw the world, and how he saw life. He knew who he was. Until the man he had known as his father broke that. She couldn't imagine the loss, the confusion. Everything coming into question. Every word his father had spoken. His religion. Blood that was flowing through him connected him not his people, but to the monsters that hated the very person he was. Could he ever call that man his father again, or is his father dead to him? Will he be saying the Mourner's Prayer for the loss of that father?
Her sight was blurred as the thoughts ran through her head, but she wasn't looking, so she didn't notice.
She couldn't comprehend the pain that young man had to be going through. She couldn't comprehend any of the pain that that moment in history caused. Continued to cause. She didn't want to know the pain.
There were terrible, disgusting humans in the world that did horrible acts. She knew this much from her job. From her life. There were countless victims. People who saw and felt horrible things before losing their lives. Senseless things.
And there were those that were left with the memories. The ones left behind in the pain, picking up the shattered pieces. Trying to move on, trying to understand, and never ever able to forget. The ones who did nothing, but have to feel everything.
A man who never knew the monster his father truly was, or a girl...who cowered in a bathroom while her friends died.
No matter the story, without comparing any of them to one another, there would always be the living victims. The ones left to remember.
371
Sever us from our disguises. ~Gregory Maguire
She held a test tube up at eye level, but she was staring through it, without even seeing it. She had been waiting for the liquid to change color, and it had, but she hardly noticed.
Again her mind wandered. Wandered to the ugliness the last case had brought. There was always ugliness in the world, but this actually made her heart ache. The words, the actions, the intentions...they all made her sick. What stuck with her though was that man.
A young, respectful man, full of faith. He knew how he saw the world, and how he saw life. He knew who he was. Until the man he had known as his father broke that. She couldn't imagine the loss, the confusion. Everything coming into question. Every word his father had spoken. His religion. Blood that was flowing through him connected him not his people, but to the monsters that hated the very person he was. Could he ever call that man his father again, or is his father dead to him? Will he be saying the Mourner's Prayer for the loss of that father?
Her sight was blurred as the thoughts ran through her head, but she wasn't looking, so she didn't notice.
She couldn't comprehend the pain that young man had to be going through. She couldn't comprehend any of the pain that that moment in history caused. Continued to cause. She didn't want to know the pain.
There were terrible, disgusting humans in the world that did horrible acts. She knew this much from her job. From her life. There were countless victims. People who saw and felt horrible things before losing their lives. Senseless things.
And there were those that were left with the memories. The ones left behind in the pain, picking up the shattered pieces. Trying to move on, trying to understand, and never ever able to forget. The ones who did nothing, but have to feel everything.
A man who never knew the monster his father truly was, or a girl...who cowered in a bathroom while her friends died.
No matter the story, without comparing any of them to one another, there would always be the living victims. The ones left to remember.
371