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One day. Twenty-four hours. One thousand four hundred and forty minutes. She’d cried herself all out the night before. While yesterday there was the shock, the next few days would be the aftershocks. She left the station in a sweatshirt and sweatpants belonging to her comfort person. Realistically she knew where she was. She could feel the earth beneath her feet, see the walls and roof around her, and pay attention to all of her senses. The same basic things, five things she could see, four for touch, three for hearing, two for smell, and one for taste. She was safe— not a danger to herself… to others apparently she couldn’t say the same.
But then there was the sickening realization that even though she was home, she felt as if she hadn’t left that tunnel. The person who arrived at work, sat through the role call, and rode with Celina stayed still in the same spot. She knew well why she wasn’t allowed back at work for two weeks. She knew that they needed to do a full investigation; body cam review, a review from her superior officer (Tim), notes from other officers on the scene who worked with her (Celina), and other bits and pieces that Lucy could never unsee.
It was in defense. You’ll be cleared. But that was the least of her worries. She had a lot more to carry, and it wasn’t just with her job. Though the sergeant stripes carried another layer to everything. At least internally.
Tim was supposed to take two days off before returning. Lucy didn’t see why he needed to– this was her life-altering event, the thing she was being investigated for, and the reason for her undoing. But he insisted, “There’s a leave of absence available when it comes to spouses. I’m just using what resources the department has.” In the first of those days he took Kojo for his walks, made her coffee and tea, sat with her and watched reruns of the ‘crap she liked to watch,’ (his words not hers, even if lately he’d been quiet about them.) and was trying to keep things as normal as they needed to be. Normal was what she needed. She didn’t need to be coddled, watched like a hawk, or seen as if she were glass.
She was fine temporarily being the invisible girl. A facade she wore well in her childhood, into her young adulthood, and now as someone who stands as tall as she does. The difference, before this she was waiting to grow wings– to have a chance at flying out of whatever room she was. Now, she was grounded. And planned on remaining that way.
On the second day of those two days in a desperate attempt to solidify that things were normal, she’d gone to prepare Kojo's food while Tim showered. What started gently enough for her turned quickly. Lucy gasped loudly, watching as the utensils she’d used clattered to the floor. She didn’t know what about the situation she was in triggered the reaction she was having. But it was happening, leaving her on the floor of their kitchen, utensils surrounding her as her back pressed into their cupboard.
Within two minutes of the latest aftershock Tim is sitting on the kitchen floor, holding her as she sobs into his chest, she feels lifeless as she cries that she didn’t know how to do this. That she didn’t know where to go from here. By the time her breathing is calmed and she’s able to sit up straight she sees something flicker in his eyes. She doesn’t know what it means until she finds him that night, standing in the living room on the phone with the Captain. She must be catching the very end, because she hears him say “Thank you, sir. I’ll be there Friday.” He turns on his heel, probably on his way back into the bedroom before she can wake up. But he sees her. “Luce. One more day. That’s it. Then I’ll leave you to work this through yourself during the day.” Working through this yourself.
The third day is a lot like the first. She doesn’t have any more aftershocks, just a few nervous shakes. Most of her day was spent outside, Kojo running around as she soaked in the sun. Tim sat at their little patio table, typing out who knew what for the job. He makes a few little noises, mostly ones of frustration or confusion. Typically she’d ask him if he needed a second set of eyes, or if she could give an opinion based on another sergeant's standpoint. But she was on administrative leave, unable to return to work or to do anything involving the job. The smallest comment on a case like this could push her into more trouble. Her fists tightened at her side like she usually had them whenever she felt something a little too strongly.
Day four came, and she convinced the watch commander to go to work and stop worrying about her. The night before she had told him that “they need their watch commander. Tim, please. Go be Sergeant Bradford.” Tim pressed a kiss to the top of her head, mumbling something softly before he left the room. She hears the front door click closed, and then hears the sound of Kojo’s doggie tags clinking as he walks up to her. He curls up in bed beside her, which is where they spent most of the day. She’d curl under the blankets, holding onto him and wishing she could pull her sheets over her head to drown everything out.
Lying in bed with her beloved dog was the only thing that made sense. She attempted to spend a little bit of time on her phone to do the things she’d ignored. Pins a couple of things on Pinterest, watches the videos Celina sends her, give Tamara her opinion on the furniture sets she and her roommates had been looking at for her apartment. By the fifth app change, she realized there was no way she’d be able to keep paying attention. So she set her phone to silent and set it down on her bedside table. She didn’t write in her journal, even if she had the words for what to say; it was the energy to get them out, and the wonder if she’d ever want to get them out on paper. She’d had to write them out before, but she never explored the emotions. Her words to describe what happened always began with
Name: Lucy Chen
Age: thirty-six
Position held in LAPD: sergeant
Badge number: 8-7-1-3
And ended with her signature. She tried reading, skimming through her e-reader. She ended up sleeping until her boyfriend got home from work. Rest was one of the only things she could do, even if the nightmares were there. Which luckily for this nap they weren’t. She wakes to the sound of the front door. Tim enters the confined space of their bedroom. The first thing she notices is how tense he is. His posture lets her know he didn’t have the best first day back at work.
Lucy pushes herself to sit up in their bed. “Hey, how was your day?” She asked, her voice hoarse and raspy due to the little ( if at all ) she’d been using it.
“Sometimes I wonder how Grey didn’t strangle most of our colleagues,” he huffs out. “How hard is it not to lose the entirety of a duty belt. After doing it once you’d think Smitty wouldn’t let it happen again.” Usually, that would be the kind of thing to get a loud laugh from her, but she still doesn’t have the energy to offer more than just a small smile. “How was it around here?” He asks her. There isn’t a way for her to phrase this so that she doesn’t fear she’ll have a worried Tim (which is unavoidable, but damn it she’d try.)
Despite the words that catch in her throat she does speak. “It was fine. Kojo and I cuddled.”
“What I would have given to be here for said cuddles rather than assisting in finding the stun gun a houseless man stole,” he groans, entering their bathroom to change into comfier clothes. She stares at the bed as she waits for him. He pops back out a minute or two later, tossing the clothes into the hamper. “Luce, are you sure you’re okay?” He sits on the edge of their mattress, the mattress dipping slightly.
“I’m fine.” What a fucking lie. She couldn’t even say two words without feeling her entire demeanor and prey drive instinct kick into place. “I’ll tell you if I’m not.” She has to remind herself that this is a place she should feel comfortable in. She knows that internally she’s safe and sound. Yet it’s her body that keeps yelling at her ‘run rabbit, hunting season is approaching.’ She’d always been a runner, not with relationships per se but with things like this. She’d rather wait for everything related to any of her trauma to knock her off her feet at once instead of giving it to her in spurts.
It’s killing him not to say anything. And it kills her not to feel ready to tell him anything. Since getting back together they shared everything, even the things that were gross. Despite this, Tim drops the topic. Taking their entwined hands and placing a kiss on her knuckles. “I love you.” He says it like there’s nothing else he could do. But even if there was more he could do, this is enough. As if she could ever forget that he does.
•
Six days. One hundred forty-four hours. Eight thousand six hundred forty minutes. Aaron comes over to visit. He had been her first visitor during the time she had been inside. Or at least the first person who knocked, she let come inside. She’d always make an exception for the man now slipping his shoes off at the front door. “So, are you here to give me some kind of pep talk?” She asks. Admittedly a little bitterly.
Thorsen sits down beside the couch, sitting on one end when she sits on the other. “Yeah no. I know you well enough to know you’d shut that down before the words ‘it gets better,’ come out of my mouth.” She chucks a throw pillow at him. “Hey! I’m not telling you that. I’m just saying the words—“ he responds by throwing the pillow back.
“You still said the words.”
“To prove a point!”
He sits with her, talks to her through the things he’d seen through the task force— including a story regarding a recent trip abroad he had to take. “You know, the area was really nice. I might go back. I could take you and Celina with me. It’d be nice,” she nods her head, it would be nice. But did she deserve nice? Did she deserve to travel when Martin was forever stuck in a box six feet underground?
“I don’t think I’m traveling out of the state for some time, technically I can’t until IA does one more round of questioning,” she sighs.
“It doesn’t have to be right away. We three could visit as a bachelorette party for you when your boyfriend finally pops the question.” He grins like a Cheshire Cat, and Lucy will never be over his antics. He’s become a brother in more ways than she could say, has been her closest and most consistent friend since Jackson.
She listens to Aaron talk about his love life. She knew the basics— the flings he’d had that went absolutely nowhere, the numbers he’d collected while on the job, and the plans for dates that never went through. Soon enough they’re sharing a bottle of wine between them. Aaron had brought one from his home, a rich friend had given it to him as a housewarming gift. Aaron had made some comment to her about the wine before, describing it as an acquired taste, a taste that apparently she had, based on the times the bottle hit her lips. Soon enough, they’re talking about the things that have happened at Mid Wilshire since his departure. “No, but as I told you over text. He lied about everything for months. And then he was surprised he got fired.”
She takes another swig, handing him the bottle. Talking about Ridley was exhausting. She could compare it to getting her teeth pulled, explaining this to Aaron, and getting it out of her system helps. It’s like a therapy session every time they talk, it may be old stuff right now, but the new stuff was too much too fast to discuss. Her own confidant still couldn’t and wouldn’t describe his trauma from the ambush. But he does talk about the things that damaged him in his childhood. Both of their lives are modge podges of trauma displayed in the bright light of her home.
The conversation continues till they pass out, their bottle sitting on the table. Tim enters the house that evening to see Lucy asleep, sprawled across the couch. Aaron slept on the floor. Lucy isn’t awake to see her boyfriend fondly smile at the two, and lay throw blankets over the pair. He sets medication and water beside them.
Day seven she and Aaron both woke up in their respective spots to the smell of breakfast. Lucy shakes Aaron awake, pointing to the counter to sit at. “Looks like you two had fun last night,” Tim muses with a small smile. He sets the plates down in front of them and then turns. They eat in peace, wincing whenever a headache strikes. “Today’s my day off, I want to spend it with my girlfriend. So Aaron, if you’re done eating .. get out.”
Aaron takes the message, resting his hand on Lucy’s shoulder as he moves past her. “Aaron..” She stops him before he can go any further. “Thank you for last night,” she rises to her feet and hugs him. It’s the first time in a week she trusts her hands and if they’re safe.
“Always,” his hand reads in hand on her shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze before he walks to the door. “Thanks for breakfast.”
•
Eight days. One hundred-ninety-two hours. Eleven thousand five hundred twenty minutes. No matter how you keep time it was all the same. Guilt sat in her chest like a brick being thrown through a glass house. Skipping from pebbles and their easy ability to ricochet, into red clay and shale thrust full force. It’s not your fault, a voice in her head would ring. But what if it is? Her anxious brain cried back, crawling at her throat to come out as a wail.
Parts of her contemplated attending the funeral. It probably wasn’t her place. But she thought this would help her fully understand what had happened. Each time she gets dressed in black, gets into her car, and then can’t bring herself to drive. ‘Coward!’ Her torturous brain would scream at her. And she feared it to be true.
Tears permanently decorated the corners of her eyes whenever she thought too hard. There would be these pockets of peace where she’d nearly forget where she was. But memories of the situation would become red lights, thoughts of who Martin was and who he could have been … those felt like the brakes had completely gone out on her. Then she’d remember the knife, remember the twist of the wrist. It hit her like a car crash. In the aftermath, there was nothing to do.
She wasn’t sure why she was playing the victim. Never did those thoughts leave her mind. They’d come at breakfast time, a bowl of oatmeal in front of her after she tried to cook. Tried being the keyword. She pushed the brown sugar and cinnamon sludge around her plate. ‘One second. One second longer and I’d be dead,’ she thought as she sat there. The hand that had twisted the knife rests over her chest, needing to ensure she was there. That she was real.
The issue that comes. If she knew she was real.. Then the station did. Had they been making comments about who she was? The thought of others even acknowledging her twisted. Never in her life had she felt so exposed. This unsettling nature rippling through her at the realization that her name was a bad omen. She wasn’t the first person on the force to fatally injure someone. She definitely wasn’t going to be the last. But what she was had been the latest one to do so. This meant her name was fresh in their minds. She had seen it when it happened with Nolan during their rookie year. Other than being what they’d been, she was worried, calling him every chance she got to check in.
He’d always tell the truth, wearing his heart on his sleeve even as the wind dared to blow it away. She had seen him hold it altogether, but now she wondered how he did it so well.
Now, he was the one to ask her how she was doing. Lucy lied. But her lying came in waves. Sometimes she genuinely couldn’t think of what to say, making it so silence became biblical. Other times it was right through her teeth. Lying becomes the way for her to feel like she’s in the clear. It’s nothing big, nothing that could cause her life or the lives around her to be hurt. But she could acknowledge she wasn’t being honest.
‘Yes I’m taking the medications you gave to me for my mental health,’ she flushed them down the toilet. ‘I eat consistent meals, my boyfriend prepared some for me,’ I shared the meals with friends who come over to make it look like I’m going through them faster. ‘Yes, I’ve been sleeping.’ I’m waiting for the moment my body decides to catch up on me and I pass out.
She’d formed a community while she spiraled. Or more so she established a pre-existing community. I can’t be alone, her brain roared. All of it formed through the little pieces found in the people she knew. In one day a lot of her community formed around her. Her future sister and mother-in-law talked to her on the phone for hours until Nolan arrived with Celina and Miles. They sat on the floor of the house with her and played a board game. If there was a record for the most games of Sorry and Apples to Apples (Celina’s idea) in one day they would hold it.
When it was time to part Celina and Miles asked if she wanted to join their evening hikes, and she agreed. Once again not wanting to be alone, she took Kojo, hearing Tim tell their dog “Your mom really needs you right now bud..” The two younger officers walked ahead, rambling nonsense about what they’d watched on TV or gossip from the building. None of it sounded like words being spoken; instead, a muffled roar reminding her that she wasn’t here. Not like the rest of them were. Lucy trailed behind, witnessing the world turning but not feeling the time move.
When the car drops her off she enters the house, emotionally exhausted and like she was carrying an invisible boulder. She doesn’t tell Tim that part when she recaps her day. “We played board games and then we went for a hike–“ she muses, and he nods along, though she knows he doesn’t believe that’s all that happened in the day.
•
There were times she’d felt like people were only there because they felt they had to. They were asked by Tim to constantly check in on her if they had the chance. She knew she’d worry if it wasn’t her but someone else in the situation. Someone who took it with more grace instead of diving straight into the deep end from that highest point.
Day ten. Two hundred and forty hours, fourteen thousand four hundred and four minutes pass. The next guest in the tragic miniseries that has been this part of existence is her favorite detectives. The people who would immediately know the moment something is up. Today she felt a little more open. In the past few days, Angela invited her out for coffee, in case she needed a shoulder. There wasn’t much to discuss. Lucy denied saying she wasn’t in the mood, Angela understood.
Her two friends were currently sitting on the couch as Lucy sat on the love seat. Emmy with her big brown eyes approached her. “I want Aunt Lucy’s hair,” It took her a moment to notice the young girl pointing to the two braids Lucy had put her hair into. She had pulled it back not wanting anyone to know it had been a moment since she’d washed her hair. Of course, she kept the other basic areas of hygiene taken care of. Her hair had been feeling like too much work the last few days, and a set of braids was the easiest way to do her hair. And it was the way to hide the oils in her hair the easiest.
Lucy looks to Angela, asking with eye contact if it’s okay for her to do so. She nods. Lucy leaves the room, entering back with a few hair elastics, a hairbrush, and a comb. Emmy talks to her about an episode of her favorite television program— Bluey and Lucy listens, weaving the hair into the braids. She didn’t know the reason, but there was a look of pride on her face at the scene in front of them. Lucy who had spent the last however many days feeling like her hands were her main weapon, felt a little lighter. This was a sign that she could be trusted with her hands.. though it wasn’t the full confirmation. Just a sliver of it.
Angela leaves first, a sleepy Emmy in tow. She hugs her, “Thank you for trusting me with Emmy,” she tells the other. Another way to word what she has to say is ‘thanks for seeing past the blood on my hands.’
“There was never a moment when I didn’t,” she responds. Then they’re on their way. Her heart beats fast hearing the words. They were said in a way that makes her want to hold onto them as one would hold onto a prayer. It had been exactly what she needed to hear, an answer given.
Nyla stayed a little longer, and the two women scrolled through television programs, watching a minute or two of different shows. After not finding the first five interesting the screen is shut down entirely. “Even if we didn’t watch anything, that was the most TV I think I’ve watched in months,” the detective tells her.
“Yeah?” She responds, attempting to keep as chipper in the conversation as possible. “Has work been keeping you on your toes?” She asks, changing her posture. Lucy was less stiff, instead of her knees pressed to her chest, she sat with one leg tucked under her. She doesn’t feel less frozen physically, but holds hope that changing how she sits would trick her brain into calming down
She hums, “Not just work. Leah has been more of a menace since we got back from the UC mission. James says it’s some act of rebellion. But I think that girl is too sweet to properly rebel,” she sips on her water between the first part of the sentence and the next. “When you have kids you see all kinds of things you didn’t think you’d ever see or have to learn.”
“You’re a natural with your kids. I can only hope to be half as good a mom as you are.”
Lucy expects to hear a lot from the detective in her response. She expects her to brush her off with an ‘I know,’ in a way that only a few of the people in her life could pull off. She expects her to comment back that ‘she’s doing the best she can.’ Then Nyla does speak, and it’s in a different direction. “You’re far too hard on yourself Lucy.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Playing dumb isn’t a good look on you.”
“I’m not—“
Nyla cuts her off, not letting her finish whatever she was going to say. Which is a little miracle, Lucy didn’t know how she’d finish her sentence. Verbally she was going to be flopping around like a fish. It would have proven her as a liar, or even more of a one than she was already caught being. “Save it, I’m not here to life coach into feeling better. That’s not how I do things. It doesn’t take a detective to know that you aren’t treating yourself kindly. After what you went through, that’s essential. Especially on the force.” The sergeant’s mouth opens, but once again, she’s cut off. “Chen. What would you tell someone who just endured what you’re working through—“
“I’d tell them to take care of themselves,” her voice is quiet. She doesn’t dare say it any louder. Doing that would be admitting that she wasn’t doing what she should have. Nyla wasn’t being pushy, she was helping her. Just as she’d done when she got buried alive, before going undercover for the first true time, most recently in Baja, and countless other times while working together. The other woman always had her back, it wasn’t possible for her to be doing this with any ill intent in mind.
“Since you aren’t able to tell that to yourself. I am. You need to go take care of yourself. Go take a shower and wash your hair. I'll be out here waiting and making you lunch.” Lucy wishes she could decline the offer; but she does need to shower, wash her hair, and eat a meal. Her very real needs are being sat in front of her with a solution in hand. She’d be dumb not to take the offer. Usually, she’d be insistent that she didn’t need someone to make sure she was taken care of. She would get to it when she could. She’s thirty-six fucking years old and should know by now to function— she doesn’t right now. This isn’t usual, and she can’t bring herself to do anything but nod.
She washes her hair until her scalp feels raw, and there’s a slight sting when air hits it once the shower is off. The feeling is nice, a relief to the numbness she’d felt across her body the last few days. Her shower routine is done, ensuring that she feels completely clean.
Lunch is a simple grilled cheese sandwich, she’s thankful it isn’t some tremendous feast. Not that the food for that would be available, neither she nor Tim had gone grocery shopping in a week. They’d been living off what they had and takeout, or at least he had. She’d been stealing from his plate to make him worry less. It didn’t help. “Thank you..” she says, setting the plate into the dishwasher. “You’ve already done so much for me, can I ask for one more thing…? Can you braid my hair for me?” She asks.
“Get the necessary tools, and come sit down in front of me,” she nods her head and takes her leave to head to the bathroom. The same brush and comb as earlier are brought back out, a small handful of hair elastics following.
Lucy sits between Nyla’s parted legs. Sitting faced forward with her legs crossed. The first braid is not like the loose ones she’d pulled her own hair into. It’s sturdy, neat, and has a high likelihood of staying done until the next time she feels like asking her husband to braid it back for her. The second one is accompanied by a song—The woman doing her hair hums quietly, from the bits and pieces she hears it sounds like Here Comes the Sun. “Lucy, you’re fidgeting.” Admittedly she’d been caught off guard, but once she notices her movements she stills.
It isn’t like she hadn’t heard the other sing before. She’d attended karaoke nights with the others taking the microphone. The detectives had sung a rendition of Islands in the Stream drunkenly with the rest of their group hollering and roaring with applause. She and Nyla had sung around a campfire while they were in Mexico. But there’s a difference when it’s being directed at her, and only her.
“Now I know how Emmy felt,” she said offhandedly at the way Nyla braided her hair. The other laughs, the sound ricocheting off the walls of the house.
“Whenever I do that girl’s hair she doesn’t move nearly as much as you have.”
•
Eleven Days. Two hundred sixty-four hours. Fifteen thousand eight hundred and forty minutes.
What wakes her up the following day is a firm knock on her front door. She looks at the time, almost 10:30 in the morning. With a groan, she pushes herself out of bed. The person is persistent, knocking a few solid times. “Fine fine I’m coming!” She calls out. “Just hold,” she pleads. She opens the door, seeing Wesley with a half smile and at least ten grocery bags in hand. “What are those?” She asks, scrunching her nose in confusion.
“Groceries.”
“I can see that, why?”
“A little birdie told me you may need some fuel. So, here I am. Do you mind if I come in? These are getting a little heavy,” she steps to the side. Giving him access to enter the home. She watched him set the bags down on the counter and take the items out one by one. A container of oat milk, regular milk, fruits, veggies, and a plethora of things that she knows will be eaten by them at some point
They work to refill the kitchen in silence, a routine quickly forming. He’d hand her the groceries, and she’d put them on their proper shelf. “I’ll pay you back for the groceries,” she tells him at some point.
He shakes his head. “No you absolutely will not. This is me doing an act of service—“ she didn’t need the service. Didn’t need someone to do what her friends had been doing. They were doting on her as if she were a dog about to be put down. All that was needed was someone telling her they loved her before handing her a piece of chocolate. But she didn’t need anyone to know she felt this way, she felt selfish.
Wesley doesn’t leave immediately after the groceries. Lucy invites him to stay for a little bit. During that time they talk about their pasts, the rise and fall of emotions in the act of being an only child. It’s one of their many similarities. In a way, they were bonded by a weapon. A knife. When he had been stabbed he’d once said he hated using knives for a few weeks afterwards. She’d been the one to use the knife and had the same experience of hating how the object was wielded. Though they had similarities, they sat differently in the fact that one was a butcher and the other was the lamb.
At this point, it was more Wesley talking. She nodded along as he spoke, agreeing to some of the things he poured out. The lawyer was a comforting presence, he cared about people, point blank. So when he wants to share stories she listens and nods along. He was an excellent storyteller, an ability to transport her into a world where she wasn’t mourning the life she took, the knowledge cemented that after her parents heard, they’d never want anything to do with her again. There it was again. The feeling of loneliness crept into her mind. A critical cynical teenage version of herself screaming “No control. You’re not wanted when you’re like this. No one understands. Why are you this way?” She didn’t bring it up. Wesley was doing a favor to her, he was sitting there and talking. He didn’t need to know about the sound of hitting bottom that echoed through the vitreous shards forming at her feet.
But no matter how deep her heart sank, for the first time since it began, she felt like someone was there for her instead of for her trauma. She shares stories from the times before.“I successfully lied to my mom for an entire semester. I told her I was doing Model UN,” she begins. “I ended up doing theatre instead. I think my dad knew but he was willing to keep it from her.” She has to take a deep breath before mentioning her father. The man she had held an internal wake long ago.
“Were you any good?”
“At acting? Yeah, I’d say I was pretty good. I played a lead once. When our director asked why I had no one there for me. I said they were busy.” She shrugs that part off before continuing the conversation. She appreciates how he didn’t press it further. Their conversation overall is pretty lighthearted. Wesley did tap dancing for four years, she auditioned for marching band despite playing the piano, he had won perfect attendance every year of high school, and she had a miniature rebellious phase. Discussing those times makes her think less about the things around her. That had been the beauty of the arts, they were a place for safety, to distract her from the way those negative thoughts crawled up her skin and infected her veins.
•
Day thirteen. Three hundred and twelve hours, eighteen thousand seven hundred and twenty minutes. She’s in the worst mood, she goes to her therapist that morning, and she wants to talk. But she is just someone who’s paid to listen to her. Doctor Adamson cares about her, but just the same as she cares for any patient. She gets home and continues through her day. Thinking of how to word what she thinks, if she ever says it. Just as in the earlier days, she once again isolates herself. Kojo sits on the floor beneath her feet as Lucy sits, knees to her chest as she stares off into space. She must be going crazy, because she contemplates venting to Kojo. He cares, but then again. He’s a dog so he’s not the best path in having this conversation.
It’s six-forty when she gets into the shower. Soaking wet as a towel covers her body. The water was cold, reminding her of simpler times when she attempted skiing with Aaron two winters before. She’d fallen straight on her face. This is what that feels like, the shock that short-circuits her entire body. When winter had killed her, leaving a permanent mark etched into her skin. Spring had killed her again, leaving a mental mark that would forever be left in her head. The first earthquake, that December day, left her to being unable to look at herself in the mirror. This time it has her needing to be able to look at her.
You’re alive
You’re real
And then a bitter beat.
Martin isn’t here.
You’re the reason why.
Then she realizes.
She may not here
There was a certain euphoria she’d felt since becoming a sergeant. She’d passed the exam, became sergeant, worked night shift, got back together with and moved in with her boyfriend switched to day shift, had an amazing Valentine’s Day, went to Mexico for UC work, met her boyfriend’s mom, and then… it all crashed and burned.
Everything became slow during this period of time. She must have been in that bathroom too long, letting herself break in a confined spot. Here not even Kojo could see her break. She had been so focused on herself, feeling the chill embedded in all of this. She doesn’t hear the front door creak open, or the sound of her boyfriend’s shoes hitting the ground and being moved to their spot on the racks by the front door. She doesn’t hear him enter their bedroom. “Luce?” His tone has her heart clenched. She felt like half of herself and he’s speaking like he wants to help her become whole.
“I’m fine,” she croaks out. But not even she believes in her own word. He’s across the room when he sees her, so he carries himself to her. Lighter with each step. A saunter instead of a strike. From when she met him to now she had seen the various edges to Tim Bradford. She knew the way he carried himself, how his shoulders would sag when he was disappointed in himself. She knew him like she knew the back of her hand, like he was an appendage that had been cut off but that she could still feel. Lucy knew him. Probably better than she knew herself right now.
He shakes his head, knowing that this isn’t her feeling okay. This is a deep dive into something deeper. “Lucy, please baby talk to me… if you don’t want to talk to me. Shut me down. But please…How are you?” Lucy tried pushing past him so she could go and get her pajamas on. He stops her as she approaches the dresser. There’s a mirror in front of her, a small open compact mirror mocking her.
Eyes stay hyper-focused on the mirror, on the concerned look on his face. He keeps a focused eye on her and Lucy feels like she’s been struck by a viper. Tim isn’t the serpent, that role belongs to life as a whole. Right now this was him and her only, she hadn’t done a good job at it but she could be vulnerable with him. She could be messy, a woman stuck in an emotional blizzard. Lucy turns to look up at him, wraps her arms around his center and sobs. She doesn’t care that she’s probably getting his chest wet, and she thinks he doesn’t care either. As long as she’s alright. His arms wrap around her, one hand resting against the back of her head. Like when Jackson died, like when Aaron and Celina were attacked.
He’s making small sounds, careful not to scare her, ‘shh’ and ‘I’m here’ being said more than once. He presses a kiss to the top of her head. Each time her brain screams ‘I wish I were here.’ Each emotion she’s felt over the last twelve days crashes down. In her own misery, she’s stopped counting hours, stopped wanting to hold on. She sobs out “It’s not fair, he’s not here because of me,” she’s getting out the things she’d kept in my head. “I’m tired of analyzing every conversation.. I’m—“ one final sob rips. As her sobbing stills, she’s able to breathe evenly into his chest. When she looks up at him she can’t read his expression.
“Let’s get you ready for bed,” he murmurs to her. He lets go and steps to the side to reach into the drawers. Pulling out one of his shirts that’s perhaps a little too big. He reaches into the second drawer where her pajama bottoms are. He grabs a pair that goes down to the floor, but they’re too big. But the pair belonged to Jackson, she holds onto them so she can feel his comfort even though he’s been in the ground for longer than she knew him. Undoing the towel his eyes don’t linger as they would have two weeks prior, rather he jumps straight into getting both articles of clothing ober and on her frame. “Lucy, I love you. I always will. For better or for worse.” Something said in wedding vows, not at the wake of a woman who despite still defeating death stayed alive.
Tim moves away from her to hang the towels back in their bathroom. His consistency in wanting to keep the space neat and clean is nice, it’s a pattern she sees and is reminded of where she is and who she’s with. It almost makes her feel lighter.
It felt nice to get what she needed out of her system. Each word was what she needed, and Tim let it happen. Just like she would have asked him to do. She didn’t need advice from Watch Commander Sergeant Tim Bradford. She thought she’d cry if her live-in boyfriend Tim Bradford had to listen. She didn’t want help. She just wanted someone to listen. With a gentle tug, he brings her to the bed. He holds onto her, pulling her head to his chest. Curled against him like this, her heart can be a little steadier. She falls into a slumber, but not before her brain calms down. The ticking of the clock in her brain loses its hands. The sound of Tim’s heart beats, she listens in. A podcast for someone who wonders if they even exist. Her brain clicks——.
You’re alive.
You’re real.
You’re safe.
You’re here.
Despite all odds, she was here.