Desiderium: longing for something that has been lost

Chapter 36

"one of the things that we admire about porcelain is it's delicate fragility, we should learn to appreciate the same in people" -- andrew dravenport 

___________

Quantico

March 6, 2008

9:08 am

___________

Agent Morgan is deemed fit for active duty, he has passed all required psychiatric evaluations and I have seen no further problems with his returning to work.

Morgan stared down at the slip of paper in his hand, feeling strangely unnerved at what this meant for him. 

He wanted this, really wanted this, it had been too long since he had felt the reassuring weight of his gun tugging at his side, and he had stood with his colleagues at a white board, the feeling of adrenaline creeping around. 

But. Now, he would have to go back, where he could face harm or death every time he left. He had known the danger before, of course he had. He had trained for it, but now? It was like he expected it, looked for it around every corner. 

He couldn't go back to work, he couldn't because he knew the Derek Morgan that last left wouldn't be returning. 

_________

Don't be scared baby, don't be scared. Look at mama.

Blue eyes, framed by long yellow hair held his, and he could see the pure fear in them. 

My baby, I love you.

She never said that before. He reached out to her, small trembling fingers restless against the rope. 

Be brave darling.

He couldn't speak, couldn't tell her he loved her, couldn't scream for his mother one last time as the knife descended. 

Her eyes met his, sparkling with tears, and he watched his mother die, red brilliant blood bubble out of her, stunningly fast, and then drip, drip, drip.

One, two quick red hot slices and his vision darkened, and his beautiful, beautiful mother faded from his sight. 

___________

Spencer jolted awake, acutely aware that he had been crying. Rubbing a hand over his face, he sat up shakily and stared off into the distance, letting his mind settle. Unbidden, his mother floated to the forefront of his mind, and his eyes teared up again. 

"Oh, mom." He muttered, "I really wish you were here still." He pulled out a sheet of paper from beside his bed, and grabbing a book and a pen, he began to write. 

Dear Mom,

I wish I could actually send these, instead of them accumulating in a box at the side of my bed, but I'm going to pretend, for a little while at least. My therapist suggested it, actually, as a way for me to 'process' or whatever. 

I told her that processing in therapy was dependent on a variety of factors, not least of all my actually completing this exercise, and that this was dependent on her Socratic questioning. She just smiled at me and wrote something down so maybe I should just keep those thoughts to myself from now on. 

She also told me to tell you about my childhood, about the parts you were here for and the parts you weren't for. I don't really want to do that. You tried your best, but we both know you were sick, and well dad, he was more gone than around. Afterwards wasn't your fault either, and I hope you know that. You couldn't have known that dad's habits would have gotten him in trouble.