Fandom: The Mentalist
Disclaimer: I never have owned The Mentalist.
Summary: The rising of your chest, is like the rising of the salty water that splashes into your half-lidded eyes.
This is yet another angst-off story I had with the lovely redandgallifrey
The rising of your chest, is like the rising of the salty water that splashes into your half-lidded eyes.
You are semi-conscious, and your limbs are tightly restrained—you try to open your eyes wider; the drifting sky is blue, baby blue. You ignore the lurching in your stomach—the tightness in your chest—as you comprehend the movement around you.
You have just enough time to question where you are, before the water swallows you whole.
The taste of something metallic circles in your mouth and you work your coarse tongue against your cracked lips.
You work enough saliva into your tongue, and you lather, rinse, and repeat.
You pull away.
That metallic taste in your mouth doesn’t ever fade.
You can feel the tight ropes cutting into your pale, chilled skin—the salt water aggravates raw skin.
Then, you feel the pain—a stabbing pain, something way worse than a bullet piercing your fragile skin—and you cry.
And your cries fade into the roaring tides as you plummet down into the darkness.
Your chest expands.
You can’t breathe.
You can’t remember.
Where are you?
Where is this?
While the world spins—on and on—above your head.
Your chest collapses.
You can breathe.
You black-out, to the sound of your cries.
You never see it coming.
Your frail body, bound to the floating piece of bloody lumber, floats along the churning river—the sky over ahead is blue, baby blue—and you continue to flow with the tide—down, down, down—while spinning—around, around, around.
You’ve been marked with death—both literally and figuratively.
You’re heading for disaster with both eyes closed.
You feel it, before you can see it; the collision that will end you.
And then, you remember.
The water slowly fills your lungs—you had a case.
Spots fill your vision—it was Red John.
You try to struggle—Jane was acting off.
You are pulled under—you confronted him, alone.
You sputter—he scoffed.
Your chest spasms—you used logic.
Your head throbs—he approached.
You hear the roaring—you feel his arms around you.
You hear your heartbeat—he brushed the hair kissing your shoulder aside.
You see the darkness—you don’t think this is appropriate.
You see the light—his fingers dance across your collarbone.
You taste the water—you try to tear yourself away.
You taste the blood—he gets angry.
You feel the pain—you run.
You feel the calm—he lunged.
You smell death—you swim in the darkness.
You smell salt—he stands over you with a syringe.
You understand—Red John is somebody close.
You relax—Red John has you.
You inhale—Jane is yet another pawn.
You exhale—you will become victim number thirty-three.
You remember—Red John is somebody close.
You know—Red John is somebody you trusted.
You forget—Red John is somebody you cared about.
You regret—His hands stain you and break you.
You die—His name you take to your grave.