Fault Line

...

He felt himself growing cold and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he walked under the pier. He had left work wearing only a light T-shirt and now that it was getting dark, the wind had come up and he regretted not grabbing his jacket. But he'd needed to get away from everybody and hadn't been exactly thinking straight when he'd stormed out. He paused to watch the waves break and to let the sound of their hollow pounding against the huge pilings block out the voices that kept reverberating in his head, but that didn't last long. The voices had been with him since the operation ended and he couldn't seem to drown them out no matter what he did. His own voice was the harshest and loudest and the bitter denunciations that were still fresh in his mind only added to a feeling of devastation he couldn't shake. He had tried to listen to everyone's attempts to placate him, to talk him out of what he was feeling, but their comments had only made him angry and were the reason he'd left. The guilt he carried would always be there no matter what anybody said and he wouldn't let any of them tell him that what had happened wasn't his fault. If it wasn't his fault, then whose was it? The same question went around and around in his head, making him search the darkening ocean for the serenity he'd always found there. But tonight there was no solace in the powerful waves, only a dark turbulence that matched the turmoil in his mind.

He walked the shoreline until the wound under his arm began to throb and the sun dropped below the gray clouds along the horizon. He had only been out of the hospital for a day and he could feel the stitches pulling in his back as he hunched against the whipping wind. He forced himself to keep walking until his head started pounding and exhaustion began pressing down on him. He didn't want to go home. It was too quiet there and the voices would be too loud and the self-accusations too powerful for him to handle, so he finally headed away in search of a quiet bar. He hadn't taken a pain pill for a few hours, so a drink couldn't hurt. At least that was his justification. But one drink turned into more than several and it was after midnight before he stumbled out of the shoddy little bar on a side street in Venice. He couldn't quite remember where he'd left his car so he once again stuffed his hands into his pockets and headed back toward the pier. He began to shiver as the cold wind cut through his thin shirt and the pain from the exit wound in his chest and exhaustion mixed with the alcohol made it hard for him to stay on his feet. He finally just sat down against a wall and fell asleep.

He woke up to someone kicking him lightly on the leg and then winced as he was poked a little harder in the ribs. He mumbled a curse and waved at whoever it was to back away, but a stronger kick close to the wound in his back brought him wide awake and swinging. His fist connected and he heard the man grunt in surprise as he was knocked off his feet. A second man yelled at him, but in his drunken state he couldn't quite make it out so he turned toward him and was clubbed to the sidewalk. When he was held down and handcuffed, he finally understood that they were cops and he stopped fighting, letting them put him in the squad car without comment. For some reason he wasn't even angry, just relieved. He knew the procedure he was about to go through. It was familiar and he felt his body relax as he slid down onto the seat as they drove him to the precinct for booking. At least he would have someplace to sleep tonight, he thought. As he started to doze off, he tried to remind himself to tell them he was a cop, or that he used to be a cop, but he wasn't sure they would care, especially the one he had socked in the eye.

...

The recurring nightmare jolted him awake and it took him awhile to realize where he was. The drunk tank in a local precinct was not a very warm and cozy place and the smell was quite rank, but he figured he deserved to be there, remembering he had assaulted a police officer. The team would all be pissed at him, and he wouldn't blame them. He felt ashamed of himself and shook his head to clear away the cobwebs, but the images from his dream wouldn't leave his mind and he knew he wouldn't go back to sleep, so he let himself slowly process the dark memories once again. He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, trying to keep from shaking as the details of that day played havoc with his sanity. The event always seemed to move through his mind in slow motion and it was as if he was watching it from one of the security cameras that surrounded the pool. He could see himself laughing, enjoying the sunny day, and that had been his first mistake.

His sharp intake of breath as he recalled the first gunshot caused the man next to him to turn toward him. The filthy man stared at him and then asked him if he knew he was bleeding. The sight of the blood on his shirt caused tears to spring in his eyes as he remembered whose blood had covered the same spot that terrible day. He began to hyperventilate and turned to the wall next to him and began hitting it as hard as he could until his fists began to bleed. He stared down at his hands as he had that day, but it had been someone else's blood on his hands then, their lifeblood slipping through his fingers.

Someone must have alerted a guard, because he was grabbed from behind and shoved up against the bars of the cell. The guard was talking to him quietly, but he paid no attention, not even hearing the words as the vision of the heartrending event scrolled continuously through his mind, always ending with the same image and he was unable to stop himself from screaming. He sank to his knees as he became overwhelmed by the unrelenting memories and the stark guilt at his failure. It had been a simple assignment, one he had enjoyed up until the end when he had failed to do his job. He had let someone be killed and he would never be able to change that fact. He didn't want to see his face but it wouldn't leave his mind, neither would the blood on his hands.

He felt himself being lifted up by strong arms and he was so beyond caring what happened to him that he made no attempt to resist or fight the man supporting his weight as he was helped from the cell. He knew the man was saying something to him; kind words he thought, but words he couldn't process because they were being drowned out by the screaming face in his head. The black rage on the face of the man who had rightly accused him of failure was the rage he was living with, a rage that wouldn't let him hear anyone else's words, even those from the man who was half carrying him out into the night. He was put in the back of another car which he was sure wasn't a patrol car because it smelled too nice and the seats were a warm leather. Exhaustion dragged at him and he curled up on the seat and felt himself drifting in a fog that finally slowed down the images in his head. He felt a comforting hand on his shoulder as the fog grew heavy; the smooth motion of the car finally began to calm him and he slowly felt the last remnants of consciousness float away.

...