Last Voice: A Concerto
15: Coda
-*-*-*-*-*-
I slammed the door, using my right hand. My left was in a sling.
It had been almost two weeks since we'd put Ted Samson – complete with a head injury – away. Two counts of murder and one attempted murder.
Nick had gotten the page, entered the building and called 911. He beat himself up about it until I told him I was going to beat him up if he didn't stop.
I guess he reevaluated his "you don't trust us" bit after he found out I'd listed him and Grissom as next-of-kin.
The hospital had released me in just a couple days. Very good, considering I was almost a vic.
I sighed and let my head fall back.
The car started and it was silent for a minute.
"Greg?"
"Yeah."
I opened my eyes and avoided looking at Nick.
"What's happening?"
I swallowed.
I didn't want to say.
I didn't want to tell.
No, please, don't tell him.
"Do you now how they officially say if someone has AIDS?"
"No."
"Well, you've got your tests, and one of them is called a t-cell count. T-cells are what the virus destroys, and keeping track of how many are left is used to tell when to start treatments and things like that."
I stopped. That was the easy part – I'd said it before. I'd probably say it again.
"If your t-cell count gets below two hundred, they call it AIDS."
Nick didn't say anything. With my peripheral vision, I saw him glance at me a couple times. Probably looking at the sling on my arm, bandage on my head and hand-shaped bruise on my neck.
Fine by me. I'd almost been killed. Good of someone to notice.
Truth was, I'd been dying for a long time. No one had noticed.
It hadn't been obvious.
Now I wasn't sure if that was good or bad.
"And?" he asked cautiously.
"And mine's two ten."
The Tahoe pulled out of the hospital parking lot. I turned my attention outside the window, at the autumn afternoon that was bright in stark contrast to my dead emotions.
"It's the other infections that kill you. The ones that come in because your body can't defend itself anymore. They're called opportunistic infections. And Dr. Bailey's going to start some aggressive treatments for me, you know, lots of pills and stuff."
"Like you said?"
"Yeah. Well, at least it lasted thirteen years."
There was another pause.
"I guess I was successful."
"Excuse me?"
I shook my head. "You don't want to know."
"You obviously want me to know."
I felt two things:
One: Leave me alone, dammit.
Two: Thank God, someone noticed.
"Fine. My parents and one of my sisters were killed when I was fifteen. I was in foster care for two months. I…"
I looked again at the transfusion scar on my hand. And at the mark across the opposite wrist.
My voice dropped to a whisper. Like I was saying something dirty.
"I tried to kill myself. I wasn't even sixteen yet. And that's when I got the transfusion. So I sorta consider it successful in a sick kind of way."
Nick didn't say anything for a moment.
"I disagree," he finally replied. "Until then, yeah, it is."
"Until then?"
"Yup."
Just then, our beepers went off. I checked.
"It's Gris," I said.
"It's a love-hate relationship."
"What? Grissom?"
"Our job."
"I love it."
"Me too."
Maybe after this next crime scene, I could go home and sleep. Spend some time with my cat.
~ fine ~
-*-*-*-*-*-
A/N: Yippee, I know. Wow. I'm in shock. I did it. I really did. Cool. Here goes a giant thank you to any of you out there who are going to click that little "review" button down there!