Author's Note: This endeavor comes at the request of Mma63, who wrote me one of the kindest emails I have ever received. Your email touched me and inspired me to get back into writing. I have let my writing slide due to the heavy workload at school, but how could I say no to such an amazing request? I really love reviews (though if you have criticism please make it constructive!) and it is those words that keep me inspired when I think the story is going nowhere. I own nothing pertaining to CSI, so for the love of God don't sue me – I can't afford to pay you

Now it's over

These are the scars you never show

There was a warning sign, you know

One day you're near and then you go

("Fire Sign" by David Berkeley)

He couldn't remember how long he had been lying there. Had it been minutes, or was it hours? For all he knew, it could have been days. He was slowly becoming reacquainted with his surroundings. He could touch the rough, icy linoleum under his palm. He could hear every hum and shudder of the pipes that ran underneath the floor. He could taste the acrid remnants of too-old coffee on his lips. He could smell the traces of watered down Lysol that was intended to cover up the bacteria, not disinfect it. He could see his reflection in the crimson rivers that poured from his wrists.

He couldn't remember how he got to this point. He tried hard to focus on the events leading up to this moment. The world slowed to a crawl around him as he pondered what it was that had brought him here, wherever the hell "here" was. He didn't remember walking into this room, and he certainly didn't remember how the razor sharp shard of glass had found its way through his flesh. He tried to think a little further back then the events of today. The past few days were too a blur to him. There were fragmented images and thoughts: flashing lights, raised voices, unspeakable sadness and little blue pills. But try as he might, he couldn't link these things together to make a story. It was like to trying to put a puzzle together without having all the pieces first. The last thing that he could clearly remember was being in the box. That damned box stood out in his mind, as it had for every hour, of every day since he'd been in it. It was the one constant in his life. No matter what else happened, the damn box was always there. It was there when he went to sleep. It was there when it woke up. So it was no surprise that it was here now, as he lay in a growing sea of his own blood. This was yet another dramatic event that he could add to an ever growing list. He thought of all the traumatic events he had been through in the last six years. He had stared down the barrel of more than one gun, been stalked, been accused of murder and buried alive. Was it any wonder that it all led to this? How much could one person take? It seems like something out of an H. Rider Haggard story, he thought to himself. The hero faces a myriad of near death experiences and unparalleled peril. The problem was that this was his life, and facing death was not the glamorous event that books made it out to be. And still he found himself here, the fallen hero once again, waiting for someone to rescue him. I would have made a brilliant damsel in distress he thought. He would have laughed if he hadn't wanted to cry. He couldn't save himself. He couldn't be saved from himself. He was a white knight without a horse, and without a mighty sword with which to slay his dragons. It seemed that he had come out of the ground, only to find himself doomed to go back in it. He had gone from one coffin to another. He couldn't get himself out of the first one and he hadn't been able to keep himself out of this one.

The red that flowed so freely was rapidly losing its color. It had been so bright, so vibrant a minute ago. Now it had faded to a rusty-gray color. He realized that he was slipping away into the clutches of Death and was not surprised that he didn't fight it. He was surprised to find however, that it didn't hurt. The last time he had faced Death it had hurt a lot. But as he watched his life rush from his body, he felt no pain. He made no effort to cry out or to try and staunch the flow. He had resigned himself to this fate and he was ready. He wondered if they would find the note. It was sitting on the shelf in the locker he had deliberately left open, one last cry for help. Would they understand? Could they understand? He hadn't wanted things to wind up so terribly confused. He had only wanted to escape himself for a little while and instead had wound up like this. His last conscious thought was that they wouldn't blame themselves.

As the world faded to black around him, he didn't hear the door open. He didn't hear the guttural, primal cry that reverberated off the walls, staining the room with the horror of the situation.

"NICK!"