Theatrical Muse: Hit the Ground
Write about a mess you've cleaned up.
The morgue smelled the same as always, death and disinfectant. Murphy stood awkwardly in the hallway outside the main autopsy room and stared at the off-blue tile across the way. She could see a rough reflection staring back at her. She looked like hell and she knew it, but that was because she was only sleeping a few hours a night. She didn’t have nightmares, the dream catcher took care of that, but she had her own thoughts. When she closed her eyes and settled down to sleep with Harry each night there was nothing to distract her from every thought swirling around in her head.
She had killed a man and no matter how many times people told her it was self-defense the guilt didn’t go away. Neither did the anger and the self-loathing. For Murphy, there was just no way to rationalize that, especially when she could still feel his blood on her hand sometimes. Yet, she knew she had to somehow find some way to deal with what she had done. Maybe therapy would help eventually, and maybe when IAB cleared her she’d feel better but none of that was helping her now. Her only idea on how to cope was in the morgue.
She looked down the hall when she heard the distinctive squeak of sneakers. Butters had a clipboard in one hand and a Big Mac in the other. She had timed her visit perfectly with his lunch break. He didn’t really owe her any favors, but he had always liked her and she had always tried to be nice to him. She hoped that would be enough for him to help her.
“Hey, Butters, got a minute?” She said, pushing away from the wall.
For a moment the ME looked completely startled. He looked around, as if he was expecting someone else to be with her. He was probably looking for her IAB escort. “Uh. Sure, Lieutenant?”
She closed the distance between them, keeping her smile friendly. Butters was a smart man though, he could probably tell how on edge she was.
“I need a favor.”
---
“You probably only have ten minutes.” Butters said, pulling Vincent out of his drawer.
“I only need five.” Murphy said, looking down at Vincent’s pale face.
“Lieutenant…”
“Five minutes.” She said firmly. “Please.”
Butters hesitated and then nodded. He walked out, leaving her alone in cold storage with Vincent’s body. He had autopsy scars. A huge Y cut right down his chest. On his right side, there was a small grouping of stab wounds. She took a deep breath.
Under the harsh lighting of the morgue, the plain and simple truth of what she had done stared coldly back at her. She had killed this man. Not with a clean and simple bullet to the chest, but she had stabbed him and he had drown in his own blood.
“I hate you.” She said suddenly, looking away from the wounds to Vincent’s face. “God, I hate you. You have no idea how much you’ve screwed me up. For the rest of my life, I will regret killing you. I did it to save my own life, but I still hate myself for it. It’s just another thing I’m going to have to live with and another part of my soul I’m never, ever getting back. And I hate you for that.”
She drew a deep, shaky breath. He was dead and she still expected him to say something. He was dead and she was waiting, just waiting for his eyes to open or him to sneer. He was dead and she was still afraid of him.
“But I didn’t kill you as a favor to you. I have a hell of a lot to live for so you can take your “thank you”s and shove it up your ass. I am a killer.”
She stopped for a second, the reality of that statement really sinking in. She was a killer. She had shot and killed a man before and now she had killed him. No matter what IAB said in the end, she was a killer.
“But I am not a murderer. I am not you. I never will be.”
She grabbed the zipper to the body bag and pulled it closed. She was done with him. This was her goodbye.
“Maybe I’ll see you in Hell one day, but not before then.”
The morgue smelled the same as always, death and disinfectant. Murphy stood awkwardly in the hallway outside the main autopsy room and stared at the off-blue tile across the way. She could see a rough reflection staring back at her. She looked like hell and she knew it, but that was because she was only sleeping a few hours a night. She didn’t have nightmares, the dream catcher took care of that, but she had her own thoughts. When she closed her eyes and settled down to sleep with Harry each night there was nothing to distract her from every thought swirling around in her head.
She had killed a man and no matter how many times people told her it was self-defense the guilt didn’t go away. Neither did the anger and the self-loathing. For Murphy, there was just no way to rationalize that, especially when she could still feel his blood on her hand sometimes. Yet, she knew she had to somehow find some way to deal with what she had done. Maybe therapy would help eventually, and maybe when IAB cleared her she’d feel better but none of that was helping her now. Her only idea on how to cope was in the morgue.
She looked down the hall when she heard the distinctive squeak of sneakers. Butters had a clipboard in one hand and a Big Mac in the other. She had timed her visit perfectly with his lunch break. He didn’t really owe her any favors, but he had always liked her and she had always tried to be nice to him. She hoped that would be enough for him to help her.
“Hey, Butters, got a minute?” She said, pushing away from the wall.
For a moment the ME looked completely startled. He looked around, as if he was expecting someone else to be with her. He was probably looking for her IAB escort. “Uh. Sure, Lieutenant?”
She closed the distance between them, keeping her smile friendly. Butters was a smart man though, he could probably tell how on edge she was.
“I need a favor.”
---
“You probably only have ten minutes.” Butters said, pulling Vincent out of his drawer.
“I only need five.” Murphy said, looking down at Vincent’s pale face.
“Lieutenant…”
“Five minutes.” She said firmly. “Please.”
Butters hesitated and then nodded. He walked out, leaving her alone in cold storage with Vincent’s body. He had autopsy scars. A huge Y cut right down his chest. On his right side, there was a small grouping of stab wounds. She took a deep breath.
Under the harsh lighting of the morgue, the plain and simple truth of what she had done stared coldly back at her. She had killed this man. Not with a clean and simple bullet to the chest, but she had stabbed him and he had drown in his own blood.
“I hate you.” She said suddenly, looking away from the wounds to Vincent’s face. “God, I hate you. You have no idea how much you’ve screwed me up. For the rest of my life, I will regret killing you. I did it to save my own life, but I still hate myself for it. It’s just another thing I’m going to have to live with and another part of my soul I’m never, ever getting back. And I hate you for that.”
She drew a deep, shaky breath. He was dead and she still expected him to say something. He was dead and she was waiting, just waiting for his eyes to open or him to sneer. He was dead and she was still afraid of him.
“But I didn’t kill you as a favor to you. I have a hell of a lot to live for so you can take your “thank you”s and shove it up your ass. I am a killer.”
She stopped for a second, the reality of that statement really sinking in. She was a killer. She had shot and killed a man before and now she had killed him. No matter what IAB said in the end, she was a killer.
“But I am not a murderer. I am not you. I never will be.”
She grabbed the zipper to the body bag and pulled it closed. She was done with him. This was her goodbye.
“Maybe I’ll see you in Hell one day, but not before then.”