Chalk Lines
TITLE: Chalk Lines
AUTHOR:
vexelle
RATING: PG-13 for slight descriptions of gore
CHARACTERS: Matt Parkman, gen.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own it, I just play with it.
SUMMARY: There are some things Matt just hated about crime scenes. Drabble-ish, dark humor, oneshot.
Matt Parkman hated seeing murder scenes.
It wasn't because of the blood and gore. It should have been, but after years of war, of seeing people murdered in their homes because of abilities, he'd become numb to seeing chunks of brain on the wall after someone was shot in the forehead, or pools of blood on the ground after someone was gutted.
It wasn't the tedium of them, either, the dusting for prints; even though it took hours and the crime scene team is short-staffed so they'd always ask the detectives for help (and nine times out of ten they turned up very little).
It wasn't seeing the family photos or the still-warm beds or the half-empty glass of wine on the counter that was being sipped just hours before. He had learned to compartmentalize long ago- difficult for a psychic- and distinguish between "people" (who were living and breathing) and "bodies" (who were, in his little crime scene world, just pieces of evidence with no remnants of who they used to be).
It was the tacky little chalk outlines that the cops on the scene made when they first got there. Every time he walked in, he was reminded of a game of Clue- it was almost a joke, to see that white outline sprawled in an awkward position on the ground. He was always tempted to shout out when he walked in: "It was Colonel Mustard in the Dining Room with the revolver!"
But he never did. It was a shame, really, because he knew he'd get a good laugh (at least from himself). There were lines, however, that one did not cross.
Sometimes he wished he could just erase that little chalk outline: maybe, just maybe, it would make the entire thing seem a little more real and less like one of the nightmares he trapped people in.
-fin-
AUTHOR:
vexelle
RATING: PG-13 for slight descriptions of gore
CHARACTERS: Matt Parkman, gen.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own it, I just play with it.
SUMMARY: There are some things Matt just hated about crime scenes. Drabble-ish, dark humor, oneshot.
Matt Parkman hated seeing murder scenes.
It wasn't because of the blood and gore. It should have been, but after years of war, of seeing people murdered in their homes because of abilities, he'd become numb to seeing chunks of brain on the wall after someone was shot in the forehead, or pools of blood on the ground after someone was gutted.
It wasn't the tedium of them, either, the dusting for prints; even though it took hours and the crime scene team is short-staffed so they'd always ask the detectives for help (and nine times out of ten they turned up very little).
It wasn't seeing the family photos or the still-warm beds or the half-empty glass of wine on the counter that was being sipped just hours before. He had learned to compartmentalize long ago- difficult for a psychic- and distinguish between "people" (who were living and breathing) and "bodies" (who were, in his little crime scene world, just pieces of evidence with no remnants of who they used to be).
It was the tacky little chalk outlines that the cops on the scene made when they first got there. Every time he walked in, he was reminded of a game of Clue- it was almost a joke, to see that white outline sprawled in an awkward position on the ground. He was always tempted to shout out when he walked in: "It was Colonel Mustard in the Dining Room with the revolver!"
But he never did. It was a shame, really, because he knew he'd get a good laugh (at least from himself). There were lines, however, that one did not cross.
Sometimes he wished he could just erase that little chalk outline: maybe, just maybe, it would make the entire thing seem a little more real and less like one of the nightmares he trapped people in.
-fin-