Work Text:
Cuckoo
‘…one flew east, one flew west,
One flew over the cuckoo's nest.’
You hide in the cupboard under the stairs. You can hear it all; the shouts, the grunts, the bangs, the screams. Then the smell hits you , slightly sweet and metallic. You crawl out from the closet, slowly, carefully, in case he sees you. But you don’t see him. At least not at first. You see mummy. She’s smiling, eyes wide. There are dark specks all over her white apron and a red smear on her face.
You hesitate momentarily before moving towards her. You catch sight of him then. You catch sight of him lying on the cold kitchen tiles by her feet. His eyes are open but you’re both old enough and smart enough to know that he can no longer see anything. Not you, not your mother, who has yet to move, standing over him, and definitely not the knife protruding from the gaping wound in his chest, leaking blood into the already formed puddle.
Blood.
You fall to your knees and gag. Your hands and knees become soiled with daddy’s blood and you curl up and lie there until the sirens drown out the sounds of mummy’s chuckles.
* * *
The halls are sterile and it all smells too… clean. You think it unnatural and find yourself wanting to turn around and leave this place at once. You have been coming here once a month for almost a year now, ever since the trial. You dread every visit. The nurse and the ‘nice lady’ from social services lead you down another corridor to a grey door. Ms. ‘Nice lady’ (you really don’t remember her name, nor do you care enough to try) opens the door and takes your hand.
“It’s okay dear. Come on,” She gives you a ‘nice’ fake smile and you resist the urge to throw up on her shoes, as much as you’d like to.
The room is a square, a hollow cube, a box. Grey walls and a metal bed. A mixture between nondescript and something that chills your bones and makes you shudder. She’s sitting there on the bed. The urge to vomit returns stronger than ever but you swallow it down. Sara Sidle does not show fear or intimidation, she remains calm and collected at all times. After all dear, you’re practically a foster care veteran now.
“Sara? Is that you?” She speaks. Your hands shudder and you clench your fists. That will not do.
“Mom”, you nod.
“Come here and give your mother a hug,” It’s an order, not a request. You know and she does too, but you also know that there’s really nothing she can do if you don’t comply. Decrepit and drugged to the max, the woman you once called ‘mommy’ is powerless. The ‘nice’ (oh, fuck off) lady smiles at you encouragingly and you consider slapping her.
You walk over to place your arms around her bony remains briefly before pulling away. You take a seat on the chair a few feet from her. No one questions your need for distance.
“How is school? I hear you’re in a nice new neighborhood now. The family treating you well?” She’s just going through the motions now. Mother dearest never gave a shit about you before and she certainly hasn’t had a sudden change of heart. Your visits provide her a change of scenery, a glimpse of the outside world she craves. She would happily put you in the ground with your father if she weren’t gaining something from these little sessions.
“It’s fine.”
Silence fills the room and she tries of break it with more ill-advised attempts at small talk, all of which you deflect. Your time together is quickly over and you get up quickly, relieved.
“I’ll miss you”, she murmurs.
Liar! you want to scream, but then you see the sadness in her eyes and you almost believe her. Almost. Then you remember that she killed your father and then she left you and she didn’t love you. Ever.
You don’t come to visit again.
* * *
Before you leave for Harvard you go back to The House. The fence is still blue and you throw a stone at the door for no reason whatsoever. When you finally walk away you angrily wipe the tears from your eyes and tell yourself that there was sand in the wind.
* * *
The girl you are at university isn’t someone you recognize at times. You’re seventeen and although you try to fit in, you’re still different. But no one knows who you used to be and you’ll take this different over the old you any time.
You’re too young to have been a flower child but you grow your hair and wear tie-dyed tee-shirts. You read One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest twice and you put flowers in your hair. You get the guy in the room next door to teach you how to play the guitar. He gives you lessons and you give him your virginity. You’re not quite legal yet but you don’t really care. No guy impresses you a lot but you let several into your home and between your legs and when it’s over you feel dirty and they have to leave and you have to shower and scrub and scrub until you’re raw and it hurts. The pain will never stop and so you cry and you cry until there are no more tears left.
When you get your degree you do what you’ve learnt to do best. You run back to California. Home. You haven’t found the one thing in your life that will change that from being true.
Yet.
* * *
You’re twenty-one when you meet him. While studying for you masters in theoretical physics at Berkley you do a little work for the forensics lab in San Francisco. Going to a seminar given by prestigious Dr. Gil Grissom is both essential and an incredible opportunity. And a very tedious waste of a week, your co-workers tell you.
He’s clean shaven and smiles a lot. You already know everything he’s telling you but find yourself intrigued by his passion for his work. The rest of the week is more challenging and you find yourself constantly asking questions, fighting to be the student he notices. His star-pupil.
On day three you approach him after class. To talk shop, of course. He responds well and gives you a slightly lopsided grin. You find it difficult to keep from beaming back.
He’s cute.
You’re just looking for a father figure darling, says your inner voice. You give said inner voice a slap and banish it to the corner of your mind, along with memories of your childhood and possibly your sanity. You’re not sure of that one yet.
Dr. Grissom seems interested in your physics expertise and you give him your number and email address, just in case he ever needs some help in that field. You secretly hope he’ll call you. You briefly entertain the thought of inviting him to your apartment and into your bed before he leaves but you catch his eye on the way to your seat one morning and wish he would make the first move. When he leaves you, you shock yourself by feeling disappointed. You didn’t realize you had the ability to be surprised anymore.
You’re surprised when he actually emails. You respond with great enthusiasm and before you can recite the period table, you consider him your most dear friend.
And when he whispers your name and says he needs you in Vegas, you go quietly.
* * *
You come out of bathroom when you hear the soft knock on your door. Your wet hair already threatens to form unruly curls. You look into the peephole. It’s Grissom. You move to open the door.
Wait. You’re wearing little miss naughty pajamas. Shit!
“Sara? Are you there?” Double shit.
You take a couple of deep breaths and swing open the door before you can change your mind.
“Hey. What are you doing here?” You smile at him. He blinks at you. You’re not sure he was expecting that question. You’re beginning to wonder if he’s not as crazy as you are.
“I, uh, I was just, I just wanted to make sure that you’re, you know, all right.” He looks frightened. Moving hasn’t occurred to you yet and he takes a step forward so he’s right in your face.
“Can I come in?” He has this little smirk on his face but your eyes widen a little in understanding as you catch a whiff of his breath.
Right, he’s been drinking. Why else would he be here?
“Yeah. Sorry. Come on in. I’m fine. It’s really okay.”
You clamp your mouth shut before you begin to babble. The room is silent now and you’re almost completely overcome with the urge to talk but you don’t. You look up at him. He’s staring at you and grinning.
Oh god.
“Grissom? Are you drunk?”
He frowns at her. “No”
“Oh, okay” You try to suppress the smirk that is trying to take over your lips. You are quite unsuccessful.
“I’m not.”
“I didn’t say that I didn’t believe you.”
“You implied it.”
“I did not.”
“You did too.”
“I… no. I’m not having this conversation. Just sit down. Do you want a drink or something?”
“Do you think that’s wise? With my obvious inebriation, I mean.”
You walk over to the fridge and pull out the orange juice. You fill a glass for him and grab a beer for yourself. He looks on in amusement.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, taking the juice from your hand.
“Have you had any breakfast? I have some bagels and I’ll cut up some fruit.”
You move over to the breakfast bar and start picking up apples and peaches. Suddenly you can feel the breath on your neck and the combined smells of fruit juice and whiskey at your nose. You shudder. You try to turn but he has you trapped between his warm body and the counter.
“Griss-”
“Shh,” he lifts his hand and places it on the red bruise on your neck. His fingers softly caress the spot and then press, just a little harder, before doing it all over again. You find yourself on the verge of moaning. Then he bends and places the softest of kisses on the welt.
“Grissom. What are you- ?” You gasp.
“You nearly died today. You nearly died today and I realized that I’ve never kissed you,” he placed another kiss on your wound, “never really touched you,” he strokes your cheek, “and I’ve never told you that I want you.”
Your eyes are suddenly on his, but his dance while yours widen in shock.
“I want you, Sara,” oh, god, his voice is husky.
His lips are descending onto yours and you close your eyes to savor the experience. Suddenly you smell the whiskey again and then you’re pushing him away and wondering what’s wrong with you all at the same time.
“Griss, no. You’re drunk. This isn’t the time. I wouldn’t want you to do something you’ll only regret later on.” You’re avoiding eye contact now because the only thing that could make this moment worse is if he knew how much you were just aching right now.
He sighs. “I’m not drunk. I told you that already. I had one drink before I came here. Call it liquid courage. ‘People think love is an emotion. Love is good sense.’” You look at him in confusion. “I’ve never had so much good sense as when I fell in love with you.”
He grins at you. It is the same lopsided grin he gave you when you first met, one you haven’t seen in some time, and you feel your knees turn to jelly. He closes the distance between you again and raises one hand to stroke your face while the other snakes its way around your waist. He looks at you questioningly, silently asking May I? You offer him a slight smile and then his lips are on yours and you can taste whiskey and juice and pears and Grissom.
Life, you think, isn’t so bad after all.
The End