Windows to the Soul
Some may not agree with this version of history, but this is a little something that's been fermenting for a while. Edited to fix some glaring mistakes from when it was first posted. Feedback is appreciated! No infringement is intended.
Time ticked by steadily on the grandfather clock, each second reverberating in the large room. The plush furniture, extravagant wall decorations, nothing was enough to muffle the click of the pendulum. By the window, darkened by heavy curtains, stood a desk with tidily stacked with papers that hadn't been touched. A crystal glass, half empty with scotch and a melted ice cube, the only visible sign that someone was there.
He picked up the glass, mindlessly swirling the amber liquid around the sides. There was no bitter sting to the alcohol any longer. He passed that stage a long time before.
His mind flew away from the confinements of time and space. He could see her hair, blowing in the breeze as they walked along the pier. The taste of her lips, the full, gracious pressure that begged for one last goodbye was etched into his very core.
How many hours had he spent just studying the perfect shape of her body? Memorizing every curve, each freckle? How he wished he could have spent a lifetime.
There was a deep ache that had settled into his chest. Over the past few days it had begun to spread into his gut, twisting his emotions into a ball of self-doubt and incrimination
"Dad?" A small voice pierced his thoughts. He looked up to the door frame, his breath catching in his throat.
Those were her eyes he saw in the doorway, green, sparkling with flecks of gold. How they used to laugh as they walked hand in hand. They were quick to cloud over in anger, but would clear just as quickly in forgiveness. He would lose himself in the depths of them as they made love, wishing for nothing more than for time to stand still. Now those eyes stared back at him with confusion and sadness. How he wished to scoop her up in his arms and kiss away the pain held deep within the depths.
Those were not they eyes of his Best Friend, his Lover. His Soul Mate. They would never again open lazily on a Saturday morning knowing he had woke early, just to watch her breathe. If only he had been faster, smarter, better. Maybe he could have saved her from herself.
He wasn't sure if this lasting reminder, those eyes begging with questions he had no answers to, was payment for all his sins, or just a God with a sick sense of humor. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to banish the headache he could feel forming behind his eyes. He hadn't the strength to deal with this right now.
"Junior," He mumbled, so quietly the boy had to strain to hear. "Not now. Please, not now. Go find someone to play with. Just for a little while."
Anthony DiNozzo Sr. turned back to his drink, missing the defeated slump of his son's shoulders and the tears threatening to fall as the boy walked out of his father's study.