My Judgment Call
Summary: She wins. She always wins. And winning is desperately sweet. Living and dying from that first moment to very last, she can't believe it's finally over.
Disclaimer: I don't own CSI:NY. It belongs to the cash cow that is Jerry Bruckheimer.
AN1: Firstly, I just want to say I've had this story for a while. So long, in fact, it was on my other computer that was filled with viruses and I was afraid to use my USB-drive to save it. Ergo, I voice recorded it and retyped it. All because I thought it finally deserved to go out into the world.
AN2: This is my first ever drabble or ficlet or whatever you want to call it. I sat down and wrote in like 20 minutes and no matter how much I stare at it, it doesn't get any longer. Thus, drabble.
AN3: This takes place in season 2, spoilers up to 'Heroes'. It's all from Aiden's P.O.V., in case you can't tell.
She couldn't stop thinking about him. His brownish-blond hair, his work roughened hands, the slight hint of toluene that never quite faded, his empty blue eyes, his dangerous smile. They captivated her, enthralled her. She was a woman on a mission and nothing would stand in her way.
They warned her. Everyone said she was getting too close, too involved, too reckless. They were right.
And she didn't care.
He was fast becoming her everything. The first thought when she woke from troubled sleep, the last image in her mind as she succumbed to unwilling slumber. It was sucking the life out of her. Let it.
Let it all fall away.
She didn't care when she stopped seeing his crimes and only saw him. She didn't care that his picture was plastered across the walls of her apartment. She didn't care that she was fast becoming something she despised, a predator, in her own right.
And as she walked out of what was left of her life, a box of meaningless personal effects in her arms and her ex-friends and co-workers watching her go, she didn't care.
And now, here she is, about to get everything she'd hoped for. She finally got him. And as the blackness eats away to the picture before her and the blood presses her brain tight against its skull and the bones in her face and ribs crack like ice, she smiles. She is fierce and triumphant as her struggles abate and her breathing stops. She is victory written in polyurethane and cheap plastic. He has murdered her, stolen every good thing in her life. She let him do it. Even as her body is encased by flames, she is proud. She is dead and it is all his fault. He thinks it's over and he's won. But he's a fool to think it. Because he is hers now and she owns him, disgusting body and ugly soul, and she is never letting go. Now wonderful is this prison, this death, this crime she constructs.