Title: Witness: Prequel Author: Agent Myers < Nadjjaa@hotmail.com> Rating: R (violence, language) Summary: I started to walk towards the cluster of men in blue. They turned towards me and looked at me. Their eyes were sad, some worried, probably for me. They began to walk slowly away from the scene. Suddenly, my body became numb, and my eyes were transfixed on something on the ground. I walked towards it, dread filling me with each step. This is not happening. Please, don't let this be real... Keywords: DRR, A, Doggett POV Spoilers: Season 8. Mostly Empedocles and Pre-XF Archive: Gossamer, yes. All others please ask, I will surely say yes! Disclaimer: You know. Author's notes: I've gotten a lot of great feedback on Witness I and II, so I decided to write a prequel. It may seem like I'm writing them out of order, but in good storytelling fashion, I think this is the best way to do it. MAJOR ANGST AHEAD. I was in a deep state of depression by the time I got done writing this, (LOL) but I think it's a story that needs to be told. I really don't think I could have written Witness: Prequel without writing I & II first. Like Star Wars! Enjoy, and please gimme.... Feedback: Yes, yes, yes. I'm dependent on comments! *** It was only one hour ago It was all so different then. Nothing yet has really sunk in Looks like it always did This flesh and bone. It's just the way that we are tied in But there's no one home. I grieve for you You leave me So hard to move on Still loving what's gone. Still, life carries on Carries on and on and on and on... ~Peter Gabriel "I Grieve" *** Witness: Prequel by Agent Myers "It's gross, Dad." I was preoccupied with the headline of the newspaper, I didn't comprehend what my son had said to me. "Hmm? What's 'at, Luke?" "My cereal. It's gross. I don't wanna eat it." I sighed and put the newspaper down on the kitchen table. I glanced up at the clock. Luke had to be at school in twenty minutes, and it took ten to get there. Maybe I could drop him, but now that he had a new bike, he would never let me drive him. "Give it to the cat. What do you wanna eat, then?" I asked him, a little perturbed. "Pop tarts." "Ah, there's a nutritious breakfast. Did you get your books in your bag and your baseball uniform?" "Yeah, Dad." Luke said, as though I had asked him a dumb question. I ruffled his hair as he walked off to make his pop tarts. He swatted my hand away and laughed. "Any big tests today?" "Naw," my son answered me. "Got a spelling test on Friday, though." And it was Monday. Another day getting my son ready for school, although he seemed more able to do it himself these days. He hated it when I asked him if he had his books, if he'd brushed his teeth and put on clean socks. But I'm a Dad, and old habits die hard. When Linda passed away, I vowed that I would always do those things that she had done for our son. It had been hard to become both Mom and Dad, but I had been doing it for almost two years now. "Is Monica coming over tonight?" He asked me, as he stuffed a piece of blueberry pop tart in his mouth. "Yeah, I thought we could all go down to the park or something. Do you like her, Luke?" Luke nodded his head, yes. It wasn't an overwhelmingly positive response, but it was a yes. I had been seeing Monica for almost seven months, and things were going extremely well. I would have taken the relationship to new levels long ago, but I wanted my son to be okay with it. He was, after all, the most important thing to me. I watched him, sitting down at the table, and thought about how much he'd grown in the last two years. His brownish-blonde hair was in dire need of a haircut, but he hated haircuts almost as much as he hated going to the doctor. Just like his Dad. He'd grown a half of a shoe size since the last time I'd bought him sneakers. I smiled. He was getting really good at baseball, too. "What are you lookin' at me like that for, Dad?" "Hmmm?" I broke out of my revere. "You're lookin' at me all weird." "Sorry...I was just thinkin'. You look a lot like your Mom, you know?" Luke just smiled. I think he missed his Mom a lot, but he rarely ever came out and said it. He was so much like me. "I gotta go to school, Dad." He said, jumping up from the table. A pile of crumbs was on the chair. I knew he was late, so I decided not to make him clean it up. I stood up and gave him a big hug and a kiss on the top of the head. He hugged me back, and hung on for a few seconds this time. I think he sensed that I was missing his mother. "Love you, Son." "Love you too, Dad." And he was out the door. **** I made some pen marks in a case file and closed it. I had a good mind to toss it out the window. I laid my pen down and rubbed my eyes. I hated paperwork. The clock said it was close to lunchtime, so at least I could look forward to that. The phone rang. "Doggett." A shrill voice spoke on the other side of the line. "Mr. Doggett, this is Majorie from the school. We were wondering if you had forgotten to call your son in sick this morning." I was confused at first. "Uh, no. Why...is Luke sick?" "No, Mr. Doggett...you're son's not here." "Not there?" I tried to hide the concern in my voice. But a million thoughts were going through my head, not one of them good. If Luke had come down sick and gone home, he would have called me. I asked Majorie some more questions, but everyone of them turned up the same answer. My son had never made it to school. I hung up the phone, as panic rushed through me like the effects of a stiff drink. I dialed the number to home as fast as I could. It rang four times. My own voice greeted me. "You have reached 242-5396. Nobody's home, so leave a message. *Beep*" "Luke? Son, if you're there, please pick up. It's Dad. Luke, pick up." I tried to stay calm, but my voice kept on rising. "Luke, PICK UP!" I waited as the silence and the occasional crackle of the phone line filled my ears. I closed my eyes, as genuine fear took hold of me. I grabbed my coat, and left the office. *** On the way to the school, I was numb. My mind reeled with possibilities, all of them were terrible, horrible things. But somewhere, in the back of my mind I believed that it would all come out right. That everything would be fine. My cell phone rang. "Doggett." "John? It's Monica." "Hi." I said, a little disappointed it wasn't my son on the other end. "What's up?" "Well...I just...is everything okay?" Monica had some kind of sixth sense about her. I never asked her about it, but she always seemed to sense when something was wrong with me. "Actually, Monica, everything is NOT fine. Luke never made it to school this morning. He's missing." "Oh, God John." I didn't like her tone. It frightened me more than the sound of Majorie's voice telling me my son was not at school. It was as if she knew something...something I didn't. "I'm on my way to the school." I said. "I'll meet you there. And I'm calling in help, okay?" Christ. She was calling in help. This was for real, I told myself. Now it was not a sick child, but a missing child. Not only a missing child, but it was a case. My son was a case. Once again, panic seized me. "Okay." I said shakily. I hung up the phone. *** I stared at the bicycle in total disbelief. "Is that your son's bike?" Someone asked me. I nodded, not taking my eye off of the bike, and the backpack that lay beside it. I picked it up and stared at it. My breath grew short, my chest felt like it would cave it. "John..." It was Monica. I turned to look at her. The look on my face must have been something horrible, because her face began to reflect my worry. "He's been abducted. Someone's taken my son, Monica." I said. "Oh, God..." She put her hand on my shoulder. I expected her to offer me something along the lines of, 'It'll be okay, John. Everything will be fine.', but she didn't. For some reason, that worried me. *** Three days later.......... I stood in the field and looked on. I could see the officers gathered ahead, all looking down at the ground. Bile rose in my throat. I could see Monica there too. She turned her head and looked at me. I knew then what they were all looking at. No. This is not happening. It can't be. Please, don't let it be true. My feet refused to move. I couldn't walk over there and see this. My body, weary from the past few days with no sleep, felt like it would give way under my own weight. My heart felt like it was dying, physically, really dying. Ceasing to beat. I almost wished it would so that I wouldn't have to endure this. I started to walk towards the cluster of men in blue. They turned towards me and looked at me. Their eyes were sad, some worried, probably for me. They began to walk away from the scene. Suddenly, my body became numb, and my eyes were transfixed on something on the ground. I walked towards it, dread filling me with each step. This is not happening. Please, don't let this be real. The world seemed to be in slow motion. The sounds of the rustling leaves beneath my feet, the voices of the officers, the sounds of nature...all faded away. I walked as though in a trance, a cloud. All I could see was Monica. And as I approached her, my son. My hands started to shake as I looked down at him. Face down. Blood. Motionless, still. Dead. Dead. My breath was suddenly taken from me. But I didn't fight it. Monica's voice sounded far away. "John, I'm so sorry..." She sobbed. I think she put her hand on my shoulder. I closed my eyes when I felt the tears. I sucked them down, swallowed the lump in my throat. I knelt down by my son's lifeless body and stared. Monica walked away. I could hear her sobbing. My breath came out choppy. And I slowly died inside... *** It was fitting that the rain should come down the day of my only son's burial. Warm rain, like a replacement for the tears that I am not shedding. I stand amongst the sea of black suits and umbrellas, and I feel like this pain could stop if the ground would just swallow me whole. Monica stands motionless at my side, a steady stream of tears streaming down her face. Her hand is in mine, and she squeezes it from time to time throughout the eulogy. The song, played at the funeral, repeats over and over in my head. Here I am, Lord Is it I, Lord? I have heard you calling in the night I will go, Lord If you lead me I will hold your people in my heart Though the song was beautiful, I hate it's sweet melody as it plays again and again in my head. My son...called? Called to die this horrible, tragic death at such a young age? Bullshit. God can't be that cruel. I refuse to believe that God would allow my son to be lead like a lamb to the slaughter. Not to pass peacefully from one world to the next at an old age, but to be murdered by evil's own hand and to die with his face in the mud. How can I not hate you, Lord? I feel Monica squeeze my hand as I begin to tremble. With pain. With guilt. With fear. With hatred. I want to kill. I want to be killed. I want to drown in the abyss of darkness. I can already feel it filling my lungs. All I have to do is let go... *** Numbly, I am lead through the door of my house. I haven't been here for more than an hour in the past few days. Monica sits me down on the couch. I lean on the arm of the couch, and cover my eyes with my hands. "Want me to get you something to drink, John?" She asks me. It seems like a silly question to ask, but then again, everything seems wrong. "Yeah..." I respond. "There's beer in the fridge." I hear her behind me. She doesn't move. "John..." "Don't fight me, Monica." She pauses, and then walks off toward the kitchen. My eyes wander to the mantle, where my son's pictures sit. I fix in on his baseball picture, his gentle, smiling face. I leap from the couch, not wanting to look, and go in search of my beer. Monica is rummaging through the fridge as I come into the kitchen. She looks surprised to see me. "Here." She says, handing me the bottle. She gets one out for herself. I crack it open and take a huge drink. And then I see it. The pile of crumbs on the kitchen chair. From his pop tart. <"You're lookin' at me all weird."> <"Sorry...I was just thinking. You look a lot like your Mom, you know?"> I close my eyes as anger sweeps through me. Like a volcano ready to erupt, something's gotta give. "John?" I hear Monica's voice, but my eyes are transfixed on the beer bottle in my hand. "GOD DAMN IT!" I roar, as I pitch the bottle across the room, where it shatters into a billion pieces against the wall. The amber liquid splashes on us both, and runs down the wall. Monica is frozen with shock. "WHY?" I bark. "WHY, MONICA? WHY IS MY SON DEAD?" "I don't know, John...I don't know!" I put my hands down on table and lean over it. "I'll probably live to be a hundred, but my son won't know what it's like to be ten years old! He'll never play baseball again...he'll never graduate from high school...he'll never have a girlfriend..." I feel the lump slowly rising in my throat. This time, I can't contain it. The tears begin to rise out of their hidden depths. The dam breaks open wide. "Jesus fucking Christ..." I shout. My vulgar words are a protest to God. "How can...this happen? How can a child's life just...be taken away like that?" And how can a father lose a son after already losing a wife? How can there be any force, if not God, that is that cruel? I don't say it out loud, but I think it. Monica takes a step forward in an attempt to console me. I step away, avoiding her. "It's not goddamn fair, Monica. Why is my child's life over? Why, when millions of kids get to grow up...WHY is *my* child the one that is dead? How is that fair?" No one ever said life was fair, now did they? She didn't answer, only stared at me with a sorrowful expression, and tears running down her face. I wasn't yelling at her; I wasn't seeking answers from her. I hope she knew that. "Why...?" I manage to get out. The word is followed by tears. I think Monica is shocked when they begin to roll down my face. "Why..." She steps forward and takes me into her arms, and I don't fight her. I am desperate for her comfort. I have never needed human touch so badly...I let it out, crying quietly against her. She's caressing the back of my head, so much like a mother. She holds me tighter, and I cry harder. For a few moments I forget that I am John Doggett, and that I never cry. I forget my father, who told me that I was overreacting when I cried at my grandmother's funeral at the age of eight years old. Right now, I am a man who has just buried his only son. *** How will she ever understand? I sit in my living room, now dark. Alone. Alone in spirit, alone physically. My head is in my hands. Monica left about thirty minutes ago. I told her that I couldn't handle this relationship right now, that I had too many other things to think about. She was hurt, hurt terribly I fear, but she said she understood. I've lost my wife, my son, and now I have thrown away the only thing in my life that was good. She's gone, because I told her she should go. Will she ever know that I did it for her? That I only wished to protect her from the blackness that was swallowing me up? Does it make any sense in her mind...does she understand it the way I do? And will she ever forgive me? Of course she will. She loves me. I am so foolish. I went after her. But it was too late. I realized too late that I had made a mistake, and now, even if I were to call her and try to make things right...it wouldn't matter. I've already said the words. I've already hurt her, and it's not something I can take back because she knows that it was the truth, and so do I. I would only hurt her. As much as I feel love for her, I can't love her. My heart is broken, my mind is filled with darkness. I don't think I'll ever smile again. How could I possibly give her what she's given me? I can't. And so, I sit her in the darkness. I can only stare at the empty space that was once a home. And I wonder if this will ever go away. I know there is only one thing that will heal this brokenness. Time. I stand up and walk to the fireplace. I pick one of the many pictures of my son, and hold it in my hand. I sit down again, and stare at it. It's a picture of my son in his baseball uniform. I close my eyes and remember the sound of his voice. I remember his face, and the way he looked so much like Linda. I remember him. And I try to smile, but... For now, it only comes out as a tear. *** Let it out and move on Missing what's gone. Still, life carries on Still, life carries on and on and on... *** ~F~ *Sniff* I hate unhappy endings. If you're suffering from angst overdose, I prescribe a re-read of "Witness I & II". They are much happier and set *after* this story.