Pandora's Box Discovered

III

Horrid imagines of the crime scene mingled with vague yet bone-chilling memories, sending Jay into one of many rounds of painful retching. Rolling convulsions that brought up nothing more than spews of what little acidic gall was left in him. Not that there had been much to begin with. Aside from the bitter dregs of his morning coffee and digested remnants of meager meals from a few days ago which had long since found their way back into the porcelain bowl and down the pipes, he hadn't supplied his body with any sustenance.

Thrown into an incessant loop of dry heaving when there was not even a droplet of bile fluid left, it felt like an eternity until the spasms finally subsided and ebbed into a wheezy coughing fit so weak that it mostly resembled jerky puffs of hot air. A single miserable sobby hiccup ended it all.

Jay drew in a shaky inhale, then another, and another. Once he managed to ease himself back into a semi-regular and somewhat steady breathing rhythm before sinking back on his heels but felt too weak to sit upright. Sluggishly extracting his feet from beneath him, he slumped back against the parting wall, too effete to even bring his knees up to his chest, his entire frame trembling with exhaustion. He rested his head against the wall for a moment, allowing himself just a tiny period of grace, all the while taking shallow breaths through his nose as not to incite another puking marathon.

Eventually, he pushed himself up from the floor, using the toilet seat for support. As jelly legs threatened to buckle under his weight, a wave of dizziness nearly brought him down on his knees again, forcing him to lean against the partition with his shoulder while he waited for the room to stop spinning.

Blood roared in his ears and his head felt like it was about to explode but he ignored both as staggered to the sink on unsteady limbs. Vertigo returned with a vengeance just from walking the few steps from the toilet to the sink, and the instant he reached the vanity, his tremoring hands curled around the rim of the basin, clutching it tightly in a white-knuckled grip. He closed his eyes for a second but that only made it worse, so he opened them again, gaze accidentally falling on his reflection in the mirror.

Jay flinched hard. The man staring back at him was a pitiful sight. Ghostly white, eyes puffy and bloodshot, cheeks hollow and skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat, he barely recognized himself anymore, was disgusted even by his own wretched appearance.

A surge of anger shot through him like a lightning bolt. He had never been violated in the same way Flynn had, had never experienced the same horrors, or those Ben and Ethan and Collin and Ellie had had to live through. Compared to them he'd been lucky. He'd been lucky enough to get away before anything could ever happen to him. He wasn't a victim, not a real victim anyway, so why was he acting and reacting like one? Who gave him the right to look this stricken? Who gave him the right to be this shaken up and upset over something that had never happened to him? Why was he wallowing in self-pity?

Christ, why was he so Goddamn pathetic?

Unable to look at his own paltry reflection any longer, he averted his eyes. If he weren't so drained, so weakened from the endless vomiting to even raise his arm, he would have swung a fist and broken the glass, but he didn't have the strength. And wasn't that yet another testament to how wimpy he really was? If his father saw him like this right now, he would have a field day with him. Hadn't the old man known it all along, hadn't he reminded him of the fact every chance he got? He should have listened to him back then. Surely, it would have saved him from many a beating and a lot of heartbreak. Maybe it wouldn't have, who knew. Either way, he should have believed him.

Tears pricked behind his eyes. He furiously wiped them away, then turned the water on and splashed some into his face to erase all traces of them. The liquid was cold, icy even when it touched his burning skin, but after the initial shock he relished the way, it alleviated the incessant throbbing in his head. He repeated the act a few times, letting the water trail down his nose and cheeks before it eventually dripped back into the sink and mingled with the steady stream from the faucet. But mesmerizing as it was, the swirling motion as the water meandered its way down the drain made him queasy once again, so after cupped a handful to rinse his mouth of the stale taste of vomit, he turned the faucet off.

Jay used the hem of his shirt to carelessly dry off his face, then shuffled over to the bathroom door, movements stiff and uncoordinated, his legs barely able to carry his weight, but he willed himself to keep walking. He had no idea how much time had passed since he had stormed into the district in a frantic haste to reach the nearest bathroom, but he figured the rest of the team would be back soon and they would undoubtedly want answers, with Voight leading the way.

Voight. Oh God. After his abrupt departure from the scene, Jay could only imagine how furious the man must be. A stern dressing-down was the least he would have to prepare himself for, though he doubted he'd get off that easy. He'd screwed up earlier, he'd screwed up big time, and counting the numerous screw-ups preceding this one, this might just be his last strike. The one mistake that ultimately got him kicked from the unit. Why the hell had he let things go this out of hand?

Maybe...maybe if he got a head start into the investigation before Hank returned to the office... maybe if he had his statement fully written and signed on the man's desk... maybe if he provided a lead or multiple leads that would help them catch the dirtbag he so graciously let escape from the scene earlier... maybe if the sergeant saw his tremendous efforts to make things right, he would allow him to at least stay on the team long enough to see this case through. He prayed he wouldn't be kicked off before then.

No longer being a part of Intelligence was undoubtedly one of his biggest fears, and it would be hard for him to accept and deal with the consequences, but not being able to get justice for Flynn and the three boys before him, the once who didn't make it out alive... he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he let them down. He'd have to make this count, even if, especially if this would the last case he'd work in his career.

Daring one final fleeting glance into the mirror, at the abject mug staring accusingly back at him, he pushed himself away from the sink, unlocked the bathroom door and opened it. Time to face reality.