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An online haven where Grissom Sara Romance is free
to flutter ... By KMnO4 Metamorphosis Rating- PG 13 Summary- A story is told, spun with
different thread, pounces like a tiger, out of my head, I take words from the
master, greatest playwright ever known, put them with GSR, and make them my
own. All extracts have been taken from plays by
William Shakespeare. The story itself is loosely based on the myth of Ceyx
and Alcyone. Act
One The
brightness of her cheek would shame those stars As
daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would
through the airy region stream so bright That
birds would sing and think it were not night. He was staring at her again. Once upon a
time, Grissom would have feigned animosity. Blindness as well as deafness.
Cowardly shrinking away from her vivacity. There was something that Sara held
about her person. It captivated him. It became impossible to resist and
futile to even contemplate trying. But now there would be no shame in it. He
was free to gaze as long as he liked. For finally she was his. He had claimed
her as his wife. In front of God and the entire CSI lab. It had been a bright
morning in June. The sun had graciously leant herself to the occasion and
went about her duty with eager pleasure. She illuminated the cascading plumes
of Sara's bridal gown, and the virgin white seats of the congregation. It was all too beautiful. Grissom thought,
on seeing her face and unwavering smile, that his heart could not possibly
contain so much joy. That it was miraculous. Their love was a phenomenon. It
spread itself out and enraptured the lives of those around them. Suddenly,
frowns were turned upwards, kissing the sky. Now, angry words seldom found a
place among their wretched work of death and justice. They looked ahead to brighter things.
Laughing more. At home. In the privacy of their blessed sanctuary, dreams
spilled forth. Her hopes she placed in his hands. His faith lay heavy on her
back. A tangle of sprawling limbs merged into one. Act
Two Dost
thou love me? I know thou wilt say 'Ay'; And
I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st, Thou
mayst prove false. At
lovers perjuries', They say Jove laughs. "Don't go." Sara begged him with
frantic pleas. Grissom laughed and shook off her concern with a kiss upon her
forehead. "You worry too much," he said. But something did not feel
right. There was a trickle of angst in her gut which screamed at her to hold
on to him. Do not let him leave, it told her. He tried to soothe her anxieties away with
cooling facts and undeniable information. That it was a high profile case.
That it would be good for his career. That he would be safe. As soon as the
words had left his mouth, she knew them to be false. It was a looming lie,
but Grissom could not see it and Sara tried to open his eyes. Bombarding him
with questions. What about the police man? The one that
was murdered when this elusive serial killer returned to the scene of the
crime. What about the news reporter? The father of four who got his throat
slit while investigating the slayings. He got too close to the lion's den. He
was consumed. She wanted her husband in one piece.
Still, Sara played the role of diligent wife and helped Grissom to pack for
his trip. She rolled his socks up into neat little balls. Reminded him to
bring toothpaste. But at the airport, a panic set in, constricting her
oesophagus and strangling the goodbye she gave him. Standing at the departure gate. Not
relenting her grasp. The pressure of her fingers were beginning to bruise
pink the skin beneath her hands. Grissom smiled. He felt her love and
devotion. "You worry too much," he said again. The plane took off,
her heart breaking with its ascent. Act
Three How
easy is it for the proper-false In
women's waxen hearts to set their forms! Alas,
our frailty is the cause, not we! For
such we are made of, such we be. Shattered into pieces. Sara sat in front
of their large bedroom mirror. She saw reflected in the rippling glass a
brown eyed woman poised like a priceless statue on the brink of her pedestal.
If this is what love did, it was a wonder she had ever desired it so. There was work to be done that Sara was
not doing. Her mind was too busy ticking over with worry. The constant
beating of woe was like a comforting blanket. It told her that she still had
a heart that carried on beating, for the moment it stopped, they would both
be dead. Contagious fraying of nerves. Catherine
watched beside her. The news broadcaster spoke loudly with an accent affected
by good breeding and an ivy league education. It began to annoy immensely.
The case was ongoing. She caught a glimpse of Grissom in the
background making his way into the It was like Christmas morning. It was like
your grandmother coming to visit with the promise of sweets when your mother
had always said they would rot your teeth. For a free spirit she had been
alarmingly over protective. Sara mused that she had passed that trait
on to her. The ferocity with which she wanted to protect her loved ones. Grissom's
face appeared. It rose above the crowds and called to her until she began to
run. Feet against hard tile. Hammering through families and couples and
friends. Finally in his arms. Act
Four Take
him and cut him out in little stars, And
he will make the face of heaven so fine That
all the world will be in love with night And
pay no worship to the garish sun. His love was filling. It crept into every
crack and crevice until her body was saturated with its warmth. The smiles
broke out like the measles and were equally infectious. Grissom grinned too.
He named the parts of her he most adored, unceasingly until all of her was
labelled. Sara insisted that defeated the object of
the game. He confessed not to be playing. She wanted more of his tricks. His
wicked teasing. To think that she might have spent a lifetime without
Grissom's playful taunting tugged at the chords of her heart. Melodic dirges.
They joked about chains that would tie
them to their bed and never allow departure. Sometimes Sara became serious
with her want of such things. Sweet possession. Grissom was ever present, and
in the night her foot would seek out the indent of his ankle to mould itself
gently into place. Their sleepy lids and wild hair greeted
the sun. Togetherness. That seemed too loose a word to attach to their
rebirth as man and wife. It implied two becoming a temporary alliance of
minds. They were a single entity. Bathed in rarity. From the silk of his touch Sara knew their
lives were about to change. The whole act sung of creation. It was in the
fluidity of their movements and the quiet symmetry. She had long since ceased
speaking when making love to him. The words were never quite able to express
the way she felt. On delicate wings of flight. Soaring upwards. So she
allowed her body to talk to his. They conversed easily forming grand designs.
Plotting in silence save for the occasional sigh of happiness. Blue prints
were made. Confirmed in a fuzzy ultrasound photo. Act
Five So
tedious is this day As
is the night before some festival To
an impatient child that hath new robes And
may not wear them. It was alive and growing. At first Sara
would stare down in awe. Grissom would catch her and smile then join the
hallowed vigil. First came the convection currents
of sickness. Her new best friend. The porcelain toilet bowl. Cool as a
cocktail in the For soon a gentle flickering arrived like
an extraterrestrial greeting. Their baby came in peace; it meant them no
harm. Just rapturous bundles of blessings. The impossibly small basket beside
their bed. The hovering scent of talcum powder. As they prepared for his
arrival. Everybody else knew exactly what was best
for them. Everybody wanted to be around Sara. Hands flew to her stomach with
greedy demand. To be a part of the miracle. Catherine was omniscient. At the
house. At the lab. At the mall, dragging them into various shops for perfect
little beings. Greg stopped with the jokes. Nick stared more. Slowly things began to swell. Her feet.
Her ankles. Her breasts. Her stomach begrudging conceded defeat three months
in, after having been perfectly flat for so long. But these were tiny
concessions. Sara was so entangled in this mounting emotion that she became
almost unreachable. There was a secret island of motherhood and Grissom
remained in the boat. He was curious. The kisses were lighter. The touching more
cautious. The handling always involved kid gloves. He was sheltering them
both with his gentle concern. So it seemed the roles were reversing. That
worrying was his job now because his wife was blissfully captivated with
other imaginings. Bottles. Formula. Lullabyes. She practised her singing on
him. Act
Six He
shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His
hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear: And
you all know security Is mortals' chiefest enemy. "Don't go." Sara grinned up at
him. Grissom could see from the glint in her eyes that it was all a joke to
her, and for a moment he missed the woman who used to fret too much. She
covered his mouth with her fruity lip balm. He placed his hand on her stomach
and rubbed his goodbye. An obliging kick followed, a tiny imprint marking the
skin. They could not wait to be rid of him. To
soak up sleep and rest as though they had experienced a lifetime of insomnia.
The baby warm inside a deep swimming home. His mother coveting the double
bed. Visitors were not permitted, and maternity leave had officially begun. It was days of anticipation and nights of
hungry slumber. Sara's clock was ticking upside down. The lists piled up
around her like towers of immense responsibility, and she would read them to
Grissom during their daily phone conversations. Clucking like a mother hen. A
nesting instinct had risen within her. Windows that seemed fine before, suddenly had to be polished. Floors were swept to
shine. Pictures no longer hung askew. Order entered the Grissom household.
Thursday morning, no call arrived. It was forgotten, passed off as absence of
mind. A mistake. Thursday afternoon, no call arrived. It
was a puzzle, Sara picked at it briefly. Left it unsolved to be continued at
a later date. Thursday night, no call arrived. It was a mystery, one she
could not fathom. Fell asleep before getting to the bottom of it. Then she
began to dream. Act
Seven It
is the bloody business which informs Thus
to my eyes. Now
o'er the one half-world Nature
seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The
curtained sleep. Grissom was dying. His face looked towards
her with a mournful anguish. The sea beat around his fragile body in
teetering waves of enormity, tossing him like a rag doll. Laughing all the
while. Sara twisted herself up inside of the suffocating grasp of their bed
sheets. In the depths of her imaginings she cried
out to him. To save Grissom. To save her own soul. For they were twinned.
They were bound and cemented in the life of their unborn baby who now
battered furiously within his mother's womb. But still she would not rouse. The
torment went on. Her husband was gasping for air, a huge
lungful that would hold him above water. He hovered at the surface, not
waving but drowning with no-one near enough to bring aid. "Help him!"
Sara cried out. Tears soaking across the pillows like a miscarried child,
advertising death and loss and hopelessness. Her voice echoed into the darkness. The
void that was growing within her, had settled itself just above the blessed
nook their son occupied. Sara assumed this place of forming emptiness was her
heart. Grissom was anguished too. She could see that he was growing tired. A calm had settled itself across his form. The arm
movements lost their panic, his head relaxed, his mouth opened and he spoke.
"Sara." It was an unbearable weight. That he would leave the world
with only her name on his lips to carry him onwards. For Grissom was sinking, down to a new
home. A moving, surging, grave. Not of earth nor of
air where his wife could not reach him. Sara was still on her island watching
from afar. Tied up with an overwhelming agony. In the distance a phone rang. Act
Eight Art
thou a man? Thy
form cries thou art; Thy
tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote The
unreasonable fury of a beast. Unseemly
woman is a seeming man! Sara was dying. The image that had once
shone so brightly before his eyes was beginning to fade away. Grissom fought
to hold onto it, but he struggled in vain against the wrestling ocean. He
wanted to conserve his energy. To put all his efforts into ordering his
thoughts and embracing the contents of his feebly beating heart. His wife and his son. Perfection. That was
where he wanted to be. His imagination conjured up images of a warm, bright
delivery room. Of blue balloons. Of blooming bouquets of flowers and
happiness. Grissom would miss the birth. The baby would never know him. Sara would go through it all alone because
he had been so foolish. Who would help her with the nighttime
feeding? Bathing? Playing? He had been looking forward to walks in the park,
pushing the stroller between them, beaming like the sunshine. The birthday cakes and presents. Easter
egg hunts. There would be none of that now. If Grissom died, then their life
together went with him. Could he really allow his son to be born into such
morbidity? Despair? Sadness? "There's been an accident." Sara
pinched herself once, twice, three times but she was no longer dreaming. It
was horrifically real. The words floating sluggishly out of the telephone
failed to register. She did not need to hear them. They were her worst
nightmare coming true and she already knew how that played out. Grissom. Water. Drowned. No-one to save
him. A few details were new. That he had volunteered to swim out for the
evidence. That he had thought it silly to wait for divers. That he did not
want it to all be washed away. Pulled down by the undertow. Act
Nine The
heartache, and the natural shocks That
flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation Devoutly
to be wished. To die, to sleep— To
sleep, perchance to dream: It came in steady thumps. The animal
beating like thick skinned drums attacked with fervour by a tribal clan. It
was knocking Sara down. She could do nothing but submit to its overwhelming
power. Tight bands formed below her stomach, squeezing inwards until she
thought all air had been expelled from within her lungs. The pain came in leaps and bounds.
Stag-like. A mighty river poured forth and drenched the stark whiteness of
the towels with its brine coloured residue. Complications were not the word
she would use to describe it. Holy terror would be more apt. Sara was surrounded. People seemed to have
appeared from nowhere, as if they had suddenly been granted the ability to
walk through walls. The room quickly crowded. She screamed, loud and obscene
like a drunken sailor. Not caring who heard, with no dignity and definitely
no self-restraint. It hurt so much she wanted to cease being.
Living. Breathing. Existing. Inwardly she reasoned with her stubborn baby.
She attempted to negotiate. He could have anything he wanted, as long as he
got out of her! Push, good girl, push! And then he cried. It was like music
that dulled every other sound out of her hearing. Sara could not conceive of anything else
beyond the noise he created. That melody. Utter elation spread like a flood
from the tips of her toes all the way up to the crown of her head. She was
covered in emotion so strong that her tears shone even brighter. They placed him into the cradle of her
arms, swaddled like a living sacrifice. Sara wanted to hold him high and show
the entire world what love had made. She whispered, "Look Gil, he is
perfect." Act
Ten Subtle
as a Sphinx; as sweet and musical As
bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair. And
when love speaks, the voice of all the gods Make
heaven drowsy with the harmony. Grissom was slowly coming back to her.
Thomas would smile and his father was present again, in that wry little grin.
Sara would bounce him on her knee and tickle the soles of his smooth little
feet just to see it. As he grew, got stronger and bigger and
sweeter than ever before, they became the mirror image of each other. Everybody
marvelled. It was amazing. It was uncanny. Just when she had thought that she
would never live to see his face again, it appeared, all be
it in a smaller version. But that was enough. That was more than
enough. Sara could appreciate the significance. She did not allow herself to
mourn. It was a time to be happy. Her husband always loved her smile most of
all, he would have wanted to see it. Lighting up the darkness. Grissom was never forgotten. The
photographs were carefully taken out every night, and they would sit and
stare for hours. "Tommy, that's your daddy, do you understand?" And
over time, he began to. Love is unpredictable. Love is all powerful. Love is
magnificent. It allowed a small boy to embrace his mother's precious memories
as his own. Thomas knew Grissom by heart. Seasons came and went. Many summers gave
way to autumns and winters and springs until Sara had not more time left to
pass. She had survived. She had triumphed. Against all odds. She had never
before understood the kind of strength that had kept Catherine's head up high
after Eddie's murder, or helped Warrick quit his addiction. Now finally she knew, in every particle of
her being. Sara had changed. She had lived on, even when half of her was
missing. The baby had been her inspiration. Catalyst. To that miraculous
metamorphosis. The
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