Name: Rose Bellandi

Title: Here And A Million Miles Away

Time Frame of Story: Post 5th Season Pre 6th

DISCLAIMER: Characters used from “Homicide: Life on the Street”
belong to Baltimore Pictures and NBC Productions and are used without
permission. This story may be copied or placed in the public domain so
long as the author’s original name and story remain intact.

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  It’s blue and green, red, orange and gold too. White on top, sometimes.
 It’s as if it’s trying to grab hold of something that’s just out of reach.
 It moves back and forth almost consistently, and can’t be expected to stay
 still for more than a few fleeting, but beautiful, moments. Sharp light
 reflects into my eyes, and the colors and lights from the rest of the world
 are obsolete at the moment. It is the object of my sorrow, and it seems to
 matter less and less to everyone. And it’s too bad that my pathetic mind
 feels the same way.

  I’ve been here, staring, for over an hour. Or, maybe my imagination is
 getting the better of me, and only and hour long minute has passed. If I
 sit here any longer, I won’t be able to tell the difference between the
 water, and the image of it I’ve created. Maybe they are one in the same.
 Still, so much time has passed, and so many tricks have been played, I
 can’t think that I know anything for sure.

  Have you ever stared at something for much too long and forgotten what it
 is you were ever looking at? That’s me right now. This is what it’s come
 to, and I never  thought it would. I’ve become absent minded for the sake
 of nothingness. If I had the memory, or the time, or the energy, I would
 know, but I’m too tired to care. And I’m not even sure how it feels.

  The sun is gone now, and I have a brief déjà vu. I know I’ve done this
 before, but who’s gonna stop me? No one, that’s who. Because at the end of
 the day, my real friends have all forgotten that they are, in fact, my real
 friends, and they take the night off. I really don’t have a problem with
 that, it seems that that’s how everyone is. But it’s sad that if I want
 anyone to listen to me, I have to pay some expressionless person with a
 piece of paper hanging on the wall an amount of money that I  don’t have,
 to do anything of the sort. So, with that in mind, I’ll have to be content
 with musing to myself. Muse. Muse. Muse.

  Rain falls from the sky, and soaks my clothes. But it doesn’t matter.
 Water is water, and water can’t do me any harm. The only thing that could
 go wrong in my already terrible day, is if the entire world comes crashing
 down on me, and not just my own. Dark clouds cover the already dark sky,
 and this feels most like home. The dismal clouds become the roof over my
 head, and the rain, my blanket of misery. I feel safer than I ever have,
 and that terrifies me.

 I can’t see the people that pass me by, but I know that they think that I’m
 crazy for sitting out in the rain like this. I really couldn’t care less.
 Everyone stares at me like I’m crazy, this is just another reason. I’m
 weird, crazed, psychotic perhaps. I’m sorry you have such a bad first
 impression of me. I’m sorry for not being who you want me to be. I’m sorry
 for not being you.  Yes, I’m sitting in the rain. No, I’m not crazy. I
 prefer to think of myself as less frightened of the elements  than the rest

  I just get so sick of it. Of all of it. It’s there to cause me trouble. I
 lose my memory, my self-control, myself, and no one wants to see it. I want
 them to see me, but it’s like I’m an expandable hologram. They treat me as
 though I were transparent, even if I’m the only person with substance, and
 they treat me like it wouldn’t matter if I wasn’t there, and they can’t
 deny that.

  All those people want to hear is that I’m going to up and disappear on
 them. That they won’t ever have to worry about me, or my camera, or my
 lacking a bed to sleep in, again. They don’t want to hear that I have
 opinions and feelings that are just as valid as the next person’s. Oh no,
 that would be too much of a burden. I’m already in their way; my job makes
 theirs just so much harder. My very existence makes them overflow with
 feelings of pure irritation. I’m a burden, and so no one ever bothers to
 actually care about me. No one ever bothers to know whether or not I want
 them as a friend, or if what they say hurts me. They don’t care if they
 hurt me.

  But, so what if they hurt me? So what if they don’t care? So what if I
 care, and get nothing back? I’ll just do this every day. Crying into the
 ocean seems a lot more helpful than crying into a bottle. Water with water.
 useless to the rest of the world.

  It rains and it pours, and it keeps me as the happiest miserable man on
 the face of the Earth. I realize the oxymoron. Most people don’t grasp the
 fact that most oxymorons make sense, you just have to think about it. The
 top of my hat is filling with water. I would throw the water over the pier
 and into the bay, but there really isn’t any reason to.

  The rain slams against my face, drops falling like they’re the tears that
 I won’t cry. My memories, the good and bad ones that seemed to go by all
 too quickly, flash through my mind. I never thought that flashbacks were
 real, but mine are making their own movie in my head. It’s one of those
 sappy movies with the happy endings. I abhor such movies but it’s what I
 have to watch. Those were the memories that flew by me, and so, I can’t
 stop staring. The times that I loved and hated, and the people that fell
 into those same categories. Maybe they never paid any attention to me, and
 maybe I’m the only one with most of these memories because they never paid
 any attention, but I have what I have. And no one will take that away from
 me.

  I’m staring at my hand, the palm, because I already know everything about
 the back. Seeing if, maybe, there’s something to this appendage that has
 been attached to me since I was born, that I still haven’t seen. Maybe
 there’s something more, and I want other people to say the same about me. I
 want them to wonder what I’m like, and not just on the outside. Anyone
 could see my camera, or my mustache, or my disappointed look, but it takes
 a decent person to see beyond that.

  I notice that raindrops are collecting on my hand, but I stare at one that
 just fell on my index finger. The water, even just a drop of it, seems to
 matter so much more than I do. This drop of water could keep a fish alive
 for another second, this drop of water could be the last drop that puts out
 a fire, this drop of water could save the world. I can’t even change it.

  I hate being treated like I’m four years old. Overlooked, disregarded,
 lost. I told Detective Pembleton about his medicine, and he just looked
 down at me like I’d done something terribly wrong. I hate being treated
 like I’m fourteen years old. Ignored, laughed at, made fun of. I told
 Detective Howard what I thought, and she just walked away from me. I told
 them all something or another at some time, but they never listened. I
 can’t stand them, not anymore. I’ll win an Emmy someday because of what
 they’ve never done. Then I’ll see what they do.

  Do you know what it’s like to be told that no one likes you? That the rest
 of the world would be better off without you because you’re just getting in
 the way? I can’t tell you how many times that’s happened to me, each time
 more and less hurtful than the last. I’m made to feel worthless because I’m
 not like them. And I never will be. Things will never be different, people
 will never change, and yet they will always expect me to change for them. I
 will never be worth anything to them, and I’m not sure it’s worth the
 energy to try. They will never believe that I matter at all. And realizing
 this, hurts more than you could ever imagine.

  You’re right, no one asked me. No one wants to listen to me, and no one
 would if I did speak. I’m part of the furniture, seen and not heard. I was
 in plain view, but I always felt like I was jammed into the corner. Eyes
 seeing what they try to hide underneath their layers of transparent
 heroism. Ears capture the fear in their voices, as their eyes fail their
 object of deceit. The outside, and not quite impartial, judge of the
 chaotic proceedings, I can understand what they have to cry to know.
 Observing the game that everyone fails in is the source of knowledge that
 would otherwise be gained through the experiences that people won’t let me
 have.

  Most of the time, I blend in with the rest of the room on my own, just so
 I can see them. As they are. They’re the most interesting people I’ve ever
 seen. They have come to terms with life and their own mortality, and all
 they ask for are complications to distract them from that. They weave
 themselves through time and lies to get where the think they need to be, as
 the room of nightmares they pretend that they understand what they see, and
 hear. I don’t believe them. I saw their silent breaking points, and they
 almost broke my heart.

  The rain stops, and I can see the stars. I don’t bother to look up,
 they’re reflected to perfection on the water. Orion being chased by the
 Scorpion for all eternity, his punishment for audacity. I wonder if our
 misbehavior on Earth is punished in the underworld, like they said it was
 in ancient Greece. Tartarus or the Elysian Fields, where am I? Maybe I’m
 caught on the river Styx, where I’m just roaming until I can find some kind
 of peace with things. Others have paid for my boat ride of eternity, but
 it’s the one that only lasts a while for the rest. They have put me here,
 but I keep myself here. The rest of the world jumps back and forth between
 paradise and hell, and they end up dead from exhaustion.

  They shut the door on me, so I’ll shut the door on them. They wanted me to
 keep myself as far away from them as possible, even if it’s only emotional.
 I hope the wall I built is thick enough, so that they don’t hear me crying.
 They hurt me in so many ways, on so many levels and I can’t be expected to
 feel all of the pains at once, but I do. They have their jokes, and their
 friends, but they never bother to clue me in. They never gave me some kind
 of remote hint as to what was going on. They can’t win, they just can’t.
 And that’s why I’m making the wall thicker, so they can’t hear just what
 they’ve inflicted. And I’m hoping that I can’t hear it either. Sobs of
 panic, cries of anguish and tears of dead inspiration.

  My eyes close and I remember the lights from the big stores and tiny
 shops, the visible voices of people passing me by, and the shining
 glimmering beauty from the stars up above. These are the things that I
 remember, because these are the things that are reliable. I forget my
 friends just as quickly as they forget me, because they are the friends
 that are unreliable. I never wanted to be the memory that was bought, but
 that’s what I’ve become. And I’ll never escape that.

  It’s black and blue now. White on top, sometimes, only because of the
 moon. Almost still, I wish upon a star’s reflection. Maybe, if I don’t look
 up, this will be easier, but I know I’m wrong. A gleam of hope helps to
 ease the pain and tears. I wish they were better friends, but never mind. I
 have what I need to remember each of them, whatever the light may be. They
 are hurtful and helpful, in some small way. I will remember them forever. I
 smile through my tears, and I wonder something because of my mixed emotions.

  Was it all worth it?
 
 

Bio junk: I’m a high school student with a headache most of the time. Most people wonder if I have headphones sewn to my neck because I’m always listening to music, and writing while doing so. I mostly listen to Goo Goo Dolls, Barenaked Ladies, and Ani DiFranco. I’ve watched Homicide for about four years.