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Cries of a Shadow	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2757 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
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Inside Booker’s tiny apartment, the rhythmic thrum of water hitting tiles did little to banish the bereft mood chilling the atmosphere. The dark-haired officer sat stiffly in a battered armchair, one hand clutching a glass of whiskey, the other resting on his knee, his fingers clenched, his knuckles shining white through the taut skin. His gaze remained fixed on the small wall clock mounted above the bookcase, his mind tuned into each metronomic tick as the second hand loudly announced the passing of time. When the two officers had returned from the hospital, Tom had followed Booker into the apartment, and without uttering a word, had walked into the bathroom and closed the door. Moments later, the sound of the shower had reached Booker’s ears, a telltale sign the ritualistic cleansing had begun. He was astute enough to know the young officer wasn’t just ridding himself of the dried blood contaminating his hair and skin, he was purging his mind of the memory of his brother’s suicide. It was classic stress-induced behavior, and Booker hoped it wasn’t a sign of things to come.
Shifting his gaze to the bathroom door, the dark-haired officer worked the muscles in his jaw. Tom had been in the shower for nearly an hour, and he wondered how long he should leave it before he intervened. Another minute? Ten? Thirty? What was the acceptable time limit on showering after witnessing your brother’s suicide and did he, as an outsider, have the right to enforce it? But as the minutes ticked by, his unease slowly morphed into real fear, and a cold prickle of panic snaked under his skin. What if Tom were lying on the bathroom floor, a bloody razor clutched in one hand, his wrists sliced open in a final act of fraternal unity? It was a terrifying thought, and once the image had planted itself in Booker’s mind, he couldn’t rid himself of the frightening vision. His guilt was already consuming him in a raging torrent of what-ifs and determined not to make the same mistake again, he came to a decision. Interrupting his friend in the shower might not win him any brownie points on the friendship front, but he certainly wasn’t about to sit back and allow another Hanson brother to intentionally end their life through a self-inflicted act of violence. He knew he would never forgive himself if his inaction failed to save another life, and as he focused on the deadly possibilities, the glass of whiskey slipped from his fingers and tumbled to the floor, spilling its contents over the worn linoleum. Startled out of his stupor, he jumped to his feet and sprinted across the room. Pulling up outside the bathroom door, he raised a hand and banged his fist on the chipped wooden paneling. “Tom!”
An ominous silence followed his frightened cry and with his fear mounting, he frantically jiggled the door handle. When the door didn’t budge, he yelled again, this time louder. “TOMMY! IS EVERYTHING OKAY? TOMMY, ANSWER ME!”
The continuous sound of running water drifted through the crack under the door, its hypnotic rhythm fueling Booker’s anxiety. “I’M COMING IN!” he warned, and pressing down on the handle, he rammed his shoulder into the door. The wooden frame splintered under the full force of his weight, and with a crash, he burst into the bathroom.
Tom sat in the bath, his knees drawn up to his chin, his arms hugging his bent legs. Cold water cascaded over his body, his slight frame shaking violently from the chill. But despite his body’s suffering, his eyes were vacant, his mind no longer in the present. Recycled memories played through his head, the snapshot visions taking him to a time where the parents he adored still protected him. He was once again back in his happy place, and he wanted to stay there forever, free from the harsh existence of the real world, where the pain of his insurmountable loss became nothing more than a bad dream he could and would, eventually wake up from.
Shocked into action, Booker leaped forward and turned off the faucet. Grabbing a towel off the rail, he knelt next to the bath and wrapped the fluffy material around Tom’s quivering shoulders. “Jesus, Tom,” he murmured, his hand gently wiping the thick strands of wet hair from the young officer’s eyes. “What the hell are you doing?”
The tenderness of Booker’s touch brought Tom’s vision back into focus, and turning his head, he stared at his friend with tear-filled eyes. “I killed him,” he whispered, his voice choking with emotion. “If I’d let him do what he wanted, he’d still be alive.”
A shiver of repulsion ran down the length of Booker’s spine, and wetting his lips, he struggled to find the right words to allay Tom’s guilt. “You didn’t kill him, Tom. Will was sick and giving in to his demands would have only prolonged his illness. I just wish I’d done more to help you both. If I had, maybe none of this would have happened.”
Tom’s head shook slowly from side to side. “It’s not your fault. You weren’t to know.”
“I guess,” Booker answered in a quiet voice. But his friend’s reassurance didn’t lessen his own feelings of regret. Whichever way he looked at it, he was partly responsible for Will’s death, and the knowledge would haunt him till the day he died.
In no mood to dwell on the whys and wherefores of his and Tom’s culpability, Booker stood up. “C’mon, let’s get you warmed up, you’re turning blue.”
The lame joke barely registered in Tom’s mind, but he allowed his friend to help him from the bath. Holding the off-white towel close to his body, he stood shivering on the worn bath mat as Booker fussed around him. The night’s events had left him mind-numbingly exhausted, and all he wanted was to crawl into his own bed, fall asleep and never wake up. But circumstances had him trapped in Booker’s apartment, at least for one night, and unable to deal with the situation, he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to travel back in time, where he once again, lost himself in the comforting memories of his past.
**
Booker rolled over on the couch, the persistent ache in his right hip pulling him toward consciousness. As his eyes fluttered open, the low buzz of voices drew his gaze toward the small television perched on top of a wooden cabinet. Disoriented, he stared in confusion at the black and white movie playing on the screen. He had no memory of watching the Spaghetti Western, but as the thick veil of sleep slowly lifted, clarity returned, and the memory of the night’s events swamped his mind.
After finding his friend in the shower, he’d helped him dry before leading him into the bedroom. He’d found an old pair of sweats, and laying them on the bed, he’d instructed Tom to dress while he went in search of the vial of painkillers. But when he’d returned, the young officer was still standing in the middle of the room, the off-white towel clutched around his shoulders, his expression vacant. It was a troubling sight, and Booker had stood for a moment, wondering what to do. He’d briefly considered calling for an ambulance, but he felt guilty abandoning his friend in his hour of need. And so, against his better judgment, he’d gently coaxed Tom over to the edge of the bed and sat him down. When Tom remained unresponsive, he’d squatted down next to him, and spoken in a soft, soothing voice until his friend’s eyes had shown a flicker of recognition. But with the slow dawning of awareness, came a new set of problems. As Tom’s mind left behind the comforting memories of his past, something inside him broke. His face had crumpled, the agony of his loss distorting his beautiful features, and opening his mouth, he’d drawn in a loud, ragged breath before releasing all his torment in one long, distressing howl of pain.
The memory sent a shiver through Booker’s sleep-warmed flesh, and sitting up, he stared at the partially open bedroom door. No matter what else he faced in life, he knew the inhuman wail would stay with him until his dying day. It was a sound unlike anything he’d ever heard before, and he hoped he’d never hear it again. The intensity of raw pain had gouged a hole in his soul, creating a cavernous crater of grief too large to fill, and at that moment, he hated Will. Not only had he stolen Tom’s childhood, but by taking his own life, he’d also saddled the young officer with a lifetime of emotional scarring.
The sudden need to check on his friend had Booker rising to his feet, and switching off the television, he padded over to his bedroom and pushed open the door. Steeped in shadow, the room projected a mood of cold desolation. A lone street light shone through the window, strained through the canopy of leaves and branches of the majestic oak growing out of the cracked pavement below. At first, Booker thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but as he moved further into the room, a cold draught of fear ran down his spine. Rumpled bed linen lay to one side of the bed, the discarded duvet revealing an empty space. Traces of blood speckled the undersheet, the crimson stains silently confessing a horrifying story of suffering and abuse. But the grim scene barely registered in Booker’s mind. It was the absence of Tom’s physical presence that concerned him, and pinpricks of fear chilled his bare torso. His friend was missing, and although he didn’t want to face the possibility, he knew there was a real chance Tom had succumbed to his grief and committed an act of self-harm.
Spinning around, Booker rushed from the room, and without thought for his friend’s privacy, he stormed into the bathroom. “Tom!”
The empty room mocked him with the echo of his own panicked voice. “Shit!” he exclaimed, and ignoring his state of undress, he dashed toward the apartment door. Pulling up with a start, he instinctively reached into the bowl sitting on a wooden bureau and scrabbled for his car keys. When his fingers found nothing but air, he cursed again, and flicking the light switch, he stared into the empty bowl. It took a moment, but his mind finally registered what his eyes refused to believe. His keys were missing, and that meant only one thing. Tom had stolen his Cadillac.
“DAMMIT!” he yelled, his fingers raking anxiously through his sleep-tousled hair. But while he directed a small part of his anger toward Tom, for the most part, he was furious at himself for leaving his friend alone. After all that had happened, he should have known the young officer was mentally unstable, and that meant he should have kept a closer eye on him instead of falling asleep. But as he silently berated himself for being such a fool, a loud voice inside his head told him to pull himself together and think. Yes, he’d made a mistake, but there was no time for regrets. He needed to figure out where Tom had gone and get himself there as quickly as possible or he might just end up with more than Will’s blood on his hands.
Hurrying into his bedroom, he quickly dressed. His first stop was the most obvious, and after calling for a cab, he took one last look around his apartment and rushed out the door.
**
Yellow and black police tape dangled uselessly from the edge of Tom’s apartment door, the limp plastic strip reminding Booker of a discarded snakeskin. It was a belated warning, an innocuous sign alerting those who passed of a crisis that was no longer a threat. But for the dark-haired officer, the danger remained very real and pushing open the door, he stepped inside the dimly lit apartment.
A frantic swishing met his ears, and he paused, his brow knitting in confusion. “Tom?” he questioned as he moved toward the unidentified sound. “Is that you?”
As he approached the bedroom, the strange whispering sound grew louder, and his heart reacted by palpitating several beats faster. The idea of entering the room of the most horrific scene he’d ever witnessed terrified him, but despite his reservations, he felt duty bound to check on Tom. But it wasn’t because Fuller had entrusted the young officer into his care. His sense of responsibility ran far deeper than any assignment. Because he genuinely cared for Tom, the intense pain and immeasurable grief radiating from the young officer was causing him an insurmountable amount of suffering. He physically hurt for his friend, and he wanted to comfort him. If he had it in his power, he would have gladly switched places and taken on all the pain and grief himself. But that was a pipe dream. Through no fault of his own, Will’s suicide was Tom’s cross to bear, and nothing he did would change that fact. Only time would lessen his friend's suffering, and even then, it wouldn’t end it completely. All Booker could hope was that Tom would seek professional help, and then maybe, just maybe, he could move forward with his life and once again, find happiness.
Stopping outside the partially open bedroom door, Booker took a moment to compose himself. He had no idea what he would find when he entered what he now thought of as the Vortex of Hell. The whole situation was playing havoc with his confidence, and he found himself starting to doubt his abilities as a cop. Police officers were trained for such events, and it surprised him he wasn’t immune to the panic racing through his heart. Adrenaline yes, panic no. But after finding Tom bloodied, broken, and handcuffed in the bathroom his belief in himself had taken a nosedive. He should have been more aware, he should have known the reason behind Tom’s odd behavior had something to do with his brother. Then, to top it off, he’d failed as a negotiator, and his lack of competence had resulted in Will taking his own life. In his eyes, not only was he a screw-up, he had neglected the welfare of the one person who needed him most...Tom. And he knew if he walked into the Hanson bedroom and found his friend injured, or worse still, dead, he would give up his badge and walk away from the job he loved. It wasn’t about being a martyr, it was about being able to live with himself, and if he failed Tom, then, in his opinion, he wasn’t fit to wear a uniform. But first, he had to face his demons, and with that thought in mind, he took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
Tom sat on the floor, a bucket of soapy water beside him. Wide-eyed, Booker watched as he dipped a large scrubbing brush into the plastic pail and proceeded to scour Will’s blood and brain matter off the pale blue paintwork of the bedroom wall. There were no tears, no emotion, just a dogged determination to get the job done. But for Booker, it was another terrifying chapter in a book of horror stories. As he stared at his friend, he realized that for all his efforts, all Tom had managed to create was a ghoulish epitaph. Instead of erasing the shocking evidence of his brother's violent death, he’d commemorated it in a terrifying mural of blood and brains and the tears of those left behind. The scene was almost worse than Booker had imagined, and hot bile rose in the back of his throat. But he managed to force it down and stepping into the room, he announced his arrival. “Tommy.”
When he didn’t receive an answer, he walked over to his friend and squatted down beside him. “Tom, you need to stop. This isn’t helping. Let’s go back to my place, and we can talk about how we’re going to deal with all this. Okay?”
“I have to clean up,” Tom muttered as he frantically scrubbed at the bloody streaks smearing the wall. “Will hates it when I make a mess.”
Swallowing down his reservations, Booker reached out a hand and lightly grasped Tom’s shoulder. “Tom—”
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Tom yelled, his body jerking sideways. “DO YOU HEAR ME? DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME! YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO, YOU'RE NOT MY FUCKING BRO—”
The last word hitched in his throat, and choking back a sob, he buried his face in the crook of his arm. He’d tried his damnedest to escape the memory of Will’s suicide, but he could no longer ignore the cold, hard facts. His brother was dead, and no matter how much he tried to dodge the truth, Will was never coming back. Finis. It’s a wrap. End of fucking story. He was now alone.
“Oh, G-God, he’s gone,” he sobbed, his shoulders shuddering with pent-up emotion. “He’s r-really gone.”
Watching Tom’s stoic demeanor dissolve into a flood of tears was difficult to watch, and a sharp pain stabbed at Booker’s heart. He had no real words of comfort, and so he pulled his friend into his arms and whispered empty platitudes. “Shh, baby, it’s okay,” he murmured. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”
Leaning into Booker’s warm embrace, Tom savored the intimacy that had been lacking in his life for so long. “Wh-Why did he leave me?” he sobbed, his tears soaking the front of the dark-haired officer’s shirt. “Wh-Why didn’t he l-love me enough to stay?”
A wave of emotion washed over Booker and pressing his lips against Tom’s scalp, he lightly kissed the top of his head. “I think he was in too much pain to stay, Tom,” he murmured into his friend's sweet-smelling hair. “And he did love you, don’t ever doubt that. He just showed it in the wrong way.”
Soothed by the gentleness of Booker’s touch, Tom closed his eyes and allowed himself to take comfort from the reassuring words. He may have lost a brother, but he’d also gained a friend. And although Booker would never replace Will, he hoped one day, he might accept him into his heart in such a way, he could experience the one thing lacking in his life...real physical love.
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Cries of a Shadow