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Touch

copyright 2003, by TweedEmpress

Disclaimer:    CSI and it's characters were created by Anthony E. Zuiker.  They are used herein without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect.  No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit, of any kind, is made by the creator, maintainer or contributors to this site.

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In my business, I see every facet of human nature on a daily basis. The extremes. The best and the worst that they are capable of. Most people probably think that itís just about sex Ö and, of course, itís partly about that. But itís mainly about self-knowledge and communication and trust.

The people who come to me trust me. They open themselves up to me, show them the parts of themselves they dare not show to the outside world. Sometimes itís a part of themselves they donít even know existed.

In my experience, itís rare to find someone who knows themselves.

I oversee sessions: I instruct, I teach, I stand back and I observe. Occasionally I will hold a session myself - for the clients whose need for help exceeds what my workers can provide.

But no one ever touches me.

I worked through my uncertainties, my decadence, long ago. I have no need for gratuitous gestures and no desire to waste my time on someone not worthy of it. Naturally, I touch other people. Sometimes with tenderness and sometimes with violence: frequently with both. I give them what they desire, what they demand from me. I gain my satisfaction from their liberation and it has always been enough.

Until Monaís death brought him to my door.

I knew then that he wasnít like the others. The needy, insecure masses who come to me to save them from themselves. He looked at me with curiosity Ė not the vicarious curiosity of one who is titillated by what he sees, but of one who has a passion for the truth. A desire to understand human nature.

I looked into his eyes and I knew him.

Itís strange, when someone enters your life briefly and yet leaves such a lasting mark. And it wasnít as though I had thought of him continually over the past months. But when he returned to my house, it was as though I had seen him the day before. I wondered, briefly, how none of his colleagues could notice his problem, before remembering that few people bother to observe as closely as I do. Even people who earn their livings from examining the smallest traces of evidence Ö but most of their communication is with the dead; no wonder they have so many problems conversing with the living.

Another tragedy brought him back to me, and only then did I realize how much I had missed him.

And then he touched me.

He cradled my face in his hands and I leaned into the caress, hungering for it. It was as though I had never needed anyone to touch me as much as I needed him. His hands, a perfect balance of strength and tenderness. He told me I could stay stop, acknowledging my power. He was correct in that the Submissive has the power, but as we submitted to each other, we were equals. And equality is a strong basis for any relationship.

At least, that is what I thought.

Now, I wait in this cold austere room.

His work takes priority over everything but in my vanity Ė or, perhaps, my arrogance Ė I thought he would make me the exception. But then again, if he did that he would not be true to himself.

Again, I was wrong.

He will not interview me, I know that. It will be the policeman who will ask the questions, but what can I tell him? I have nothing to say and nothing to hide.

But I know that he is watching me. I can feel him on the other side of that mirror and I can see his face in my mind so clearly that itís almost as if he is in the room with me. I know that he doesnít believe I am guilty. He knows I am innocent and yet he has allowed this to happen. And yes, I am disappointed and hurt more than I had thought possible. Doesnít he know I would have given him anything he wanted, if only he had asked?

The door opens and, as I had guessed, the Lieutenant walks in: full of professional confidence, but his personal insecurity is so obvious in his eyes. I can hear myself talking to him, but Iím not paying attention to our conversation. The policeman doesnít really exist for me.

And on the other side of the mirror, he is still watching me. Just a few paces and a sheet of glass separate us. I want to smash it. I want to break through this damn barrier and force him to look me in the eyes and tell me the truth.

Instead, I talk to him. A one-sided conversation, but he knows what I am saying. Even if he cannot hear me, he will watch my lips.

But when all of this over, I wonder if weíll ever touch again?



FIN

copyright 2003, by TweedEmpress

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