Title: A Life Uncommon

Author: BuffyAngel68

buffyangel68@yahoo.com

Rating: PG-13 at the most. There will be some bad language, but I'll keep it under control.

Summary: This concept was burned into my brain after reading Brook Henson's stunning A Guide's Guide series about the struggles the boys endure when Jim goes blind. If you have not yet discovered this amazing, incredible writer, go find Brook's Basement and start reading! I guarantee you will be as blown away as I was by this and all the other work archived here. http://www.geocities.com/brooks_basement/index.html

This is my thoughts on the flip side of the author's original idea: ie, Jim as the caretaker and Blair the care-takee. Blindness is not the issue here. Beyond that, you'll figure it out as you go.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters and concepts of the Sentinel. God only knows I wish I did. It, and several other worthy shows, would still be in first-run.

A.N. : What appears in between \\\ and /// are journal entries. The rest will be Jim's thoughts and the conversation in the room at the time he's writing.


A Life Uncommon
By BuffyAngel68


Prologue: Those who can't talk, write....

March 17th:

\\\Shit! To hell with her! I can't do this! I don't give a damn if it is better for my health, I've lived this long
without "exploring my feelings", I can live another forty years, damn
it!

Okay. Looking back over what I just wrote I don't see a period anywhere. Maybe exploring isn't such a bad idea. Let's see. I think I'm royally pissed. Yeah.... that's the emotion alright. Utterly and completely pissed off. Wow. That felt good. Glad that's over. Now I can get on with my life.///

She's reading over my shoulder. I hate that. Now she's talking. Hate that even more. Oh wonderful. Sarcasm. The hate just keeps on coming. Are we sensing a pattern here?

"Oooh. That was a difficult one to figure out. Nice breakthrough, there, Jim." She says.

Shut up, Stephanie, I think but don't say because she's usually a very nice person and she's doing her job. Instead I communicate in the way I'm most comfortable with. I grunt and refuse to look at her.




March 24th:

\\\Why is this so damned hard? It should be easier than talking, but it isn't. I don't understand that. I don't understand much of anything that's dropped on our heads in the past year, in fact. Just thinking about it, never mind writing it out, makes me///

There she goes again. When I try to cover the page so she can't see, I can tell from her expression that's she's about thirty seconds from grabbing a ruler and going Sister Mary Francis on me, so I let her read over my shoulder again. Did I mention how much I hate that?

"I'm here to help you cope with what's happened, Jim. To do that, I need to know what you're writing so I can respond appropriately." She says, smiling at me in a way that makes me wanna turn her face inside out. Sanctimonious is worse, by far, than sarcastic . "Go on. Makes you what?"

I'm hesitating. I think I know what comes next in that sentence, but it's not anything I want her knowing. Her or anybody. Damn. Maybe if I admit it to her and myself it'll stop. Maybe admitting to this one weakness, even if it is just on paper, will turn it back into strength.

\\\shake. It makes me scared and unsure and fighting mad; ergo, the shaking. Noone ever sees it happen. I've got it so under control, it amazes me at times. The earthquake stays all on the inside, just like the DI's taught me back in the day. It's natural to fear the whine of bullets six inches over your head. It's natural to fear the idea that you or anyone around you could die in the next five minutes. The thing to remember is that a leader never EVER lets it show on his face. If you allow the men under your command to see your fear, the domino effect comes into play. If you're confused, the men will become confused. If you doubt, they will begin to doubt and your mission will ultimately fail. 99 times out of 100, failure is a synonym for death.///

Shit, shit, shit. The way she's looking at me now is the worst yet. I don't want her sympathy. Stop looking at me, Stephanie! Get the hell out of my personal space so I can breathe! God... not the hand on the shoulder..... Fine, if you won't back off....

"Jim! Jim, wait... don't do this! You're running away again!"


Damn right.... it's what I do best.




March 29th

\\\God this feels good. I told her I'll write in this thing here at home, but I'm done with goin' to the damn office and she actually agreed, as long as I fax copies of the pages once a week or so. Of course, she also said we're working up to talking about what I write. Yeah, blow it out your ass, lady.

I'm just no good at talking out my emotions, especially negative ones. Never have been. When Steph said I should start a journal instead, my immediate reaction was "If I can't talk about how pissed I am, what makes you think I can write about it?" Guess we'll see. I'm giving this an actual, legitimate shot. Took me a year, but I give myself some credit for doing it at all.

Sitting here, sipping my morning coffee, I watch Blair tug on those ugly, decrepit, fingerless leather gloves and nausea forces me to choke down the mouthful of bitter liquid. Funny, it tasted fine a minute ago. My stomach twists and tries to send it back, but it settles eventually. It's not as bad as it was in the beginning, I guess. Just a touch of disgust.... and anger.... and a million and one other things I can't name. I can't really hate the damn gloves. They protect his hands and his hands.... they're everything, to both of us.///

Oh, man. He's caught me watching again. Is he gonna grin or glare? I never know these days. Ahhh.... thank God. It's a grin. A tired one, but a grin all the same.

"Lay off my gloves, Jim."

"They're fallin' apart, Chief. "

"When they get bad enough, I'll buy new ones. I'm.... comfortable with.... these."

\\\The nausea flares again as I watch him struggle to get his backpack strapped into place. Come to think of it, that thing's on its last legs too, but he's just as stubborn about that as he is about the gloves. Even little changes are harder for him to accept now. I get it. As much as he may think different, I really do get it. He's had enough radical shifts of the ground under his feet in the past year. Any constant he can hang onto is like a lifeline. How could he think I wouldn't get that? After my senses kicked in, he was my constant, my North star. He still is.///

"I'll see you at the station this afternoon."

"I'll meet you at the bus stop downstairs and we'll go for lunch."

"Sounds good."

\\\As he whips around and heads for the door, I'm amazed all over again at how he's almost back to where he was thirteen months ago. In just that short time, he's managed to recover all of it; his independence, most of his energy and the drive to get where he's going, come hell, high water or the lifelong results of a bullet that should have killed him. God, I can't go there again. You read this more than once so you understand it, Steph, okay? I'll write 'till my hands turn black and freaking fall off, but I will NOT go back and relive the hell Blair and I went through last winter! We're past it. It's done. Whatever else I put in this book, that won't be part of it! IT WILL NOT!///

Damn.... breathe Ellison. You do not wanna break anything, you do not wanna break anything..... yes I do, but I won't. Been
there, done that, still have the scars..... breathe damn it! You're supposed to have discipline, use it!

\\\Okay, I'm back. I see more exclamation points. I don't want to say it again, but.... shit just seems to cover a multitude of emotions I don't have access to yet. Shit. There. I feel better. What was I on about before I went on that little permanent ink tirade? Oh, yeah. Thank God for the gloves. With the speed he coaxes out of that chair, his hands would be raw hamburger from the friction. No wonder the leather looks more shredded every day. Sometimes, I swear he reminds me of a NASCAR driver with the needle pegged. God almighty, I have to remember never to tell him that. Knowing him he'll go right out and find a wheelchair race to enter. Can't even think about him trying to go faster than he already does in that thing. He'll blow a tire, lose control.... hang on, that's stupid. I make it sound like he'll be... driving a car. Which he doesn't anymore. Shit. Sorry, but I'm exhausted, Steph. I'll try again in a couple days. ///



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END PROLOGUE