Title: Dear Mr. President
Author: ezra_t
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Nick-Greg
Rating: R for bad language and just plain sadness
Disclaimer: I don't own the CSI people or the song - Dear Mr President - (even though I wish I did).
Summary: So much pain and heartache. Suffering and yet no one even wants to see it. Or acknowledge it. Sure it's easier to pretend it's not there if you don't voice it but it is. And people are hurting because of your silence your complete act of indifference. You are the passive abusers. You hurt just as much as the fist that lands it's blows or the words that cut deep. You watch and but you don't see and you just don't care.

***

Dear Mr. President,
Come take a walk with me.
Let's pretend we're just two people and
You're not better than me.
I'd like to ask you some questions if we can speak honestly


You sit there, across from him, not really noticing the smell of the smoke nor the stickiness of the diner table. You are too engrossed in your partner. In what he is saying. You are surprised by the things he says. You are stunned by the harsh words out of his mouth and you turn away from him. Silent and bone weary. When you turn to him again there is a fire in your eyes and you speak...

What do you feel when you see all the homeless on the street?
Who do you pray for at night before you go to sleep?
What do you feel when you look in the mirror?
Are you proud?


You look out the window and see a man. He is tall and dark and it's almost too hard to tell where his skin starts and the dirt begins. His hair sticks up much like he's been electrocuted. You turn to your companion then point to the man on the street.

"Does he look like a drunk to you?"

You ask. Your companion frowns shaking his head and you sigh.

"Do you think he wanted to live his life like that? That he just woke up one day and said 'Hey, I'm going to live the rest of my life miserable.'"

Once again your companion shakes his head no. And you sit back weary.

"Maybe he felt that this was the only life he could live? Maybe something had pushed him into this direction...If only he had more options, more chances."

You look to the man again and this time he is looking to you as well and he smiles. Teeth startlingly white against his dark and dirty skin. Eyes sparkling like dew grass. The greenest you've ever seen. And he waves and moves along.

How do you sleep while the rest of us cry?
How do you dream when a mother has no chance to say goodbye?
How do you walk with your head held high?
Can you even look me in the eye
And tell me why?


Your partner stares at you surprised and when he goes to open his mouth to speak you raise your hand silencing him. And you continue.

"What about the mother who never got to say 'I love you' one last time to her child, her brother, her uncle or her husband? Did she deserve to live with the guilt of knowing that she somehow failed her family by not keeping them together? Does she deserve to go on living while her child is out there dead and lost?"

Your partner is at a loss for words but you rage on, some how impassioned by the words coming out of your mouth.

"This war that is raging is tearing people apart. Destroying families and homes left and right. Children are becoming orphans, parents are living with the guilt of sending their children off to war!"

And you wave your arms around. Pointing here and there until your eyes land on a women crying.

She looks out of place in the run down diner. She is wearing a suit and you see that he mascara is running. You stand, walking to her because you think she is hurt and you ask her if she is okay and she replies no in a raspy texan drawl. And you see that she is holding a picture of a man who looks to be no older than thirty-five. He is smiling a wide texas-friendly smile and you can see the laugh lines around his dark eyes. You see that his hair is dark and you can almost here the sound of him laughing in a deep husky voice and saying "Howdy." in a deep southern drawl.

You don't need to ask to know that he is dead. And you don't need to ask to know how he had died. The camouflage suit that he is wearing is answer enough. And you turn your back on the women and walk back to your partner. And as you sit you stare at him accusingly.

He needs not ask.

And whisper,

"How do you think she feels out living her son? His death is all wrong. It should not be the parents burying their children and it's a sad day when they do."

Dear Mr. President,
Were you a lonely boy?
Are you a lonely boy?
Are you a lonely boy?
How can you say
No child is left behind?
We're not dumb and we're not blind.
They're all sitting in your cells
While you pave the road to hell.


A young man walks in.
His hair is spiked and multicolored and your partner sneers at the ease that the boy shows sliding into one of the sticky seats at the bar.
He looks at home here, in this run down diner and you cannot help but wonder if this is all he's ever known.
Run down diners and messed up homes.
He doesn't even bat an eye at the misery and chaos surrounding him he just smiles and flirts and orders.

And as he takes a sip of his coffee he looks at you over the dirty cup and he smiles a wide exuberant smile.

"Stupid freak." You hear your companion mutter.

You hear it and by the frown on the young boys face he's heard it too and by the dimming of his eyes you can see that he's heard it quite a bit through out his life.

You give him and encouraging smile.
He'll make it through, you just know it.

What kind of father would take his own daughter's rights away?
And what kind of father might hate his own daughter if she were gay?
I can only imagine what the first lady has to say
You've come a long way from whiskey and cocaine.


You turn to frown to your companion once the young tri-colored boy leaves and you are about to start yelling at him again but you stop yourself when you notice that he is not paying you any attention.
Forehead wrinkling you turn around to see what has captured his attention and you are surprised to see a man yelling at his daughter.

Even from you are siting you can see the spittle fly from his mouth and land in his raggedy looking brown beard.
His white dirty shirt is covered by a blue mechanic over shirt.
You can see the frayed name tag and mouth the name 'Sidle'.

The girl siting across from him say's something.
And he begins to yell louder, loud enough for you to catch a few words.

"Bitch"..."Fag"..."Cunt Licker"..."No homosexual in my home"..."Leave"..."Under my roof".

And you can see the already mousy girl shrink further and further into her seat. Brown eyes leaking silent tears that crawl down her cheek. And her brown hair whips her face as she jerks back, further and further into her seat as her father bangs his hand against the table.

You can hear the dishes clicking against one another with each powerful bang.

You look around, wondering why no one is stopping the man from furthering his torment upon his daughter but all you are faced with are turned backs or impassive faces.
No one cares and as you are ready to take maters into your own hands you feel a hard grip upon your wrist. You turn to your companion and he shakes his head no. You sit back down and when you turn back towards the girl you see that her father is gone leaving her alone there still crying her silent tears.

Surrounded by people who don't see and don't care.
Alone in a crowded world of impassive viewers.
People who'd rather act as if they didn't see anything wrong with a situation, not stopping the pain being caused right in front of them and letting it continue just as long as it didn't interfere with their day. Their time.
Their life.

You shake your head sadly.

This is what the world has come too.

How do you sleep while the rest of us cry?
How do you dream when a mother has no chance to say goodbye?
How do you walk with your head held high?
Can you even look me in the eye?


You look to your partner and you see that he is avoiding your eyes.
And you that maybe that last encounter has finally made him see what kind of world he is living in.
That maybe just maybe nothing is really as okay as he likes to pretend it is.
But suddenly his shoulders straighten and he looks to you, his lips in a grim line.
No, he still refuses to see.

Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Minimum wage with a baby on the way
Let me tell you 'bout hard work


You sneer at your companion.
Hating him in that moment.
Hating him for his refusal to see, to understand, to just feel.
You tilt your head towards the obviously tired and pregnant red haired waitress.
And even though you can practically feel the soreness of her ankles she still moves gracefully.
A dancer you remember her telling you as she had served you your coffee earlier.
"Sixth month." she says.
Knocked up by her dead beat boyfriend whom she just couldn't help but love.
You can see the bright smile dim as she looks at the small tip left behind once again.
And you shake your head ruefully.
Standing you tilt your head towards the door a silent question.
Your companion nods, understanding.
And as you leave you wave the waitress down, she waddles over to you, a sad smile on her face and you hand her a hundred walking out the door before she can give it back but not missing the watery smile she throws your way or the silent thank you.

Rebuilding your house after the bombs took them away
Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Building a bed out of a cardboard box


You lay your head on the window.
Not even bothering to point out the woes of the short grey haired man you see standing before a destroyed house.
Knowing that that night he would would he be sleeping in a small box if he could find no other place to stay.
You feel bad for him as you see him standing there holding what seemed to be and ant hill.
But he just looked so lost and you could see the pain in those blue eyes even as they were hidden behind those thin frames.

Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Hard work
Hard work
You don't know nothing 'bout hard work
Hard work
Hard work
Oh


And you growl to your self.
No, your partner has never known what it felt like to want or to need.
What it felt like to work so hard and yet still get nothing.
He's never known what it felt like to be hurt or what it took just to survive.
He's always had it easy, and maybe that's why he doesn't see or doesn't feel.
He liked living in his perfect world where everything comes easy.
Maybe it just makes him sleep easier at night.

How do you sleep at night?
How do you walk with your head held high?
Dear Mr. President,
You'd never take a walk with me.
Would you?


And you know that after today as you walk towards your house and further away from his car that he will never call upon you again.
That he will never want to see you again.
Because after today he has realized, that being with you meant seeing the harshness or reality.
Seeing the harder side of life.
And he like so many others just wasn't ready for that yet.

***