Punished

As promised, the following tells the prologue to the story of Patrick Jane from The Mentalist. It depicts the scene where Jane discovers a present that Red John has left him:

My hand is on the doorknob. I set my jaw, teeth gritted. I’m afraid. Terrified, in fact. I won’t deny it. I was never one to hold back my feelings, not from anyone. It’s my only fault, really. And, not for the first time, I seem to be about to pay dearly for it. I turn the knob, and the door shudders, the slip of paper that was taped to the smooth surface falling slowly to the ground. I suck in a breath of air. If he’s wrong, if he’s toying with me, it’s a sick trick to play. But something tells me that he’s not kidding. That he is completely and utterly serious. And that I’m not going to like what I find. I push the door all the way open, and my eyes flicker immediately to the huge red smiley face painted on the wall. “No,” I breath. I cross the floor and draw my fingers towards the hideous sketch. And that’s when the smell hits me. The odor of blood, of a corpse. My heart screams for me to turn and run, to call the police, but I don’t. Instead I let my gaze settle on the bed. I have no reaction at first. Curls of hair lie messily on the pillows and disappear beneath the blankets. Almost subconsciously, I pull them back, and for the first time in my life, I scream in true fear. My wife stares up at me, her pale face twisted in a grimace of pain. Blood coats her mouth and chest, trickling slowly from the gruesome wound on her neck. Her arms are pale, her hand tightly clenched around--- 

God please, no....

My breath catches in my throat. I’m not breathing. I reach down and uncurl my wife’s fingers from around my daughter’s wrist. My baby, my sweetheart. She lies there, motionless. Tear stains streaking her round cheeks. Another grisly cut along her own delicate neck. I run a hand over her body, and I realize that I’m shaking. And all of a sudden I feel cold. A whimper of hopelessness escapes my lips. I slip my palms beneath her back and pull her limp body into my arms. My legs turn to water beneath me, giving way until I’m lying there on the floor, my body racked with sobs, my baby girl clutched tightly to my chest. He’s taken everything from me. He’s ripped everything I love out of my life. Never before has he done anything this personal. Never before has he broken his pattern of killings. But for me has. For me, and only me. I close my eyes as tight as I possibly can and I scream. I scream for as loud and as long as I can. I scream until my voice grows hoarse. I scream until I hear the sirens and pounding of fists at my door. I scream to let him know that I received his message. I scream to let him know that I understand, that I realize he’s punishing me. And I scream to let him that the next time we meet, he will die.