Author's Note:
I know this story was up before, but that version was so sloppy. I was so
excited to have written a fic after so long, I put it up right away. Also,
my computer seems to have trouble uploading documents so there still might
be a few things that make you wonder what I was thinking. They aren't my
fault I assure you. Anyway. The second chapter is up too. Enjoy!
Light filters in the window and lands on Michael Vaughn. The gentle rays wake him. They seem to warm him, however briefly, from the deathly cold he usually feels. Eventually his senses begin to register a hand on his chest.
Alice. Two syllables he hates. They leave an acrid taste in his mouth.
The gentle pressure of her hand feels like a fire, raging and burning his skin. He doesn't want her touch. Wants nothing to do with it. But he can't stop himself. It is his punishment. He feels he deserves it. He has grown to need it.
He had married Alice almost three years ago.
That day, everything had told him to run from the church. Bolt and leave Alice far behind.
Everything except that voice that haunts him. The voice that insists he destroy any happiness in his life, because of her. Sydney. She was gone. And it was his fault.
Sure, no one ever pointed a finger, but he knew. He knew she blamed him, and that broke him.
Next to him, Alice stirs. She tightens her hold on him, like a sign of possession, making him feel suffocated instead of loved, like being sick instead of returning the embrace.
Her eyes slowly open, smiling to greet the husband she adores. He has the urge to run to the bathroom, to rid himself of the self-loathing he feels. He knows she is completely oblivious to his feelings and thoughts. He was now well accustomed to hiding them.
"Hi Sweetie," she whispers.
A grunt is his only response. He doesn't trust himself with anything else. Afraid of what might come out in its place.
So he stays with the routine, the safe path. The same one he follows every morning.
He hates it. He hates every routine they have started together over the last three years. Routines that don't include the one person he wanted to start them with. They were started to forget her, to forget that one person. It would never happen, so why torture himself with the hope.
He still can't speak when he and Alice are being intimate, for fear another name will slip out. After all these years, he still dreams of her. Still dreams of saying those two syllables that would rip Alice's precious world to pieces and set him free of his self-inflicted torture.
He had done so, once, seven years ago. But that was before; this was now, after what happened. What he still cannot bring himself to think about, even when he runs his hand over the scar.
The only things he ever lets himself remember are her eyes, the eyes that weren't hers. They increased his sentence, made him find new ways to subject himself to pain.
He sighs, heavy and deep, filled with great sadness and regret.
Alice brings her unwanted hand to his cheek. She wants to know what's wrong. "Nothing," he replies. But he knows he has to get out of that bed, before he goes crazy.
"I have to go to work." A lie. Like he cares.
He goes through the charade of a shower, suit, breakfast, and the goodbye kiss. He even remembers his briefcase. He is somewhat proud for this small accomplishment. He knows it will convince Alice he is truly going to work. It will keep her in the dark a day longer, more time to stay.
He gets in his car and drives. No thinking involved, just driving.
An hour and a half later, he finds himself where he doesn't want to be, yet can't keep himself away from.
He is at the warehouse. Their warehouse, unused now for three years. to the day, he realizes with a jolt.
He understands now how he came to be here, of all places. It was the source of the fall, the beginning of his trip to hell. He knew he would go inside, to remember the details of that day, on the anniversary.
He parks his Government Issue sedan and climbs out. With an air of dread, of a man facing his greatest fear, he begins walking toward his traditional entrance.
Inside, The musty smell has intensified from more years of non-use. But there it was, the stain on the floor, unmoved since they had been there last.
Their blood.
A/N: Please don't hesitate to review! Ok people, I don't own Alias or any of it's characters and situations. If you truly think I do, well, there's not a shred of hope for you out there in that big, bad world.
Light filters in the window and lands on Michael Vaughn. The gentle rays wake him. They seem to warm him, however briefly, from the deathly cold he usually feels. Eventually his senses begin to register a hand on his chest.
Alice. Two syllables he hates. They leave an acrid taste in his mouth.
The gentle pressure of her hand feels like a fire, raging and burning his skin. He doesn't want her touch. Wants nothing to do with it. But he can't stop himself. It is his punishment. He feels he deserves it. He has grown to need it.
He had married Alice almost three years ago.
That day, everything had told him to run from the church. Bolt and leave Alice far behind.
Everything except that voice that haunts him. The voice that insists he destroy any happiness in his life, because of her. Sydney. She was gone. And it was his fault.
Sure, no one ever pointed a finger, but he knew. He knew she blamed him, and that broke him.
Next to him, Alice stirs. She tightens her hold on him, like a sign of possession, making him feel suffocated instead of loved, like being sick instead of returning the embrace.
Her eyes slowly open, smiling to greet the husband she adores. He has the urge to run to the bathroom, to rid himself of the self-loathing he feels. He knows she is completely oblivious to his feelings and thoughts. He was now well accustomed to hiding them.
"Hi Sweetie," she whispers.
A grunt is his only response. He doesn't trust himself with anything else. Afraid of what might come out in its place.
So he stays with the routine, the safe path. The same one he follows every morning.
He hates it. He hates every routine they have started together over the last three years. Routines that don't include the one person he wanted to start them with. They were started to forget her, to forget that one person. It would never happen, so why torture himself with the hope.
He still can't speak when he and Alice are being intimate, for fear another name will slip out. After all these years, he still dreams of her. Still dreams of saying those two syllables that would rip Alice's precious world to pieces and set him free of his self-inflicted torture.
He had done so, once, seven years ago. But that was before; this was now, after what happened. What he still cannot bring himself to think about, even when he runs his hand over the scar.
The only things he ever lets himself remember are her eyes, the eyes that weren't hers. They increased his sentence, made him find new ways to subject himself to pain.
He sighs, heavy and deep, filled with great sadness and regret.
Alice brings her unwanted hand to his cheek. She wants to know what's wrong. "Nothing," he replies. But he knows he has to get out of that bed, before he goes crazy.
"I have to go to work." A lie. Like he cares.
He goes through the charade of a shower, suit, breakfast, and the goodbye kiss. He even remembers his briefcase. He is somewhat proud for this small accomplishment. He knows it will convince Alice he is truly going to work. It will keep her in the dark a day longer, more time to stay.
He gets in his car and drives. No thinking involved, just driving.
An hour and a half later, he finds himself where he doesn't want to be, yet can't keep himself away from.
He is at the warehouse. Their warehouse, unused now for three years. to the day, he realizes with a jolt.
He understands now how he came to be here, of all places. It was the source of the fall, the beginning of his trip to hell. He knew he would go inside, to remember the details of that day, on the anniversary.
He parks his Government Issue sedan and climbs out. With an air of dread, of a man facing his greatest fear, he begins walking toward his traditional entrance.
Inside, The musty smell has intensified from more years of non-use. But there it was, the stain on the floor, unmoved since they had been there last.
Their blood.
A/N: Please don't hesitate to review! Ok people, I don't own Alias or any of it's characters and situations. If you truly think I do, well, there's not a shred of hope for you out there in that big, bad world.