Disclaimer:All Disclaimers apply.
A/N:This picks up after „What Matters Most". Due to a terrible broadband connection, I still have not seen 4x17 and am sitting in a café, posing as a tourist with a laptop and sipping red wine while posting this. Cheers.
There is a consistent sirring and occasional thump that echoes along the shining linoleum of the hospital floor, and yet,all Myka is aware of,is a thorough silence.
She had always been known as the quiet child next to her exuberant sister Tracy.
She had always been the shy one, the calm one.
There had been something about that innate quietness that soothed her,calmed her, filled her to the brim with the meaning of unspoken words.
Words from books, languages, phrases, famous quotes and phrases.
The small truths and poetry she stumbled upon.
She would gestate the words, turn the phrases over in her mind.
Cherish them, as only a true lover of languages could.
Quietly.
But she isn't doing that now.
There are no words.
And the thought that is shocking her the most is this:
„How to tell Pete?"
They are partners,they are best friends, and she needs to tell him,because she kind of promised him not to lie to him ever and again.
So she needs to tell him, even if Claudia doesn't need to know, but will, eventually.
She will, won't they all?
But she also promised to never leave Pete again, and suddenly a shiver passes over her form.
A shower of coldness, as though a bucket of ice water has been dumped on her.
This is a promise she might not be able to keep.
There is a tiny vase with an even tinier carnation on the plastic table she is sitting by in the empty hospital cafeteria.
And that carnation might be the most beautiful thing Myka Bering might possibly have ever seen.
She gets up in a hurry, seized by the sudden feeling of claustrophobia,and does not hear the protesting sound the chair's metal legs screech out against the floor.
She hurries outside.
Flees the scene,so to speak.
And South Dakota greets her.
With its dusty mountains and a few oak trees in full leaf and a breeze that washes over her skin and she is going to miss it all so much.
So very, very much.
It's still quiet,a vacuum of sound, as Myka Bering sits down on the curb of a nondescript hospital parking lot in the middle of nowhere,in the middle of South Dakota, which due to popular opinion is absolutely nowhere.
And she cries and cries and cries.
And yet,despite the trees, despite the cars,despite the wind in the leaves, there is nothing but terrible,terrible silence.
Until her phone rings.