Title: "...therefore I am."
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisitayahoo.com
Fandom: "OLTL"
Rating/Classification: PG, angst, Natalie second person pov.
Disclaimer: Nope, I do not own this character.
Summary: Mourning comes early after nights out on the town.
You drink because it's fun.
That's what you tell yourself when you wake up with the stale aftertaste of whiskey on your tongue and reach, blearily, for the tepid water you left uncapped on the nightstand last night.
It was fun. You loosened up. The bones in your face relaxed and you smiled when Paul walked into Capricorn and called you over with that flirty wave. You glided into his arms and you didn't cringe when he kissed you.
At least he didn't touch your hair.
You think you would have hit him if he cupped your head and gently ran his knuckles against your scalp...no matter how many drinks he bought you. No matter how much fun you had.
Just like you know you couldn't abide it if John suddenly revealed an ability to draw. You would never let him sketch you, never let him paint you. You will never be that naked for someone. Never again.
Like waking up with an aching head and a roiling stomach and an empty space somewhere in between.
You still reach out for Cristian in the dark sometimes, even though people would probably say that you didn't share a bed long enough for him to have a 'side', for you to miss what isn't there. It was long enough. It was long enough for you to loosen up. For the bones in your face to relax. For the chip on your shoulder to heal over. For your heart to open.
You wonder what it was you did that echoed Caitlin. Maybe you touched John's cheek. Maybe you tilt your head the way she did. Maybe your laugh sounds the same. Maybe it was just that you care for him at all.
You drink because it's fun.
That's what you tell yourself when you wake up with the stale aftertaste of whiskey on your tongue and reach, blearily, for the tepid water you left uncapped on the nightstand last night.
You can't possibly drink to escape.
There is nothing to run from. Or towards.
At least Paul didn't touch your hair.
At least John will never paint you.
Your pay stubs say 'Natalie Vega'. You barely remember her.
But you still reach out for her in the dark.
--end--
May 13, 2004.
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisitayahoo.com
Fandom: "OLTL"
Rating/Classification: PG, angst, Natalie second person pov.
Disclaimer: Nope, I do not own this character.
Summary: Mourning comes early after nights out on the town.
You drink because it's fun.
That's what you tell yourself when you wake up with the stale aftertaste of whiskey on your tongue and reach, blearily, for the tepid water you left uncapped on the nightstand last night.
It was fun. You loosened up. The bones in your face relaxed and you smiled when Paul walked into Capricorn and called you over with that flirty wave. You glided into his arms and you didn't cringe when he kissed you.
At least he didn't touch your hair.
You think you would have hit him if he cupped your head and gently ran his knuckles against your scalp...no matter how many drinks he bought you. No matter how much fun you had.
Just like you know you couldn't abide it if John suddenly revealed an ability to draw. You would never let him sketch you, never let him paint you. You will never be that naked for someone. Never again.
Like waking up with an aching head and a roiling stomach and an empty space somewhere in between.
You still reach out for Cristian in the dark sometimes, even though people would probably say that you didn't share a bed long enough for him to have a 'side', for you to miss what isn't there. It was long enough. It was long enough for you to loosen up. For the bones in your face to relax. For the chip on your shoulder to heal over. For your heart to open.
You wonder what it was you did that echoed Caitlin. Maybe you touched John's cheek. Maybe you tilt your head the way she did. Maybe your laugh sounds the same. Maybe it was just that you care for him at all.
You drink because it's fun.
That's what you tell yourself when you wake up with the stale aftertaste of whiskey on your tongue and reach, blearily, for the tepid water you left uncapped on the nightstand last night.
You can't possibly drink to escape.
There is nothing to run from. Or towards.
At least Paul didn't touch your hair.
At least John will never paint you.
Your pay stubs say 'Natalie Vega'. You barely remember her.
But you still reach out for her in the dark.
--end--
May 13, 2004.