FLY
written by Morgana
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Disclaimer: Jean and Scott don't belong to me. Sure wish they did, though. "Fly" belongs to Celine Dion. Her gracious inspiration is greatly appreciated.
I can't touch it.
I can't bring myself to pick it up and unwrap it the way I did when I bought it, the powder pink tissue whispering between my fingers. It hurts to even stare at it from across the room, the black silk curtains about our canopy bed obscuring my view of it. It's been six months, Jean, let it go. That's what I say to myself whenever I sit here, gazing across the room at it. Didn't my heart break that day? I was so sure it had. Of course it did. But a heart can't break twice. Or three times. At least it shouldn't be able to. But every time I look at it, it feel my heart breaking all over again.
I try not to let Scott see the shattered bits of my soul, to see me when I get like this. I know it would only jab at his own wounds. He lost a part of his innocence that day while I lay in the medlab, my heart breaking. But he sees them anyway. He knows. I was awful to him then. I said too many cold things. Fractured him even more, and my heart breaks for that, too. I feel like it'll never be one whole piece again. But then, didn't I tell him he was the only one who could ever shatter my heart and then glue it back together again in moments? I have to force myself to remember that the memory hurts him, too.
I wonder if he stares at it like I do. No. He stares at other things and remembers. Little things remind him. I want to cry whenever he sees something that reminds him and his jaw clenches.
I can get close enough to touch it, but I might as well be a million miles away. Perhaps I've become like an animal, conditioned to know that touching an electric fence means pain. The wooden box in the corner is my electric fence. I've circled it and circled it, trying to figure out how to skirt the pain and open it. Today is no different. I still haven't found a way to avoid getting shocked by the fence.
I can feel Scott. His mental presence. He's walking up the stairs, so I have to pretend I only came over to find a CD to put in the stereo so he doesn't see me sitting cross-legged infront of it. That would remind him. When he comes into our suite, this doesn't fool either of us; the way I offer him a sweet smile and trail my finger down the piled CD's, indecisive about the sort of music I want to listen to today. He knows why I'm in this corner of the room. I have to glance away or else I'll see him work the muscle in his jaw and respond with a smile of his own, hard as it may be for him.
"Jean-" I know he wants call me on it, but he never does. That would remind him, too. My only reply is to tilt my head in his direction. I'm listening, my action says. The corner of my vision sees him shaking his head. Nevermind, his replies. We go through this dance innumerable times a week.
It's 3:30, the stereo-clock tells me. He's finished classes for the day. He'll change and go back down to the garage to work on his bike. I can hear him dressing behind me as I keep up my charade, fingers walking over the vast collection of music we've amassed between us. I'm staring too long. My mind has nothing to do with the mechanical action of pulling out some random jewel case from the stack and placing the disc in the stereo. Its too occupied keeping tabs on Scott's movement. The music starts...
Fly fly, do not fear
Don't waste your
breath, don't shed a tear
Your heart's beyond,
your soul is free
Be on your way,
don't wait for me
Above the universe
you'll climb
On beyond the hands
of time
The moon will rise,
the sun will set
But I won't forget..
I can't move. I know he's staring at me. Like he wants to touch me, but he can't. He's staring at me like I stare at it. I can hear the clock ticking off the moments of silence that settle between us, I can smell his cologne and my perfume on the still, sunlit air. Whenever I look back on this, I'll remember that sound, those smells. And then, his hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it off once when he tried to help me through a fit of tears. I wouldn't let him in, I blocked off the mental bond we share. I wonder if that hurt him more than the little reminders. It hurt me, too, Scott. I won't shrug off his hand this time.
What's he doing? My body is too resigned to remembering that I let him move me. I'm sitting now, on the floor where I sat before he came in and I put up my facade. His arms are still around me--he must be sitting, too. The creak of wood makes me focus on what's in front of me. Its there, suddenly in my hands, the powder pink tissue whispering between my fingers again. He helps me unwrap it the way I couldn't unwrap it myself. The guilded silver letters on the cover of the pristine white book will remain etched on my memory for as long as they're etched into the book's face.
Baby's First Book of Memories.
He's so gentle when he reaches up to wipe away the tears I didn't know were running down my cheeks. The moisture against my temple declares that he neglected his own tears to wipe mine away first. He carries his own burdens -ones I sometimes place on him- and mine without a second thought, and I'll never be able to thank him enough. Then his hand falls to my shoulder, and I won't shrug it off this time because I know now, resting against him with his arms around me, that he's my way past the electric fence.
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Dedicated to Kris,
who's helps me past a lot of electric fences.
~Morgana