A/N Er... I guess this is an 'Alex gets back to 2008' story though possibly not written in the most sensible way. It's been floating around my head for months so it all makes sense to me, I just hope it comes across that way.
'The thing always happens that you really believe in; and the belief in a thing makes it happen.' Frank Lloyd Wright
Everything We Apprehend
Chapter One
July 2008
It was fuzzy. And bright. Exceptionally bright. She squinted against it but to no avail until she eventually realised that was because her eyes weren't actually open. With that, almost clear, thought she struggled to open them rather than do the opposite but, again, she met only with failure. Unperturbed, she tried to move other parts of her body even if, logically, her eyelids should have taken the least effort. Starting with her head she worked her way down her body, slowly and methodically trying every limb and ending with an attempt to wriggle her toes but everything felt heavy, lead-like, frozen. Her head was fuzzy still but that light was starting to fade now and as it did so her thoughts, her awareness, became sharper but brought with it only questions.
Where was she? Actually, who was she? She refused to panic at that thought, at the nothingness that seemed to surround her. She concentrated hard, fighting against the now dimmed light, refusing to give in - there had to be something else out there. And it paid off. There were voices - and she somehow just knew that was what they were - she could hear them but she didn't know to whom they belonged. It was like driving a car in thick fog; the basics were there - how to steer, which gear to use - but everything else - the familiarity of the route, the destination - was gone, making the terrain very difficult to navigate.
Difficult but not unsurpassable and encouraged by her progress she redoubled her efforts; hearing was one of the five senses, she couldn't see or smell anything - what were the other two? She floundered for a moment before an answer reached out to her: touch. She tried for that, putting all her effort into moving her hand once more and was surprised to find that, not only could she now move her fingers, there was also something in her hand.
She tried to grip it; hard, then harder, with every ounce of strength she could muster until she could feel the other hand - because she was certain that's what it was - respond. Then there were more voices, louder this time, but all still unrecognisable - as were the words, strange as she somehow knew that's what they were even if she couldn't quite understand them. The other hand squeezed back and it possibly should have hurt but she felt no pain, just the warmth and the pressure it provided. It was small, she realised then, the other hand. Child-like, even.
An image floated through the fog of her mind, like a bolt of lightening it was raw and beautiful, and it disappeared as quickly as it had emerged, leaving her with only a ghostly imprint of what had once been there. She tried to grab a hold of it but it escaped her, the emptiness swallowing up the last remnants and she felt as desolate as her current panorama. But then there was a voice - just one this time - and she instinctively knew that it was linked to the image; and it wasn't just an image, it was a memory - something she had experienced. It wasn't just the voice that sounded familiar either: it was the word too, one word repeated several times. Was it her name? No, that wasn't it; if she could have shook her head at her own disapproval at that thought she would have. Maybe it was something else, like a nickname or a title.
She tried her eyes again, struggling against the weight of her eyelids and this time she succeeded; the darker corners of her imprisonment were now replaced with the blurred, and so much brighter, outlines of her new confines. She could make out the shapes of people, three or four of them but before she had a chance to focus further another light appeared, shining first into one eye and then the other, the action accompanied by a deep rich voice that spoke words she knew would be important but she paid no attention to them. All she could comprehend was the loss of that small hand in hers and how much she wanted it back. How much she'd longed to hold that hand.
And then it was suddenly so clear; as her eyes finally readjusted to the natural light of the room her mind caught up too - she knew who she was, she knew where she was, she knew what had happened to her, and she knew who had been holding her hand.
"Molly?" The word was rough, her voice dry and her throat scratchy but the intended recipient didn't seem to care as the grip on her hand returned, grasping tighter this time around. And the reply, the voice now instantly recognisable as her daughter's, was like music to her ears.
"Mum!"
Her life fell into its rightful position; memories - of all shapes and sizes - flittered through her head like a deck of cards, coming to rest where they had always belonged and a wave of calm washed over her. She was back. Back with Molly. Her gaze settled on the smallest form in the room which was now back at her side, her eyes instantly taking in the child's features with an appraising mother's eye and finding only a bright smile. A crowd of questions rushed to her mouth, creating a bottleneck and sticking in her throat, remaining unvoiced and only thought: how long had she been out; had she missed her daughter's birthday; how badly had she been injured? It didn't matter; she'd ask the questions soon enough, she had all the time in the world now. Her daughter's face beamed at her, the features so reassuringly comforting, and she thought her heart might burst with the relief of being back here. Inconceivably, a small knot of remorse tugged at her stomach at that thought and, unable to decipher its presence, she tried to ignore it.
"I knew you'd be okay, Mum," Molly smiled and all Alex could do was smile in response as her mind, ignorant to her wishes, and urged on by that lurching in her stomach, nervously began to question exactly where the sudden seed of doubt she was experiencing had come from. Began to question where she had come from.
Small arms wrapped around her shoulders as her daughter launched herself at her, the child's head coming to rest on her chest and Alex continued to smile tiredly, her own arms struggling to participate in the embrace as her head fought to remember... What exactly? The one hand she had a good control over smoothed at her daughter's back as she attempted to shake off that feeling and refocus her thoughts on her child; how Molly must have worried, to have seen her mother lying unconscious in a hospital bed having been shot in the head, and wondering if she would survive. It must have been a terrible ordeal for her.
The knot in her stomach tightened then as a memory ripped into her; there was a gunshot, a boat, and blood. Her hand stilled its movements at the recollection; at the thought of that blood. But it hadn't been hers. It wasn't the memory of her own shooting; it had been his.
She held Molly tighter and screwed her eyes shut, half hoping to find that blinding light, half hoping to find empty darkness - anything to escape the memory that was replaying so violently in her head. But all she saw was Gene; all she saw was the colour red. And the memory stayed, brutal and harsh in its residency, the impact only increasing as related memories appeared; the combined effort insistently pulling and picking at the slight hold she had on her emotions until it found what it was looking for. She'd just left him there.
She'd had to make a choice. A decision that she knew would now haunt her every step, invade her every dream, and follow her relentlessly and unshakeably like a shadow to her grave. She'd chosen this - this here and now; she'd chosen it from the first moment she'd realised it had been taken away from her - she just hadn't thought it would be so hard. She hadn't thought it would ever feel wrong.
Her eyes slid open, a lone tear escaping, rolling hesitantly down one cheek and onto her daughter's t-shirt; a tear of joy, a tear of regret - both options were tinged with guilt.