AN: I actually wrote this piece a couple of months ago, I believe during the hiatus, and was too scared to post it. I've gotten a lot of flack in the past for my writing style, and where my muse takes me simply because it isn't always pretty. I like killing characters, I like putting them in horrible emotional situations so I can see whether they overcome or fall apart. Maybe that makes me a Shonda, I don't know...
If you don't want to read character death, just stop here. If you do want to... I hope you enjoy this piece as much as I do.
Always
This is the start, this is your heart
This is the place you were born
This is the sun, these are your lungs
This is the day you were born
(And I am always, always, always yours)
It's a little like she remembers it, with the roads that are familiar and the need for rain boots that once made her childhood heart soar. But there's different buildings and different people and all of it reminds her that so much time has passed; she's not a child, anymore.
No, today she is a woman. It's been twenty years exactly since she came tentatively into the world, tiny fists and tiny heartbeat and barely any breath. She's heard enough stories to know the turmoil filled day, the operating room, the too-large stethoscopes pressed against her miniscule chest. She knows enough of her history to be thankful for this day - to be thankful she's alive.
Because it's so easy to not be: there are car accidents and cancers and crazed gunmen. There are bombs and fires and freak storms. There are plane crashes. And, God, she knows the havoc they can wreak. She knows the lives they can take.
And, really, that's why she chose this day. Twenty years ago, the world had been crazy and uncertain, but they had all been together. For a brief moment, they had been a team. A haphazard collection of individuals, but a family all the same. A father, with shaking hands and a worried heart. A mother, who held her safe inside her womb and used her own skin as a shield for the flutter beneath her fingertips. And a second mother, the unlucky third, but another woman who stood up and fought for the life of the child they all shared. A family.
Her family.
It's strange to think how much has changed since then. She barely recognizes this place, with its gridlocked streets and pouring rain. An umbrella is no longer an extension of her arm - she had to stop and buy one at a corner store. The heavens still open up here, but these days she's not prepared for it. These days, her home is somewhere else.
But her family is still here. The time they shared is stored within the concrete of these sidewalks, beneath the pavement of these roads. Their history hangs in the air of the hospital, in an apartment building across the street. And she knows she could walk those hallways and feel the past prickle across her skin, but that's not why she's here. Not today.
Today, she stands at a gravestone.
It's the nicest one she thinks she's ever seen, though she has no memory of it in their life here. She has no idea who picked it out, who decided what to write in the marble. It's simple but elegant, which makes her think of her mother. Her sun warmed skin, her darkened eyes; the safety net of her open arms.
Mark Sloan
1968 - 2012
Father, Doctor, Friend
It's the kind of inscription she struggled to come up with months ago, when everything was messy and confusing and out of her control. And maybe her mother had struggled over this one, too, but she had found the three perfect words to sum up the man they all loved. She only hoped that, someday, someone would find themselves in front of the gravestone she'd picked out and think the same.
Someday.
This is the scar deep in your heart
This is the place you were born
And this is the hole where most of your soul comes ripping out
From the places you've been torn
(And it is always, always, always yours)
(I am always, always, always yours)
It's been years since she saw her face. The memories didn't do her justice; age has been kind to her. She tugs at the weathered edges of the photograph, smiling at the wrinkled eyes and deep laugh lines. Life is good to those with beautiful souls; it etches their stories into their skin without tarnishing the image.
She wishes she could say the same about herself. No, time has not been as kind to her, she thinks. She sees someone she doesn't recognize when she looks in the mirror now. Sure, her eyes are still the same, and the patch of grey spreading rapidly across her scalp isn't entirely unflattering, but there's something missing in her gaze that she knows she had once before: a fire. A purpose.
It was a choice she made long ago, one she never knew how to go back on. It had meant to make her happier, make their lives easier, but standing here, now... She knows that's not the case. Fourteen years have made her solemn, a doctor that interns now fear. A woman she never thought that she could be.
And it's the gravestone in front of her that reminds her it was all a horrible mistake. To leave the woman she once loved, to cease fighting for the ending they deserved. To walk away from a child who began her life with three parents. She knows now that she should've tried harder to repair it, to bridge the gap between them. To stop blaming and start fixing.
They say hindsight is 20-20. Gravestones make it all the more clear.
It's a new installment, the earth just starting to grow up around the marble. A warm brown piece, like her skin had sometimes been on summer days. She hopes that's why it was chosen; a reminder of the warmth of her. A reminder of the remarkable open heart she'd been.
The inscription is just as elegant.
Calliope Iphigenia Torres
1975 - 2031
Mother, Doctor, Sister, Friend
Always, All Ways
She chokes back a sob, her head dropping to her chest. Regret fills her lungs and it takes all her strength not to fall to her knees, to mourn more than just the woman in the ground. To mourn the life they once shared, the life that should've been.
If she had been there always. All ways.
Hallejulah, I'm caving in
She wipes at a stray tears as it meanders down her cheek. It's been years since she cried for him, but today she needs him more than ever. Right now, she needs his strength. Because, God, the world feels impossible and confusing and not once did she ever think she'd have to face it alone.
For six years of her life, she had the whole world. An entire army of people who loved her and supported her. Yet, somehow, she's ended up alone. Without a father to tell her it'll be okay. Without a mother to hold her tight against her chest. Without her unlucky third to kick down doors and claim her spot.
She laughs, a bitter sort of sound in a place like this, but exactly what her broken heart needs. The girl who was never meant to make it, the girl who had the odds against her; she thought she'd beaten it, once upon a time. She thought she'd defied everything stacked against her. She should've known, three is the worst number the world can give to you. Three will always mean the beginning of the end.
Hallejulah, I'm in love again
He's watching her, though she doesn't know it. He sees the defeated stoop of her shoulders, the blonde hair giving way to gray. He sees how heavily she leans upon her cane.
He wishes he could wrap her up in his arms, wishes he had been there to remind her who she was. She had brought him back from the darkness... if only he'd been able to do the same.
But he knows life is never what we expect of it. He knows the ripples of decisions, the little moments that change the very timelines of our futures. And maybe, you can spend your whole life with that regret, but you'll never find a way to keep going.
He knows she never found a way to keep on living. He knows she never learned how to forgive.
Hallejulah, I'm a wretched man
She thinks of her daughter, then, though she's tried so hard to avoid it for so long. It had been their agreement, the dark tragedy of being the bad guy - you lose your child. You walk away from the people you've hurt because it's best for them. You leave your baby, your little girl, in the arms of her mother and you never, never look back.
She'd been the enemy that day, signing over her rights. Agreeing to relinquish all control because she was the one who'd done wrong. She was the one who'd found solace in other women's skin. And she was the one who'd stood silent on the sidewalk as her family drove away.
She barely recognizes herself anymore. In the mirror, in her own personal reflection. She's made choices the woman she once was would never have considered. She let a plane crash destroy her, let it steal her light. She let it steal the people she once loved.
She let death keep them from her forever.
Hallejulah, every breath is a second chance
She watches her, though she doesn't know it. Sees the furrowed brow as she reads, the downturned tilt of her mouth. She sees new weight settled on her shoulders, uncertainty in her eyes. Somehow, her whole life has changed in just a few short months.
She doesn't know it, but her mother stands beside her. Death has been kind to her; it's taken back the wrinkles, reversed some of the effects of gravity. They look more alike than ever, standing side by side, all dark curls and tanned skin.
She watches as she swipes at another tear as it dribbles off her chin. Her tiny warrior, always far too proud to cry. There is the heart of a fighter in her chest, a strength she's still growing into. She has no idea of the power beneath her skin, but her mother does. Her mother always has.
And her mother has always found some way to keep her going. From that first day, twenty years ago, with her own failing heartbeat. To the inheritance she discovered in the will - enough to cover her schooling, her living expenses. Enough to take care of her. And once more, in the letter sitting in her mailbox at home: a single sheet of paper with a phone number. A chance for her to start anew.
A chance for someone to be there for her, always.
(And it is always, always, always yours)
(And I am always, always, always yours)
She never expected to hear her voice again, never expected to know how grown up she'd become. The sound alone is enough to rip another sob from her chest, curl her into herself.
"Momma? It's Sofia; it's your daughter."
She's my baby, too. (I know, I know.)
(Always, all ways, I am always yours)