"Lady, running down to the riptide,
taken away to the dark side." – Riptide, Vance Joy
Grey. It's all she can see. Grey is the steel of the benches, the refrigerators, the sterilised equipment resting in the polished sink. Grey is the colour of the mortuary attendant's clothing, dull and grim. Grey is the colour of her father's skin, tacky and dead. But purple, purple is the colour of his lips, the colour smudged under his eyes, the bruising that is painted across his skin. The only colour within the bleak room he is being held in. They must have washed the red away.
Cold. It's all she can feel. The refrigerators hum, battling off the decay and rot for the bodies within; knights in shining armour. Cold was the spring wind that whistled wildly through the trees the night before, when her phone rang in the early hours of the morning. No one ever got a call at the three o'clock in the morning to have it be good news. Cold was her father's skin. She knows that were she to pull back the lids of his eyes, the normal warm blue would be icy, cold, dead.
"It's him," and her voice is hoarse, choked and yet so loud in the deathly silence she stands in. The attendant drags a grey sheet over his body and he is concealed, hidden. The tray that is now his bed slides soundlessly back into its place; his rigid body, unmoving.
A nod of the grim face attendant, with eyes that are not unkind but more indifferent, as if they had seen it all before, has Elizabeth Keen turning to the door. She can feel the presence of her father behind her now, as if the blues eyes hidden behind dead skin are boring holes into her back. She can feel the presence of all the dead, their silence mocking, because they know, know, that it will be impossible to let him go, that it will take months or years, to move on from his departure, and for him, it was only moments, maybe not even that.
Elizabeth sees nothing as she walks through the hospital, just the grey tiles of the floor; grim and scuffed. All sound is muted; even the steady beat of her heart, quiet. A steady mantra streams through her conscious; constant and unyielding.
Your father has been in a car accident.
The car rumbles to life beneath her, the engine giving a steady growl as she shifts into gear. Liz has no recollection of how she got here, how she got her seatbelt on.
Passed away at the scene.
She rolls to a stop, the red light glaring at her, daring her to cross over the yellow line into the empty and abandoned intersection. There is no one in sight. Liz stays where she is.
We are sorry for your loss.
The click to the lock of her apartment sounds like a gunshot, the dirty brass door knob glinting in the fluorescent light like a gun as she shoves the door open. The room is quiet, dark and small, causing Liz to feel claustrophobic with the immensity of her grief. She treads through the kitchen, the only illumination from the clock of her microwave, flashing at her incessantly.
Her bed is unmade, cold now. A phone charger lays broken on the floor, ripped out the wall in Liz's hast to get to the hospital, not realising that her phone had still been plugged in. She violently kicks it away, a harsh sobbing scream tearing from her chest. She crawls into bed; an ache in her chest that she is sure will never leave her.
Sleep evades her. She can imagine that she can smell her father's cologne; musk and sandalwood. Tears track down her cheeks as she realises that all she could smell on him last time they met was cigarette smoke. A man that had survived cancer killed swerving off the road to avoid an animal.
She can hear his voice, so gruff but tinged with fondness; Liz's home. She can feel his fingers running through her hair as he tells her stories. Feel his fingers grabbing her own as she worries at her scar, nervous and anxious before he wraps her in his solid embrace, soothing all apprehension away.
By the end of the night, Liz believes that she may rub her scar raw.
When she wakes in the morning, groggy and with an aching body, she is caught in a moment of blissful unawareness. Her father is alive and the most monumental thing that would occur today was her classes at Quantico. Her phone is buzzing relentlessly on her bedside table, the sound spiralling Liz into a sense of déjà vu. The floodgates open, realisation settles like a suffocating blanket around her. She stares at the phone, unable to move, barely able to breathe.
It won't stop, the vibrations threatening to cause it to tip off the edge of the table and crash to the floor, shattering Liz's already weakened composure. She raises a shaky hand, latches onto the phone with a grip that is a bit too tight. She answers the call with a gruff,
"Yes?"
The voice of one of professors from Quantico greets her solemnly from the other end of the line. They've been made aware of her loss, she is not expected to return to base for at least a few weeks. They suggest that she takes some time for herself and, if necessary, there are many psychologists on base that she may speak with. Their parting words ring in Liz's ears.
We are sorry for your loss.
They offer such meaningless words, to provide comfort and understanding. Liz doesn't think they could begin to comprehend the pain and suffering she is now feeling. The wound in her chest gives a steady throb with each heartbeat, the ache unbearable. Sam Scott had been torn from the world, but Liz feels as if he has been wrenched out of her chest cavity.
Sam was not Liz's biological father. She has no recollection of her original family; only seeing scorching flames and lingering smoke when she forces her mind back that far, to the fragile memories of a four year old. It's how she got her scar; that she is certain of. That was all Sam had been willing to tell her.
His face was always grave, serious, when she asked the innocent questions of a child trying to find herself; the innocent questions of an abandoned girl wondering why she was never good enough, wanting so desperately to know why her parents left her. Sam would always pull her close, rest his cheek on her hair and tell that he loved her, that she mattered to him. He loved her with everything he had, flooded her with affection and kindness, and raised her to be the woman she is today. But, he never gave her answers. He never told her how she came to be in his care.
As a young child, Liz had pottered along, happy with her obliviousness. The unknown didn't lurk like a disease in her bloodstream, nag in the back of her mind, like it did when she was a teen. It didn't crawl under her skin, the secrets, they didn't fester within her until she snarled and snapped at the only person in the world that she cared for, loved. It had driven her wild, savage. She was caged by silence, by the normality of her situation, the routine. She would demand answers until her voice was hoarse, until she would storm to her room, fury biting into her soul. No answers were given, no revelations. Liz never got any closer to understanding.
Until one day, Sam had seemingly crumpled. Crumpled like the ash of his cigarette as it trembled on the precipice, leaping from the flame, even as the heat chewed the other way. His weathered and worn face had looked at her so sadly, his gaze heavy as he stared. Liz had waited with bated breath, irrational fear clutching at her heart, because now she didn't want to know. Didn't want to know that her suspicions had been correct all along and the longer he gazed at her, the more she knew.
He didn't know.
Sam didn't know what happened the night of the fire, only that there had been one. That her parents were dead, missing, gone and she was a little girl that needed someone to love her, needed a home. He had taken her in without a second thought, loved her the moment his eyes landed on her. He had said that the past was the past; that she was loved and that was all that mattered. She'd offered him a feeble smile, the disappointment smothering in its intensity, but in the end he was right. It was the past. She never asked who took her to Sam.
Liz struggled and dragged her way out of the angry, furious rut that she had found herself in. Sam had helped her, supported her, like he always did. She graduated high school, achieving the highest of marks. She stilled remembers how her father had beamed at her with pride, how excited he had been when she had received her acceptance letter to college. They had opened a bottle of scotch, one an old friend had given to him many years ago. They both got outrageously drunk, staying up until the sun rose, like the hope and excitement within Liz, across the horizon. Sam had sat up from their front lawn, sprawled upon it as he had been. His eyes slid closed as the first rays of light settled on his face.
"There's your future, Butterball."
He had cried the day she left, wiping roughly at his eyes as she choked out a goodbye. They had been drinking the night before, preparing her for the alcoholic onslaught she was going to have to endure, he had said. He lamely blamed the tears on his hangover, eliciting a watery smile from her at his weak excuses. She kissed him on the cheek, watched his reflection in the rear-view mirror until he was out of sight. He never stopped waving.
She called him every Sunday from the day she arrived at college. When she started at Quantico he joked that he would have to warn the more 'criminally inclined' of his friends, sounding so proud. She called every single Sunday. They would speak on the phone for hours. Liz's cheeks would ache from her smile.
Tomorrow is a Sunday.
Liz does not leave her bed. She does not eat, though she orders takeout. Pizza, Italian, Indian and kebabs litter her apartment, most left untouched. The food has spoiled, is starting to smell. Liz can't bring herself to care; she just shuts her bedroom door. Sam would be appalled.
Occasionally she dozes, ignores the buzzing of her phone. The messages that should comfort but only infuriate; they are words that she doesn't read but knows what they say all the same. There is the rare missed call, from a friend, her aunt, from her fiancé.
Nick knows her well enough, knows that she will want to be alone, that his company would be neither wanted nor appreciated. She should be thankful, that he understands, yet it irritates her because she knows it drives him mad. He had always tried to mould her, shape her into something that would shatter, turn her into something that she was not. At a time, she had almost let him.
They had met late in college, he was studying medicine, was intelligent and attractive. He was older and yet had been so shy, awkward in his flirtatious advances towards her. She had found it endearing, the way he would occasionally stutter over his words, how he would unconsciously touch her arm or shoulder. He gained confidence as Liz fell for him, became to rely on him. Liz marvelled at the man he grew to be, the assurance and self-belief that radiated from him. The way he treated her like a princess, fawning over her every need. His steady support of her, the constant and solid reassurance that he was there, just for her, was a comfort. The dedication he had to his studies, like she had to her own. They grew from each other, became so entwined, so in love. As certain as she was in her love for him, when he proposed, she said hesitated, told him to wait, allow her to think on it. Nick was normality and security.
It was then that his confidence and self-belief became arrogance, his sly remarks more snide than funny. He'd take her out with his friends and comment on her behaviour afterwards. She was too aloof, didn't open up enough, reclusive. Why couldn't she just try for him? His words were sharp, able to cut her to her core. His fawning turned manipulative; harsh and cold like shackles latched to her wrists. Everything he bought her, gave her, he expected reciprocation. He loves her, she knows he does, but he craves control, authority. Liz is beginning to loath him.
Yet, she can't help but crack a small smile when her doorbell rings and the only thing waiting for her outside is a box of Chinese takeaway, Wing Yee printed on it in a tacky font that likely offends Chinese culture. Who else could it be but Nick? She scoops the package off the floor retreating back into the sanctuary of her room. She eats for the first time in days. The meal is delicious. She'll have to remember to thank him.
She stays hidden away for weeks, until finally, staring at her bleak reflection in the mirror of her poorly lit bathroom, she has had enough. Grief still swims in her eyes, drowning out the brightness of the blue, leaving them dull, but she has had enough of isolation. Sam would have come to get her by now, dragged her out to the cinemas after letting her wallow in misery for long enough. He wasn't coming for her now; she needed to do this herself.
Her teeth are furry, breath sour, and hair, oily and slick. The yellow of the light paints her skin a sickly pallor, highlighting the fields of purple, almost black, beneath her eyes. Her lips are cracked and dry, cheekbones and jaw line unusually sharp from lack of regular meals. She turns to the shower, small but clean, though the tiles are cracked.
The water beats down upon her, hot, heavy and merciless. She stands there for a long time, unmoving, still, hoping that the water, the rivers running down her broken body, may just heal her. At the least wash away the anguish and sorrow riddled into her pores and fibres. Eventually she bends down, weary hands grasping the shampoo bottle, rubs the soap into her hair, feels the grime and oil work free. The flannel she rubs over her body is rough, turning her skin red as she scrubs ruthlessly. The rhythmic brushing of her teeth lulls her briefly into thoughtlessness, her gaze focused beyond the soaked shower curtain, heedless of the water that runs beneath it and out of the shower alcove. She cuts the water, towels the droplets away that cling to her.
It has been three weeks since Sam's death.
Liz thinks it's time that she left the apartment. She steps out the bathroom, into the dimly lit living room; all the curtains are drawn, untouched for days. The stench of weeks old food is heavy in the air, causes her to wrinkle her nose in distaste. She still makes no move to clean the mess, merely drags herself into some jeans and a crumpled shirt, sighing as the door clicks shut behind her.
The world hasn't changed, has not been tilted on its axis, though Liz feels as if she can barely walk straight. Sam Scott's presence is not missed in the hustle of Washington; the traffic still as manic as ever, the people still unaware as they stroll down the street, lost in their own thoughts, troubles, dreams. Liz sinks back into the routine, the normality. This was where she lived.
She had not based herself in Quantico, had decided that she would settle in a city nearby, rent an apartment where she could escape. Sam had suggested it, had known how hung up on her studies she could become. The commute was long and tedious, early mornings and late nights, but Liz was not fazed by it, at the end of the day she had a home to go to.
Nick had wanted to buy a house together. She'd told him that they should save their money, not rush, buy something that they were thrilled with.
She does not want to leave her apartment.
The coffee shop she enters, announced by the chime of a bell, is bustling and warm and one of her favourite places in the world. There is a nook, hidden away by the fireplace where Liz would sit, book in hand and read the day away. Her favourite barista, Charlie, would keep her cup filled for her, bringing them out without her asking. He had a knack for knowing the type and amount of coffee she would need to tackle that day, or book. The staff are busy currently, the cafe almost filled to capacity, patrons escaping the heat of summer outside. Liz gives Charlie a small wave, his smile easy going, blonde curls falling into sharp eyes. He takes in her appearance; she looks better after a shower, but still gaunt, tired.
Liz moves further into the shop, the chatter and sound surrounding her is overwhelming. The silence of her apartment was calmer, but riddled with misery and pain. She breathes deeply; this will be good for her. Making her way over to the bookshelf, piled with books, old and new, tattered and untouched, Liz notices that there is someone occupying her seat, the hearth beside them cold and empty. His eyes, when they rise to meet hers from the phone in his lap, are piercing, blue. She looks away, the shock of being caught staring startling her heart into pounding in her chest. The titles of the books, so close to her face, are muddled, she can't focus. In the peripheral of her vision she sees the stranger stand and make his way over to her. His stride is relaxed, laidback, hands shoved into his pockets as he sidles up to her.
"The barista said that I was sitting in a regular's spot," he says, humour in his voice as she turns to face him, "but he said you hadn't been in for a while. I figured as soon as I sat down you'd walk in."
His hair is scruffy and brown, drooping into his eyes, causing him to run a hand through it subconsciously. Stubble shadows his face, his jaw is chiselled and glasses frame his eyes. He was dressed casually, but he is handsome. The glint in his eye tells Liz that he knows it as well. She smiles at him, turning her attention back to the arrangement of books.
"What makes you think that I'm the regular?"
He chuckles, looks at the floor shaking his head before returning his gaze to her. Liz laughs for the first time in weeks, a quiet huff through her nose, but it's enough for her to take notice.
"I don't think anyone but a regular would have looked so distressed to find their favourite seat taken," he remarks easily, brandishing an arm out to indicate the table and seat in question. He favours her with another smile, like it's just so easy for him to do so.
"Can I have it back then?" Liz asks aiming for a tone of playfulness she feels she does not quite reach. His eyes narrow minutely, but he is still smiling at her. He takes a step away nodding his head, before saying,
"As long as I get to buy you a coffee."
He must have gone to Charlie and asked for her regular; it's as delicious as always, the perfect temperature and the right amount of sugar. She smiles across the table at this stranger, his easy attitude and ability to keep a conversation flowing allowing Liz to relax, to find a level of peace of mind that she hasn't had since Sam's death. He'd introduced himself as Tom Keen with a firm handshake, eyes sparkling at her from behind his glasses.
Liz had asked him what his occupation was and he excitedly replied that he was a school teacher, had just begun work at a school with a group of 4th graders. She wonders if his boundless energy helps with his job and if the young children feed of it or it fuels their own excitement. He chats about his students, their parents, the other teachers as if he knows that she hasn't had human contact for weeks, that she is struggling to climb out of the ocean of grief she is submerged in. He makes it so easy, she doesn't have to try, only answer the occasional question as he distracts her from the immense shift her life has taken.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket, halting Tom from explaining how he had managed to miss one of his students trying to smuggle a penguin out of the zoo. Liz smiles at him apologetically as she answers it; he waves her off and focuses his attention outside, politely ignoring her conversation.
It's her Aunt June.
Her sweet voice is filled with a sadness that causes the ache, the pulsing wound in Liz's chest, to split open afresh, throbbing with each breath. A letter came, to Sam's home in Nebraska, regarding his accounts, his property. June understands why her darling Elizabeth has stayed away, but it's time for her to return to Nebraska, Sam has left her things, it's time for her to come home.
"I'll be there soon," Liz promises, ending the call and looking up at Tom. He has a curious look on his face, as if he wants to pry, but can tell that it would not be appreciated. Liz releases a shaky breath and stands, offering him a small smile.
"I'm sorry," she says, and she truly is, "I have to go."
He nods his head, but as Liz goes to leave, his fingers wrap gently around her wrist. She looks back at him, and he's holding a crumpled serviette out to her. A phone number is scrawled across it in messy handwriting. Wing Yee is printed in the corner. It makes her think of Nick, how she is yet to thank him for the meal, yet to make contact.
"Call me if you ever want to chat," he offers, before releasing her wrist and with a final smile, leaves the cafe. Liz tucks the slip of paper into the back pocket of her jeans, is aware of it her entire walk home.
The leftover food is eventually thrown into the trash, the fruit flies following after it and hovering around the decimated meals. Liz will take it out on her way down to her car, after she's packed. It won't take long; she left a lot of her belongings and clothes at Sam's when she left for college, in case she ever needed it, in case she ever went home. She never did. The only thing she takes apart from a fresh set of clothes is her service weapon.
With a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and the trash in her other hand, Liz trudges down to the garage. Her old Volkswagen Golf sits patiently for her, the engine long cold from disuse. She throws the trash into the garbage bin, staring at the scratched black paint of her car as she walks to the driver's side. She'd slept in this car many a time; there would be no need for her to stop at any motels.
The drive is long, endless even, as Liz navigates over the rolling hills, the infinite flat planes, the sweeping corners and curves of America. She stops only to rest, her body used to minimal food now; beaten and mistreated into submission. Day rolls to night and then day again, her thoughts clouding her vision, memories clawing to the front of her already grief stricken mind. She was going home.
And there would be no one to greet her. No bright smiles and warm hugs, no crackling fire and the stench of cigarettes because Sam had been smoking inside again. Her father was gone. She swallows past the lump in her throat, blinks back the tears that sting and swell in her eyes. The tyres roll beneath her, propelling her towards an emptiness she is sure she can't fill.
Night blankets the sky by the time Liz pulls into the worn driveway. She is utterly spent. The porch light has been left on. She can't bring herself to get out the car, waiting for Sam to crack open the front door, beaming smile in place. He doesn't.
The house is silent, stale and cold, unused, when she steps inside. She flicks the lights on, knowing the crevices and cracks of this house, even in the dark. The light illuminates the lounge room and then the kitchen, the bedrooms, as Liz moves throughout the house, noticing the same thing in every room. It is untouched. No one has been here since the accident.
Liz knows she won't be able to sleep, even as exhaustion tugs at her body, weakens her limbs and droops her eyelids. She doubts she will ever be able to sleep in this house again. So she gets to work, the daunting and sickening job of sorting through her father's belongings. The finality of it all strikes at Liz with each beat of her heart.
She wonders into the kitchen, dropping her bag onto the slate floor. A letter is opened on the scratched, scarred and stained wooden table; a statement from the bank. Liz picks it up, eyes scanning over the numbers; noticing an account number she doesn't recognise. Large deposits of money have been made, from whom, Liz can't tell, but the sheer amount is startling. It was more money than either Liz or Sam would ever need. Her grip has crumpled the paper, shaking slightly in her trembling hand. Confusion wars within her, knowing that this money would fall to her, money from a stranger. She tucks the statement into her back pocket, trying to force the discovery from her mind. She moves back to the living room, wondering where to start.
His clothes will still have his scent; she'll wait to do them last, donate them to a shelter. She knows she can't avoid his room, no matter how much she desperately wishes she could. Sam was a private man; all his belongings were stashed away in his wardrobe and cupboards, Liz had learned that specific trait from him.
The door creaks as she opens it, like it always did. It had frustrated her endlessly as a child, wanting to be able to sneak into his room, startle him awake on a Sunday morning. He had always pretended to be asleep when she crept in, though he had always been a light sleeper. She still remembers how her giggles would ring throughout the house, when he'd grab her and tickle her until she begged him to stop, promised she would never jump on him in bed again. She didn't stop until she was nine.
The bed is made, of course it is made; Sam couldn't leave the house if it wasn't. This was a trait of his that Liz had not picked up. Some of his clothes are folded neatly and placed on the cushion of the worn and peeling leather recliner, tucked in the corner of the room. The wardrobe is squished into the space between the wall and the window. Liz avoids it, instead heading for Sam's bed side drawers, something easy.
She just hopes she doesn't find any lube.
The first drawer she opens is on the side of the bed he slept on, the right. It's packed with photos of her; birthdays, school plays, award ceremonies, camping trips. Liz sifts through them, mind numb as he father stares up at her, grin wide and arm wrapped around her younger self. She places the photos in a pile; she'll take them home. The rest are just knickknacks and old magazines that he probably never read. Sam was serial magazine collector, subscribing but never reading. She stacked those in a pile, to leave behind.
When she pulls out the last Boating & Fishing magazine, she notices a wooden box, smooth and long tucked away at the back, almost as if it was hidden. She frowns as she pulls it out, the bank statement in her pocket feeling as if it is burning into her skin. The surface of the box is smooth and it opens without resistance. Liz's heart stutters in her chest, the memories of her childhood feeling tainted as she stares at the contents.
Passports, money and visas, are revealed to her, everything Sam would need to disappear, to become someone else. With trembling hands Liz opens one of the passports; her young face stares back at her, in another it is Sam. They both have different identities, false names and credentials. Liz feels bile rise in her throat, panic and disbelief. She rushes to the bathroom, spilling the measly contents of her stomach down the sink. When she looks into the mirror she's sweating, panting. Her face is pale, black locks of hair stick to her forehead. She is gripping onto the sink, her knuckles threatening to split through the skin.
She stumbles back into the bedroom, the box abandoned on her father's bed. Her mind is flooded, drowning all rationale thought, logic and fear battling in the tide; lies and deceit and Sam. If he was here, alive, with her, he could explain. He would have never put her in danger, risked her life. Fury washes out the tide, the flood, a snarling raging inferno, roaring inside Liz's mind. What the Hell is going on?
There lays a note amongst the cash, the passports. There is a name, just a name, scrawled across the scrap of paper in an elegant hand. The ink is red. She picks it up.
Bill Kershaw.
Liz frowns, flips the paper to the other side. In the same red ink is a number. She tucks it alongside Tom's, alongside the bank statement. She scoops up the passports, goes to the wardrobe in search of a bag, a backpack, anything to carry the belongings she will take from her home, from Sam's home. She will leave tonight. She doubts she'll return.
Unanswered questions burn holes in Liz's composure and this discovery; the money, the passports, Bill Kershaw, they will drive Liz to the brink of insanity. She needs to understand, needs to reassure herself of her father's image, of her own image. The passports are heavy in her hands as she tips them into a bag.
She scours through the rest of the house, searching for anything further, any signs or clues as to what her father was involved in, why he would need to flee. She finds nothing, settles for grabbing his belongings that mean the most to her, the one's she has and will treasure for her entire life. She will call Aunt June when she leaves, tell her that it was all too much, that she grabbed what she could and left, that the memories are too painful.
At last, when every cupboard has been fossicked through, every draw upturned, Liz sits back on Sam's bed. Her phone is hot in her hands, slick from where she has been gripping it. The note is crumpled when she removes it from her pocket, the words like blood on the page. Her hands are shaking as she dials the number, heedless of the fact it is three in the morning.
It rings only twice before Liz hears the other line click, the steady breathing of another person, a stranger.
"Yes?" A deep rumble, male, older.
"Hi, um, I'm looking for a Bill Kershaw?"
The answer takes so long to come that Liz believes that it won't, that they've hung up. The voice has changed when it finally comes, more accented, younger. Liz frowns.
"I am sorry; it appears you have the wrong number."
The line falls dead, but Liz remains with her phone pressed to her face. Her feet are planted on the carpeted floor, shoulders hunched. She doesn't know how to proceed, doesn't know what she could possibly do now. She drops her hands so that they swing between her knees.
The hunt will begin tomorrow, the need for answers a part of her being, but the directionless moment she found herself in has eradicated all motivation. She needs a distraction. Tom's number catches her eye and she sighs.
He answers with a gruff voice, sleep riddled, but in only four rings.
"Hey, sorry that I woke you," Liz says quietly, "I was just wondering if you were up for that chat?"
A/N; Here we go, the first chapter of She Put Her Scar Upon My Skin! It's a bit different from Ragged Mile, especially in regards to chapter length. Red's up next chapter, so don't fear, I missed him too. I hope you enjoyed the read and feel free to let me know what you think!