A/N:
This story is a continuation of one of my previous stories entitled "If By Chance".
This story involves many of the same characters. It is not another crime/hurt comfort story, and is therefore different in nature.
(I'm currently trying to work on another one of those)
This story will not work as a stand alone, so if you haven't read "If By Chance", chances are you will be quite confuzzled. (yes... I said confuzzled.)
Made of Scars
by Starbuck0322
Darkness Deep
Hands tightened around Gillian Foster's throat, pushed forcefully down upon her as she tried to catch her breath, tried to open her eyes. She was greeted with only darkness. A black canvased bag caved around her head. It sucked into her mouth as she parted her lips and tried to breathe.
Finally she came to, opened her eyes fully as she stirred, pulled her legs up to her chest. The bed's comforter lay in a ball at the end of the bed, threatened to fall to the floor, and she frantically reached to grab it, covering her and the body beside her.
She gasped as the sweat clung to her body, and she shivered and begged the blanket over her to give her comfort.
Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, to the blinking digital clock beside her that read 1:03. We must have lost power, she thought. Surely it had to be later than that.
Her heart beat loud within her chest and she willed it to keep calm. She shut her eyes as she focused on her thready breath. She willed the images, the darkness, to escape her, to keep from her mind so she could once again drift off into a peaceful slumber.
But the image of the darkness began to come back to her and she opened her eyes fully, silently cursed the night for being so long.
Beside her, Cal Lightman dreamed soundlessly, and she lifted herself on her elbow carefully to watch him sleep. His face remained free from lines, and she sighed softly, wished she could join him in the pleasantries he was experiencing.
A night without terror, without the shaking fear she fought to be devoid of.
She slowly rolled from the sheets and stood, fully aware that her night's sleep was finished, that the next hours would have to be spent in solitude, until the house was full of life again, full of light and love.
The sweat cooled on her body even as the images faded slowly from sight, and she reached to the floor to pick up her discarded t-shirt; Cal's baggy black t-shirt that she had claimed as her own. She softly padded across the floor, mindful of every rise and fall, of the change of flooring, of carpet and hardwood, of every piece of furniture in her way. She zigged her way towards his dresser drawers and opened one that housed her clothing; a space he had given up for her, to help this feel like home.
She took a pair of underwear from the drawer, quickly put them on and picked her robe from the chair by the door.
She opened the door and left Cal to his dreams.
The hall was dark, but the carpeting helped her to keep her early morning wandering a secret. She looked down the hall to Emily's room and found the room aglow with a soft light. She crept towards her door and peered inside.
Emily was curled on her bed. The room was cool, the window open. A small desk lamp was left on. Emily's laptop's screensaver paraded through a selection of photos. Bright, shiny faces, filled with hope and friendship looked back at Gillian as she softly tip-toed toward the desk to turn off the light.
She edged toward Emily and lifted her duvet over her shoulders. It was a small comfort, but if helped Gillian to feel she belonged.
Emily, like her father, dreamt peacefully, face void of any trauma or struggle. She could dream of boys, and parties, and a future filled with hope. Of new experiences. Of exploring the world in front of her.
Gillian found the stairs in the darkness and inched down to reach the main floor. Work would be her only comfort tonight, she thought as she crept toward the kitchen and opened the fridge door.
She would heat some milk, find her laptop, and look over the month's budget. Surely that would be enough to pass the time, before the house would be full of happy thoughts, and laughter, and the bickering of father and daughter which she had grown fond of in these past few months.
She turned on the light over the sink and pulled a pot quietly from the kitchen drawers. The burner clicked and engulfed the pot in flame and she turned it down low and drew a wooden spoon from a container on the counter.
The moon was bright in these early morning hours, and Gillian looked up from her work to see it reflecting out over the autumn grass, the fallen leaves covered in a light dusting of frost. It felt like it had only been a short time ago that the ground had been covered in a deep snow, when their world was full of cold and torture.
She inhaled deeply. She could barely remember the heat of summer. The humidity the dense city had offered.
Had it been a dream.
And now the snow was coming again. The horrid thick white blanket. The silence of the city.
Those trees...
That cabin...
And a cold cement floor against her bruised cheek.
She blinked and sighed again, looked down to the white liquid rapidly bubbling in front of her.
"Shit," she cursed as she took it from the heat and poured some quickly into a mug. She had made a mess of this simple task but it would have to do.
Her laptop was as she had left it the night before; closed, sitting on the dining room table. She looked down at the seat in front of her, thought about sitting there for hours before it was time for Cal to get up. When she could make him some tea, and conjure up a reason for leaving bed early.
She would need a different environment, she decided. Something to make her feel more at ease and not so alone in this big house, with its big windows, and rolling lawn. So unlike her city condominium.
She picked the laptop from the table and with her mug in the other hand, headed for Cal's study, where she was sure to curl up with the month's budget and figures.
The room smelled of books, of age, of intellect. It was her favourite space in his house, with its large window which perfectly framed the lone large oak tree which grew behind his house. The room was surrounded in mahogany wood panelling and large Victorian area rugs overlapped each other on the floor. A large, red velvet daybed was situated in front of the large paned window. Several tall bookcases filled in the spaces where they could, collected dust on shelves much higher than she could reach. A small folding desk and chair were angled into one corner which provided a nice view out the window.
She smiled as she looked to her favourite corner, to her favourite high-backed, over-sized chair with over-sized ottoman. It was a more modern piece for the room, and was offset by a Victorian lamp with a tulip shade made with crystal beading and lace.
She curled up onto the welcoming seat, and draped a nearby blanket over her legs.
She sat and typed for what felt like hours, but when she looked up to the large clock beside her on a nearby bookcase, she found to her dismay that only forty-five minutes had passed.
She placed the laptop on a table to her left and crawled out from beneath the blanket to tread lightly across the floor. She sat at Cal's desk.
He barely used this desk, preferring to work in the kitchen, or the dining room, or late at night seated in bed, with Gillian reading beside him. The desk instead housed many treasures for her in the form of notes and photos, and often Gillian would escape in secret, and rummage through the small nooks and crannies.
She lowered the desk's table and quietly propped it up with the sliding support peg, careful to keep her search a secret from the house. Small little cubbies were built into the desk and she instantly went to a familiar hold, and picked up the old photographs that she had now engrained in her memory.
Photos of Cal as a young boy. His mother. A rare photo of his father with its edges worn and faded. A photo of Emily as a newborn held carefully in her father's arms.
He looked up at Gillian with a face that showed happiness, joy, and a young unbridled fear. He almost looked up at the photographer looking for instructions of what he was supposed to do next.
It was one of her favourite photos. A rare glimpse that the "always two-steps ahead" Cal Lightman, might not know all of what life had in store. Even he had a fear of the unknown.
She placed the photos back in their place, careful to keep the order intact, and continued on her search. All seemed as it had been the last time she had taken up this little adventure through the mind of Cal Lightman. All but for one nook stuck out to Gillian as new and unexplored.
She reached forward and picked up a manilla envelope, wrapped around what looked to be a stack of envelopes. She unwrapped the package, removed the rubber band holding it together.
Several long white envelopes tumbled onto the table now free of their restraints. She flipped one over and the girlish smile on her face dissolved into confusion. She picked it up and held it closer to her face. The envelope was addressed to her at The Lightman Group. She looked to where the return address would be, saw it blank, and flipped the envelope in her hands. Anger forced its way across her brow as she made out the tiny scrawl.
The door to the room creaked slightly, and she turned to look behind her. Cal stood in the doorway and looked on Gillian, to the envelopes gripped in her hands.
He tried his best to ignore the scene he had walked in on, fully aware of the reason behind the glare she shot him. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Gill? It's early. Come to bed."
She stood slowly and looked down to the envelopes in her hand. She displayed them in front of her, fanned them out towards him.
"Tell me you didn't," was all she said.
