This was written in responce to Cover Me's challenge.
It hurts. It hurts so bad I want to claw at my wrists, just to see if I'm real anymore; or if I'm just stuck in a bad dream. I can feel my body pushing itself against the walls, the sticky plastic fabric attaching itself to my bare back. My head rolls to the side, and I can feel the same walls hit my temple with great force.
I can hear them talking, barely, over my own voice. I hear my rough voice, the incoherant words echoing in the empty room, the padded walls sucking the useless vocabulary into them. So that nobody can hear me. Nobody can hear me slowly go insane.
They are talking about me. I know that much for sure. I can see the stream of sunlight dissapear across the floor as the heavy iron door is shut, the metal echoing in my presence. Do I even exist anymore? I'm fine. I keep telling them I'm fine, but they won't listen.
They shrug me off, as another mental patient loosing her mind. I'm fine. I don't forget anything, and I certainly don't remember killing a doctor. I'm fine. My name is Charlize Walsh. I'm fine. My name. Is Charlize. Walsh. I'm fine.
-----
This time I'll admit that I miss her. I miss every inch of her. It's been a long three years, every day I've spent trying to come to terms with exactly what happened to her. The real Sydney is just a memory, now. I don't even think Sydney Bristow is alive anymore. There is some stranger I don't know locked up in a mental institution, nine miles from here. The stranger won't talk to anyone. The only item she possesses anymore is a black eyeliner. Whenever I see her, the black is smeared under her eyes, making her pale skin turn sheet white.
The stranger refuses to acknowlege anyone. She lives in her own world, mumbling words to herself to keep her mind busy. She's forgotten who she is. She's forgotten everything.
Sydney Bristow was a woman I loved. She was radiant, she was everything my world revolved around. Sydney died on March 17th, 2005. "Charlize Walsh" was born three weeks later, when Sydney awoke from her coma. I didn't know what was wrong at first. All I remember, all I want to remember, from that day, was that Weiss called me. I had gone home for the first time in a week, to change my clothes. And he called. He said she had lost her memory. They weren't sure what the Rambaldi device had done to her, but she had no idea who Sydney Bristow was. She screamed at the name. Vaughn could still hear the screams.
Sydney Bristow is not real.
Who is Sydney? My name is Charlize.
Don't touch me, I don't know you.
Michael Vaughn? Have I met you?
He remembered how soft her voice was when she had said that. It was the last thing she had said directly to him. She had a small smile on her face, as she stuck her hand out in front of her. It was the day she was leaving the CIA hospital. Vaughn was going to help her into his car, and out of her wheel chair. She questioned this.
Vaughn rubbed his forehead, trying to wipe the memories out. Just like she had.
-----
(All she could hear was the sound of her boots hitting the floor. The plastic heel breaking. The sound of her body falling against a
table, as her balance was lost. Her breathing was panicked. She knew they were only four paces behind her. She felt them grab for
her wrists. The first thing she did was kick one. There were nine. She got three down, but they were too powerful for her, and knocked
her out.
When she awoke again, she was strapped to a chair. Someone was beside her. Moving her head, she saw the first face come into the
light. Sark. No suprize there. But when she turned to her left, she felt her stomach tighten, her eyes widen.
"Sydney."
"Mom?"
And then, the smug smile on her mother's white teeth dissapeared into the blackness of the room. Sydney could hear something
starting up. She could feel metal clanking underneath her, as levers and switches were pulled. She felt the pain overwhelm her body.
She heard her mothers' words ("Do you trust me now, Sydney?") echo around the empty room. She felt her head spin, and she didn't
remember anything from that point on.)
She heard a scream.
She heard a loud, terrifying scream.
The wall hit her back, as she fell into it, her head smashing against it. She fell to the floor, her back against the corner of the room,
her knees up to her chin. She was crying, screaming. She didn't want to remember this. She didn't need to. She wasn't Sydney, she didn't even know who Sydney was. That dream had played through her head, in a movie like sequence since she had arrived at this white room. She had never been able to keep it away.
She still heard screaming. The voice registered as her own. The eerie screams turned into pleading words, as she dissolved into a fit of sobs, murmuring "Help me, Help me..." into her palms. She looked down, and saw blood running down her hands. Blood was all over her. It was between her fingers, under her nails, on her pants, on her cheeks.
Help me...Help me...
-----
"How is she today, Mr Vaughn?"
"Don't you fucking ever ask about your daughter again, do you understand me? You killed her, you KILLED your daughter." Vaughn screamed, punching the glass wall that divided them.
Irina's face fell, her eyes traveling down his legs to the floor.
"You understand I never ment to hurt her, Mr Vaughn. I loved my daughter very much."
"Don't you say that. Don't you ever say that." Vaughn could feel the tears rolling down his cheeks. He could feel the urgency in his voice.
"I never intended to hurt her! They said if I compiled with them, she wouldn't get hurt."
"Well they lied then, didn't they." Vaughn hissed, his voice laced with venom.
"I can't apologize enough, Mr Vaughn, I loved my daughter."
"No you didn't. Don't even pretend to say that. You would never know what love is. I loved your daughter. I. Loved. Her."
Irina was silent for a moment, the heavy atmosphere overwhelming her. She locked eyes with Vaughn, and felt her stomach twist when she saw the unshed tears brimming in his eyes, the dishevelment of his persona something she had never seen since Sydney's "dissapearance."
"Please, Mr Vaughn. I have no privileges. Just let me know, how is she. Is she okay?"
"Is she okay? Is she OKAY?!" Vaughn slammed the glass once more, making Irina jump. "She had another attack yesterday, another dream of what YOU did to her. Do you understand me? She was crying so much, she got that fucking eyeliner everywhere. It was all over her. It was between her fingers, under her nails, on her pants, on her cheeks. She thought it was blood. She was screaming and crying, they couldn't calm her down for hours." Vaughn paused, the venom still very much apparent. "And you know what's funny? Is that three years ago, had this happened, I could have calmed her down. That's right, I could have calmed her down, I could have stopped her screaming. Because I KNEW Sydney. I don't know Charlize. Charlize doesn't know me, and for that, I can NEVER forgive you."
-----
The blood stopped.
One day, it stopped.
I felt everything end.
I don't know him, but I still watch over his back every day.
I look down on him, and I know he can feel me.
I never knew this man, but the day at my funeral, he was crying the most.
More then my father. More then my mother.
I remember watching him.
Trying to place a name with a face.
It never happened.
It's ironic. I saw my tombstone this morning.
It didn't say Charlize, though.
It said Sydney.
The pain is there, again.
Because desperately.
So desperately, I want to place the names Vaughn and Charlize together.
But I can't.
Because I'm emotionless.
(Quick Form)