TITLE: Like This
AUTHOR: Maycen Dicksen
RATING: PG
FEEDBACK: Please. maycendicksen@aol.com
SPOILERS: "The Telling"
DISTRIBUTION: Fanfiction.net, SD-1. If you'd like to post it anywhere else,
I'd be honored. Just drop me an e-mail.
SUMMARY: There are so many things wrong with a situation that should be so
right.
WARNING: This isn't exactly a happy story.
DISCLAIMER: Oh yeah. Almost forgot. I don't own the show or the characters.
If I did, there'd be no RONG. Or Connie Vaughn. Or Mac Smith.
NOTES: I know it's a little all over the place, but it's supposed to be
that way. So, please forgive me.
You don't know anything about anything for the moment, but you know that this is wrong. You shouldn't be here on this dingy bare mattress in the corner of a warehouse in God knows where. You know enough that this should be happening elsewhere.
You don't know how you got this way. Well, you know how you got this way, it's just the details you don't know. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? There's no way to tell, so you remain indifferent. You resist the urge to scream, to spit in the face of the woman at your side, holding your hand and wiping the hair from your face. Instead, you simply lie there and let the pain run its course.
Someone else should be here with you. This much you do know. You wonder in your heart if that someone is trying to find you. You'd find him yourself if only you weren't looking for you, too.
You don't know if you're ready for this. You don't even know if you wanted this. All you know is that it's happening and there's nothing you can do about it. You're surprised the woman is being so benevolent today, as this certainly slows down your movement. But she's not angry. Today, she's singing something light and sweet. Something in Russian. Something that you understand. Something that you almost remember.
She gruffly told the man to leave an hour ago, and he complied, for the first time. Since then, the pain has grown stronger and for some reason, you feel like you're going to die.
She senses this. You suspect your face has betrayed your fear. Or perhaps it was your rattling limbs. She leans in close and whispers something else as she strokes your hair.
"It shouldn't be like this," she says. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."
You don't know where the term of endearment comes in, but it's nice and somewhat comforting, given the circumstances.
The pain catches you off guard then, and you scream, your voice echoing throughout the empty room. Once you start, you can't stop. The screams become a chain of sobs, and the woman has to hold you down to keep you from curling up into the fetal position.
The woman begins to sing again, seemingly to keep herself from crying. You think you hear her choke up on the second verse, but her brown hair hides her face.
"Sing with me, sweetheart."
And you do. And it feels strangely familiar, brings a familiar warmth, your voices echoing in the warehouse together. It takes your mind off the pain, momentarily.
And then there's the new kind of pain. A ripping pain at your center. You scream like you've never screamed before (or at least that you know of) and then it's total blackness.
You wake up to the smell of ammonia, a cap being broken under your nose. You're disoriented, although that's not exactly a new development. All you know is that the searing pain is gone, replaced by something more dull and permanent.
The woman is by your side again, singing quietly. She wipes your hair away again and smiles warmly. You resist the urge to smile back at her.
She lays something on the bed beside you. Something you can't help but smile at.
The woman helps you sit up and this time you don't even notice the ripping. You pick up the bundle by your side, holding it close and staring at it. It- she-stares back at you, her forehead wrinkling with consternation.
In that moment, you see someone familiar. Your brain doesn't know him, but your heart does. And you know that this is right, that this is a good thing, after all. In your heart, you know he's out there looking for you. You vow to look for him, too, because you've just found yourself.
It shouldn't have happened like this. There should have been pink blankets and balloons and roses, and the man with the sandy blonde hair holding your hand. But none of that matters now as you feed her. The woman beside you leans down and kisses your forehead. She beams as she rubs your back, and stares at the tiny bundle.
"Sing with me, sweetheart," she whispers, as she moves to tie your hair back from your face.
And you do.
You don't know anything about anything for the moment, but you know that this is wrong. You shouldn't be here on this dingy bare mattress in the corner of a warehouse in God knows where. You know enough that this should be happening elsewhere.
You don't know how you got this way. Well, you know how you got this way, it's just the details you don't know. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? There's no way to tell, so you remain indifferent. You resist the urge to scream, to spit in the face of the woman at your side, holding your hand and wiping the hair from your face. Instead, you simply lie there and let the pain run its course.
Someone else should be here with you. This much you do know. You wonder in your heart if that someone is trying to find you. You'd find him yourself if only you weren't looking for you, too.
You don't know if you're ready for this. You don't even know if you wanted this. All you know is that it's happening and there's nothing you can do about it. You're surprised the woman is being so benevolent today, as this certainly slows down your movement. But she's not angry. Today, she's singing something light and sweet. Something in Russian. Something that you understand. Something that you almost remember.
She gruffly told the man to leave an hour ago, and he complied, for the first time. Since then, the pain has grown stronger and for some reason, you feel like you're going to die.
She senses this. You suspect your face has betrayed your fear. Or perhaps it was your rattling limbs. She leans in close and whispers something else as she strokes your hair.
"It shouldn't be like this," she says. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."
You don't know where the term of endearment comes in, but it's nice and somewhat comforting, given the circumstances.
The pain catches you off guard then, and you scream, your voice echoing throughout the empty room. Once you start, you can't stop. The screams become a chain of sobs, and the woman has to hold you down to keep you from curling up into the fetal position.
The woman begins to sing again, seemingly to keep herself from crying. You think you hear her choke up on the second verse, but her brown hair hides her face.
"Sing with me, sweetheart."
And you do. And it feels strangely familiar, brings a familiar warmth, your voices echoing in the warehouse together. It takes your mind off the pain, momentarily.
And then there's the new kind of pain. A ripping pain at your center. You scream like you've never screamed before (or at least that you know of) and then it's total blackness.
You wake up to the smell of ammonia, a cap being broken under your nose. You're disoriented, although that's not exactly a new development. All you know is that the searing pain is gone, replaced by something more dull and permanent.
The woman is by your side again, singing quietly. She wipes your hair away again and smiles warmly. You resist the urge to smile back at her.
She lays something on the bed beside you. Something you can't help but smile at.
The woman helps you sit up and this time you don't even notice the ripping. You pick up the bundle by your side, holding it close and staring at it. It- she-stares back at you, her forehead wrinkling with consternation.
In that moment, you see someone familiar. Your brain doesn't know him, but your heart does. And you know that this is right, that this is a good thing, after all. In your heart, you know he's out there looking for you. You vow to look for him, too, because you've just found yourself.
It shouldn't have happened like this. There should have been pink blankets and balloons and roses, and the man with the sandy blonde hair holding your hand. But none of that matters now as you feed her. The woman beside you leans down and kisses your forehead. She beams as she rubs your back, and stares at the tiny bundle.
"Sing with me, sweetheart," she whispers, as she moves to tie your hair back from your face.
And you do.