Author's Notes:  Sooo.. it's another Liason story.  I'm telling ya, that's the only couple I know how to write for.  Anyway, just wanted to let you know that I seriously changed the history of three characters, the mention of a history change for another major character, and little Michael only has ONE daddy.  Oh, and for the Carly fans who read this and think "she wouldn't do that!"  Well, she did.  It's my story, I think that's what I'm trying to say. 

Disclaimer:  I don't own these peeps, except for those you don't recognize.  Those honors go to General Hospital, ABC, and Disney.  And I'd really appreciate it if they didn't sue me.  Of course, in true Jason Morgan style… they all really belong to themselves.  Of course, if I did own them, I'd hope that I wouldn't complain when people like me borrowed them.  They gotta have some fun once in awhile. 

Ok, that's all.  Sorry for talking your ear off!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Set Me Free -- Prologue

In the beginning it was sex.

Just two lost people coming together for comfort. I never expected to love her. At that time in my life, I was so lost and I see that now, but I couldn't then. I didn't listen to Monica or Alan when they told me Carly was using me. I couldn't understand that all she wanted was the Golden Boy's trust fund. I was a child in a man's body. Monica pleaded with me to remember, begged me to love her, to love the whole family. But I wouldn't, I couldn't. With the exception of Emily and Lila, I could have cared less about the whole damn family.

That was the way I was with most of the people before my accident. Really, I only managed to reconnect with Elizabeth. She was in the hospital room when I woke up. She stood by as my family hugged me and each other, as they told me they loved me, and waited patiently for me to remember. I remember that she would leave during the day, when the Quartermaines would come. But Elizabeth would always come back to me at night. She'd bring her homework, a few CD's, and some books to read to me. She'd tell me about Jason Quartermaine, if I asked her. But mostly she just let me be. Elizabeth was the first person in my life who ever let me do that.

Then she went to live with her parents in Colorado, and I met Carly. Looking back, I can see the dollar signs that flashed in her eyes the first time she heard I lived in the Quartermaine mansion. Even though I hated it there, I wasn't stupid. Yes, living in the woods would have been better, but I would have never survived. The doctors all said I was damaged and would never function properly. They said I would never be able to love.

I didn't love Carly when we left Port Charles. We'd known each other three weeks. I'd go to her room at Jake's and we'd have sex. Sometimes we'd play pool, sometimes we'd dance. But we'd always, always have sex. Afterwards, we'd lay there and she'd tell me about life outside of Port Charles. All of the places she'd been, things she'd done. She'd tell me about her best friend, Carly Roberts, and how she was killed in a car accident.

The first fight we ever had was right before she asked me to leave with her. I'd brought her to the mansion for dinner. Carly hadn't dressed up for the occasion, and Monica had looked at her like she was white trash. AJ had invited Jason Quartermaine's girlfriend, Keesha, to the dinner, the whole family hoping I'd see her and after all of these months remember being in love with her.

That night, when I took Carly back to the bar, she told me she was leaving. Something big was happening in Chicago and she wanted to be a part of it. Her father, Frank Benson, was going to be there and he was going to fix her up with some friends. Then—then she told me she loved me and asked if I'd go with her.

The next day, I was sitting down with the head banker of Port Charles Bank & Trust, wanting to close my account. He'd looked at me strangely, had wanted to call my grandfather, but because I was legally over 18, he knew there was nothing he could do to stop me. Carly was waiting in the parking lot in our rental car.

By the time we arrived in Chicago, I was in love with Carly. Or Caroline, as I liked to call her. She was—is—a beautiful person. Long blonde hair, big brown eyes, a beautiful body. She was smart, but impulsive. Everything I never needed in a woman. I see that now.

Her father hadn't been lying when he said he had contacts in Chicago. Carly had an uncle who was a lawyer in the city and he let us live in one of his houses, rent free. We took the money from the trust fund and put it in the bank, both of us hoping it'd last. I took a job as a mechanic in a motorcycle shop and Carly started waitressing. I admit, she wasn't very good at it and the owner of the diner threatened to fire her at least three times a week, but we got by. It turns out, I didn't trust her as much as I thought I did. I took about a hundred thousand dollars from the trust fund and put it in a separate account. Looking back, I know it was the only thing that saved Michael and me.

Michael is my son with Carly. Michael Robert Morgan. Robert after her friend who died and Morgan because I didn't want to be a Quartermaine anymore. Morgan was Lila's maiden name. We found out she was pregnant in October 1996. Michael was born May 17, 1997. Carly left five days later.

It was her impulsiveness, I think. Somewhere deep down, I knew Carly wouldn't stick around to help me raise Michael. The boy had red hair—she said he got it from her mother and blue eyes like mine. While she was pregnant, I knew she loved him. Carly even gave up the junk food she loved so much and took the vitamins her doctor gave her. She loved him very much when he was inside of her. But after he was born, something changed. She pulled back. I thought she was just going through some kind of postpartum depression. I'd read about it in one of the books I read before Michael was born.

I can still remember the socks I was wearing the day she left. Every minute detail haunted me in my dreams for weeks, until I realized she was never going to come back. I didn't doubt that she loved me, but she proved to me that sometimes love isn't enough. When I came home from work that day, Carly's aunt's car was in the driveway. It scared me a little because her relatives had only been by to visit twice since we'd moved to Chicago. Immediately, I thought something was wrong with Michael. It wasn't until I found him gurgling in his crib that my mind was set at ease. Vanessa, her aunt, told me Carly had wanted some time by herself and had asked her to baby-sit. She readily agreed because she'd hardly seen Michael since he was born.

It was at that moment I knew something was wrong. Carly didn't even like Vanessa, much less trust her enough to watch Michael. And time by herself? She hated being by herself. Carly needed to feel like she belonged to something. After I assured Vanessa everything was fine and she left, the first thing I did was call the bank. The money in our account was gone. Every last penny of it. She'd taken it all. Then I called her parents in Florida, but they hadn't heard from her. Her mother, Virginia, said she probably just went for a walk and that I was blowing it out of proportion. But I knew she was gone.

I sat on the couch holding Michael a long time that night. I gave him a bottle and rocked him to sleep. As he slept, I made promises to him I wasn't sure if I could keep. I promised that we'd always be together. I told him I'd take care of him and that he'd never be alone. I said I'd never leave and that I loved him. And I did. I loved him more that day than I'd ever loved anyone. Because he was all I had left.

When I put him in his crib sometime after midnight, I stumbled into the room Carly and I shared. It still smelled like her. A thousand questions were racing through my mind as I began to wonder what I was going to do. How I was going to make it. How we were going to make it. What about money? Food? Where were we going to live? I didn't know.

It was then that I saw the card on my pillow. An ivory envelope that said Jason on the front. I held it for hours, knowing that it was the last time I'd ever hear from Carly. I didn't understand, and I knew the card wasn't going to help. What could she possibly say that would make this okay?

I cried. I didn't realize it until I saw the drops on the envelope, smearing my scripted name. Finally, I worked up the courage to see what she had to say for herself. Instead of a printed card, I found Carly had just taken some card stock and folded it in half. I turned to the inside and the two pages were filled with her words. I skimmed them as she told me what to tell Michael when he was old enough to understand. She wanted him to know she loved him, that she'll always love him. A lot of things I was having a hard time believing at the moment.

Then, the last two sentences were for me. As I read them, I knew that I'd never forget what she said for as long as I lived.

"I love you Jason, I do. Please don't doubt that. But I can't stay. I know you'll take care of Michael. I'd like to say I'll see ya later, but I won't. Goodbye, Jase. Love- Caroline"

~*~

The first memory I have is my fifth birthday party. My grandmother, Audrey Hardy, had invited the hospital staff and their families over to celebrate the day. I probably remember that day because it was the first time I felt like I had a family outside of Gram.

My parents dumped me on her doorstep when I was two weeks old. My father, Jeff, had been offered a fellowship in Russia right before my mom, Cheryl, had found out she was pregnant. At the time, he had to turn it down. By some amazing stroke of luck—or misfortune, however you look at it—the fellowship still hadn't been filled after I was born. My father didn't hesitate to take the position. After a brief stop in Port Charles, where he left me with his stepmother, they were off to brave the Siberian winter on the other side of the world, away from me.

I think I remember my fifth birthday because it was the day I met my best friend. He was seven. Jason Quartermaine was from the most prominent family in town. His parents worked with my grandmother at General Hospital. His mother, Monica, once had an affair with my uncle Rick. It seemed fated that Jason and I would be friends.

My senior year in high school, Jason was in a car accident. His older brother was driving drunk and Jason was trying to stop him. Instead, AJ managed to wrap Jason's head around a tree in the driveway. Jason Quartermaine died that night. A month later, Jason Morgan was born.

I was in the room when he woke up. I immediately ran to get Monica and Alan, I wanted them all to know he was awake and okay. Well, not okay, exactly. Jason didn't remember anything about his previous life. Not his family, not his friends, not me. I didn't give up though. I couldn't. In my short life, I'd only had a few people who had always been there for me. Jason was one of them.

Slowly we rebuilt our relationship. I didn't have much time, though. My parents had summoned me to Colorado after I graduated, four months away. He spent three weeks in the hospital after he woke up, and I spent every night with him. I'd go to school during the day, then visit him at night. I'd bring my homework so I could keep my grades up. Sometimes I'd bring other books to read to him, and CDs so he could listen to the music. I just knew he didn't need to be alone like he was. No one should be alone.

At first, Jason treated me like them. He kicked me out of his room and he swore to me that he'd never remember me. After awhile, I think he finally got that I didn't want him to remember. If Jason Morgan was all I could have, I was happy with that. I worked with him on the basic things. I was there when he read his first sentence from one of those 'Dick & Jane' books. When we'd go out together, I helped him match his clothes. It got to the point that he'd only wear solid colored shirts and jeans. And motorcycle boots. It never made sense to me…why he'd choose motorcycle boots.

I knew he hated living in the Quartermaine mansion. He even considered for half a second coming to Colorado with me. Our four months together flew by, but I was confidant that we'd remain friends across the miles. A friendship like ours wasn't something either of us could walk away from.

So when I got to Colorado, I wrote him letters. I enrolled in college in Denver and studied teaching. Art was— is—my passion, but I knew I could never make a living as an artist. My parents pressured me to go into medicine, but I resisted. They already had two doctors in the family, why did they need a third? For four years I lived in their house, under their rules. Each moment, I was dying to get out. I knew I'd die if I didn't leave soon.

Jason and I kept in contact after I left. I wrote him letters and he'd write me back. Things I knew he would never tell anyone else. I'm not sure why he told me, I just knew I was grateful. Four months after I left Port Charles he wrote me about a girl. Caroline, he called her. She was going to take him away from Port Charles. Away from the Quartermaines. He promised to continue writing. Two weeks later, there was an envelope with a Chicago postmark and I knew it was him. He was ecstatic in his letter—his Caroline was pregnant.

The letters continued through the next six months, each telling me of the child they were going to have, the family they'd be. Then, they just stopped. I continued to write, but I never got a response. Finally, one was sent back stamped no forwarding address and I knew I'd lost my oldest friend.

I had three years of college to finish at that point. Since my parents were paying for school, I knew I'd have to live with the life they were choosing for me. I took a job bartending during the night at a college bar near the university. My parents didn't approve of the way I made my money, but they didn't try to stop me either. Since I was living in their house, I put all of my money in the bank, just waiting for the day I would escape this hell.

Instead of attending my graduation ceremony, I packed my bags. My parents, Stephen, and Sarah were all at the ceremony. As they called my name and waited for me to get my diploma, I was boarding a bus on my way to Chicago. Jason briefly crossed my mind when I decided where I was going, but I knew I'd never find him. Chances were, he was back in Port Charles. I hoped not. I didn't want to think he'd given up, but I didn't know what happened to him and his Caroline. And their son. Michael Morgan, he had said in his last letter. He'd be three now.

No, my cousin lived in Chicago, too. We were related through my mother's family. Zander was Aunt Joyce's oldest son, from an affair she had with a married man as a teenager. I'd met him on my 19th birthday. Zander was twenty-two then. It was the last family function he ever attended. Shortly after, he left home to work in Chicago. I'd overheard my parents speculating about his job. It seemed that the man he worked for was arrested on racketeering charges, even though he was later set free because of lack of evidence.

When I left Denver, I wasn't sure if Zander would help me. We'd only met once, but I got his address from my father's book. I'm not even sure why my father had it, but for the first time in my life I was grateful to him. I rode the bus because I couldn't afford to fly. And I knew it'd be harder for my parents to trace me this way. I knew they'd look, but hopefully once I got to Chicago I could disappear into the masses.

Wasn't that the reason people went to big cities anyway? To disappear. I think that was the reason Jason went to Chicago, in the beginning. I knew he didn't love Caroline, he'd told me so. But she was his ticket out of Port Charles and away from his family, so he went with her.

When I got to Port Charles, I took a cab to Zander's apartment building. As I rode, I looked out the window at the trash on the streets and the homeless men and women who lived around the trash. For the first time in months, I was itching to paint. It didn't matter what I painted, just that I painted something. And fast. Dropping me off in front of a run down seven story building, he cabbie charged me ten bucks for the ten minute ride from the bus station. As I walked up the stairs past the drug pushers, I could only pray Zander was home.

The elevator was broken, so I climbed the six flights of stairs to his apartment. The notecard I'd written his address down on said he lived in apartment G, so I turned the corner when I got to the top to look for it. The letter was hanging by a nail on the door, swinging back and forth. I knocked and held my breath, hoping someone was inside to hear me.

I thanked God as I heard a male voice call out from inside. Consciously, I knew this could not be Zander, but I had to think it was. I had to hope it was. He was pulling on his t-shirt when he opened the door, wearing a pair of jeans and bare feet. He studied my face for a minute and I knew he didn't know me.

"Hi…" I said tentatively.

"Do I know you?" he questioned immediately. I watched as he reached around into the waistband of his jeans and I visibly gulped. Was he reaching for a gun?

"I…" I stammered. "We met once, about four years ago." He stared at me blankly. "In Colorado. Denver. It was my birthday." Still, he said nothing. "I didn't think you'd remember me."

"Aunt Cheryl's daughter," he said finally. Then, he smiled. It wasn't warm and friendly, but it was a start. "You look a lot like her and my mother." His eyes ran over me from my sandaled feet, to the overnight bag I carried, and finally he settled on my face again. "What's your name again?"

This was the moment I'd been waiting for. I'd been thinking about my name the entire bus ride over. My parents and sister had called me Lizzie while I lived at home. Stephen had called me Liz. My grandmother and Jason used to call me Elizabeth. Briefly I had considered calling myself that, but I knew I'd hurt too much thinking of the lost friendship. Finally, I settled on a variation of my middle name, even though I hated it.

"Emma," I told him. "Is there any way I could come in and we can talk for a minute?"

Zander smiled at me, warmly this time. He moved from the doorway so I could come into his small apartment. His hand settled on the small of my back and I glanced back at him. His warm brown eyes reassured me. And for the first time in a long time, I knew I'd be okay.