Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me; in fact they belong to Fox and the respective producers, writers, directors and other creative contributors to the show Lie to Me.
She stared herself down in the mirror, five feet and five inches of bruised, withered skin, one inch of tired, lonely eyes, and a half inch of sad, pale lips. She felt as if she had just woken up. That she had never been born until this day, this moment when she surveyed herself and realized who she was and what she wanted. Standing naked she dared to shiver as she let a gentle hand run down her side and across her flat stomach, fingers walking like tiny feet across freckles and porcelain skin. They came of stop at two long, thin scars that ran over the curve of her hip starting at the edge of her rib cage and running to the inside, tender, skin of her thigh. The two marks reminded her of the legs of a ladder, the rungs having gone missing over years of wear and tear. They made her who she was; had nearly defined her for years and now she was ready to abandon them. Slowly two fingers glanced the thin red lines and traced them like train tracks down the innermost part of her left thigh, stopping there to rub tiny circles into the soft skin there as she stared on. Time for change.
With shaky limbs and a half-roused heart she slowly slipped thin black straps over her nude shoulders, easing into the dress gingerly and glad that the hem fell just below her knees and not above them. The hardening scratches still clung to the joints like old cobwebs.
Cal would ask questions, wonder where the bruises on her arms and chest had come from, but it was nothing a little black dress couldn't fix; nothing a little normalcy couldn't help. Shrugging on the slim-sleeved blazer she stared again at herself, all bruises successfully covered, save for the tiny nick on her neck. She'd find something to blame it on. Looking at the small cut in the mirror she mused to herself that she could blame it on shaving, a smile gracing her reddened, barely swollen lips. If only it could be that simple.
Pumps on and haggard head held high she left her bedroom to a sick, apathetic silence, heels clicking as she reached for her coat and purse, façade slipping into place as she opened the door to face another day. But it couldn't be just that. It was a different day and she was a different woman. She needed to relearn how to walk, how to speak, and how to live. Killing some one made you a different person. She hadn't imagined how it would change her; though try as she might, she couldn't pin point it on some kind of facial expression or change in voice quality, but it was there, and it enveloped her like a fog.
It was her new bedmate and she was going to have to get used to it. It was something years of normalcy couldn't replace or kill. Not even a little black dress.
Cal greeted her with a look of surprise that fizzled into concern as she approached.
"It's been a while love." He reached a gentle hand out to her, letting it dance lightly across her hip, just over the ladder, then fall to grasp hers. He knew. How she couldn't fathom, but he had caught the glimpse she couldn't find; the change she hadn't been able to find.
"I was worried." He squeezed her hand and looked up to find her eyes glassy, staring at him, lost and shocked.
"Me too." Was all she could manage, her fragile voice cracking. Her slight hands couldn't stop as she wrapped her arms around him and nestled close into his neck, her breathe hot and alive for the first time in days. Maybe the fog would someday disappear.
A/N: The end.