Rose
"There is no line when it comes to being with the one you love."
The silence, Fiona thought, should have bothered her more, sinking her in a sea of regrets. Surprisingly though, Fiona was able to shrug the feeling of loneliness off like an undesired coat; left in the corner to collect dust.
The omnipresent anger – born in an act of supposed deception, left Fiona with a nagging feeling of guilt; she felt guilty for her own failings in stopping the man who had given her a second chance, albeit double-edged, only to be left with an inevitable, heart-breaking sacrifice Michael was unwilling to make.
The disdain and disgust in people's eyes – federal agents, prison wards or even secretaries, was something Fiona understood; after all she had once acted on exactly those feelings. It only intensified when all Fiona did – while being interrogated, was shrugging and keeping quiet.
The truth was a luxury, Fiona admonished herself in moments of doubt, she could not grant herself with; or anyone else for that matter.
Michael had said it himself, "There is no line when it comes to being with the one you love."
Or in Fiona's case, protecting the one you love meant playing the role of a murdering enemy of the state – states she corrected herself, then so be it.
The metal of the handcuffs around Fiona's wrists were unusually cold and the orange fabric covering her - apparently - frail body, was scratching her skin. The cell the government held her in, was small and freezing. She sat crossed-legged on a thin blanket with her hands folded in her lap. Waiting for the final decision on whether she would be deported and sent to spend the rest of her life in federal prison in England – at least then she did not have to pretend to be American anymore she joked sarcastically with a hint of melancholy accompanying this train of thoughts.
The door opened and a tall, athletically built man in a guard's uniform entered the holding cell.
"Time to go, Miss Glennane," He mumbled gruffly, gesturing with his hands in a way that was supposed to tell her to get up.
When she walked past the guard, taking in his scent – a mixture of Scotch and cigarette smoke, she felt a wave of nausea taking over, leaving her stunned and unable to shake off a thought that had surfaced unconsciously, albeit torturing.
I'll never smell the scent of smoke and explosives on his skin and I'll never kiss away the taste of beer and yoghurt – blueberry, from his lips.
She sighed, closed her eyes to stop the tears from running down her cheeks and hoped that Michael's love for her was strong enough to forgive her – to forget about her.
The end.
