Granite, by RainbowGroupie (( rpgroupsn3@yahoo.com))
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I live in the shadow of my enemy. Oh, she haunts me, taunts me, kills me twice and is still surprised when I come seeking more punishment. Strange, that she should be surprised; She herself clawed her way out of the grave and back into this concrete labyrinth.
I'll kiss him, on the lips, rough and selfish, and he responds by throwing me against the wall and abusing me in the way we both despise, because he wants her, he can't have her, he's exchanged one cage for another. And he can't have her.
I'm a substitute. I've stolen a piece of her life and he envies me for it, drowns in my body on a daily basis with a dual purpose, to forget her and to discover her. I'm a wicked solace for him, cool and bleak to remind him what his life really is, and I'm a torment for him, because she loved my face so dearly, and I've seen glimpses into her life that he will never be allowed.
We never speak of Sydney Bristow. She is referred to as the all- encompassing CIA, a nameless agent that will inevitably go up against us in our next mission. I'm not a major part of his life, not now, not ever. It's a rarity that we go on ops together. I always know when he meets her on his own. He comes to me, drunk on self-loathing, and he doesn't say a word.
I could forgive her if she killed him. If she placed a bullet between his eyes I'd move on without remorse. But she hasn't. Instead, every time he sees her, Sark comes slowly back to life, becomes a man again, and the creature I fell in love with is a monster. I can never forgive Sydney Bristow because she offers him redemption.
She doesn't know it. He doesn't acknowledge it. I stand in the middle and I keep quiet. She doesn't love him. I do. She knows him. I don't. A B C, 1 2 3, simple. He doesn't want me. He needs her.
He isn't the only one who is unfaithful in our relationship. I say that in the strictest sense of the word, of course. He's obsessed with the feeling she unintentionally gives him, and who wouldn't be? She's given us both life, actually. Because of her unwilling part in the Rambaldi puzzle, I can never be killed. And Sark... Sark's been watching from the grave, and finally he wants something bad enough to stand up and hunt for it. He's planning and plotting, unbeknownst to even himself. He's biding his time and then he'll strike. He's in limbo right now, but it won't last long. I'm a detour, and we both know it. I'm the only thing between Sark and a full- blown, cuddly-puppy epiphany, and it disgusts him as much as it does me. Because any day now I'll topple, and he'll be free to seek her out. We are both unfaithful in our relationship. I, too, became obsessed with Sydney Bristow. With her life. With the feigned simplicity, the fragile calmness. With Tippin.
Odd, isn't it, that I still think of him as Tippin. As the mark. I fell in love with the idea of that life, of having Sydney Bristow as my best friend, of having Will Tippin as my lover. Of having parents and siblings and a home and a job that didn't involve hidden stockpiles of C4. I really can't blame him. I want to.
He needs her. She looks at him only with distaste and he's addicted. A B C, 1 2 3. She wins.
Again.
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Author's Note | That was merely an exercise to clear up some writers block. I don't know why I posted it. I don't even particularly like Allison. Oh well. Hope it wasn't a total waste of your time. Read my other story (you know, the one with the crappy title. . .), it's much better. I think. Anyway. . .
Reviews, you know, they're nice. Very euphoria-inducing, without many bad side-effects. I'll think I'll go now. Cheers.
- Lauren
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I live in the shadow of my enemy. Oh, she haunts me, taunts me, kills me twice and is still surprised when I come seeking more punishment. Strange, that she should be surprised; She herself clawed her way out of the grave and back into this concrete labyrinth.
I'll kiss him, on the lips, rough and selfish, and he responds by throwing me against the wall and abusing me in the way we both despise, because he wants her, he can't have her, he's exchanged one cage for another. And he can't have her.
I'm a substitute. I've stolen a piece of her life and he envies me for it, drowns in my body on a daily basis with a dual purpose, to forget her and to discover her. I'm a wicked solace for him, cool and bleak to remind him what his life really is, and I'm a torment for him, because she loved my face so dearly, and I've seen glimpses into her life that he will never be allowed.
We never speak of Sydney Bristow. She is referred to as the all- encompassing CIA, a nameless agent that will inevitably go up against us in our next mission. I'm not a major part of his life, not now, not ever. It's a rarity that we go on ops together. I always know when he meets her on his own. He comes to me, drunk on self-loathing, and he doesn't say a word.
I could forgive her if she killed him. If she placed a bullet between his eyes I'd move on without remorse. But she hasn't. Instead, every time he sees her, Sark comes slowly back to life, becomes a man again, and the creature I fell in love with is a monster. I can never forgive Sydney Bristow because she offers him redemption.
She doesn't know it. He doesn't acknowledge it. I stand in the middle and I keep quiet. She doesn't love him. I do. She knows him. I don't. A B C, 1 2 3, simple. He doesn't want me. He needs her.
He isn't the only one who is unfaithful in our relationship. I say that in the strictest sense of the word, of course. He's obsessed with the feeling she unintentionally gives him, and who wouldn't be? She's given us both life, actually. Because of her unwilling part in the Rambaldi puzzle, I can never be killed. And Sark... Sark's been watching from the grave, and finally he wants something bad enough to stand up and hunt for it. He's planning and plotting, unbeknownst to even himself. He's biding his time and then he'll strike. He's in limbo right now, but it won't last long. I'm a detour, and we both know it. I'm the only thing between Sark and a full- blown, cuddly-puppy epiphany, and it disgusts him as much as it does me. Because any day now I'll topple, and he'll be free to seek her out. We are both unfaithful in our relationship. I, too, became obsessed with Sydney Bristow. With her life. With the feigned simplicity, the fragile calmness. With Tippin.
Odd, isn't it, that I still think of him as Tippin. As the mark. I fell in love with the idea of that life, of having Sydney Bristow as my best friend, of having Will Tippin as my lover. Of having parents and siblings and a home and a job that didn't involve hidden stockpiles of C4. I really can't blame him. I want to.
He needs her. She looks at him only with distaste and he's addicted. A B C, 1 2 3. She wins.
Again.
-
Author's Note | That was merely an exercise to clear up some writers block. I don't know why I posted it. I don't even particularly like Allison. Oh well. Hope it wasn't a total waste of your time. Read my other story (you know, the one with the crappy title. . .), it's much better. I think. Anyway. . .
Reviews, you know, they're nice. Very euphoria-inducing, without many bad side-effects. I'll think I'll go now. Cheers.
- Lauren