Summary: There was no medical emergency and Max left for Canada with Zack in BBWW. After two months in the snowy Canada, Zack says it's time for a change. Like France. While Zack finalizes the travel schedule, Max decides to finish writing the "Seattle" chapter in her life story - trouble is, she's got writer's block and a heavy heart. Eventual ML.
Disclaimer: I do not own Dark Angel. That would be Mr. Help the Boat Is Sinking and Friends.
Rating: T, I believe. I don't really understand these newfangled ratings. I've been gone too long!
READ ME: Will be eventual ML, so you are warned (or overjoyed?)
A/N: It all started with the first line. The title came from a quote by Stephen Brook. I wanted to wait until I got back from my trip to the UK to post this, but it feels like I've got a Max-shaped monkey on my back with a knife to my throat, demanding I post the story. I know all about creative imagery, eh? Oh, and just so everyone's aware, the following chapters will be longer. This is just a bit of a taste.
On through the woods and you go through the snow
Walk to the tree and you breathe on the limb
When the night comes and you find that you're bound
Tied to the tree and the straps at your knees
Hide in the willow and wait for the dawn
Carve another dream in the limb that you're on
How many times have you seen me around
When the sun comes and you find that you're free
Walk to the water and bleed in the stream
And think of the lover that once you were wrapped around
Breathe in the water, breathe it in deep
Just like the winter, fall into sleep
Don't ever wander, don't ever move again
-- Marcy Playground
Chapter One - The Talented Ms. Guevara
Leaving is a talent.
It takes a special person to really leave. It isn't like leaving to go to the store to pick up a jug of milk and a pack of smokes - that isn't leaving. That's departing from one destination with the full intent of returning. When one leaves, truly leaves, they run as fast as they can away from everything that they know - everything they love - and they never look back. Looking back is not conducive to true leaving. Looking back lends one the opportunity to go back and analyze everything that would be best forgotten. Analyzing would certainly lead to "checking up," and once one has "checked up," there is no going back to the leaving state of mind.
Max had not "checked up" in over two months.
Her mind was stuck in one gear, the only gear she would allow herself - leaving. She knew the dangers of looking back, of "checking up" and she wasn't ready to put everyone - including herself - at risk just because she hadn't heard his voice, seen his face, or eaten one of his meals. His safety was more important than her fits of selfishness. She fought a long war within herself to keep everything under control. The only person she would ever "check on" again was herself.
It had been lonely at first. It had been more than lonely, but she would only ever admit 'lonely' to Zack. She could never explain what it really felt like to him. She could never admit that it felt like someone had ripped her heart from her chest and held it before her, so that she could only see it but never again feel its steady and comforting rhythm beneath her skin. Instead, her eyes glazed and she admitted to a certain level of loneliness that Zack could understand. Loneliness was safe and acceptable, whereas feeling without a heart was dangerous and intolerable.
She had accepted the dull chest pain as a part of her daily life. It was the pang that went with true leaving and she would shoulder the burden quietly, secretly, away from Zack. Every time she wandered the house or even the surrounding land, it was there. The dull pain became sharp when she was reminded that she was never home.
She was never home. She shared a one-story house with her brother who loved her in a way that made her brow furrow. Her home was miles away with the heart she could look at but not touch. Home seemed to no longer be an option. She was forever doomed to be in a perpetual state of 'house.'
She didn't allow herself to miss anything. She never missed the rain because it made her think of cozy nights in apartments near her heart. She accepted the cold Canadian snow as due punishment for how she had been born and raised.
She had been perfecting the craft of true leaving since she was nine years old. The time between then and now had just been practice. It had been practice for running, for leaving again. She had steeled herself against the world with friends and then steeled herself against memories of those same people because memories did not lend themselves well to the process of leaving. She was without meaningful memory. She remembered the night before, perhaps the day, but tried to remember no further. To remember further is to begin looking back.
And Max no longer looked back.
She knew the cost of looking back. She was well aware of the gun powder path the flame would follow once she lit the match of memory. The eventual explosion - destruction - of everything that was worth not remembering was enough to keep her straight faced and up at night.