She stopped her car next to Morgan's, something felt off, shattered. Broken. She parks her car, and sits in the driver's seat, her body humming. She looks around, a quiet family street, the sun may be out but she needs help right now.
"Nocht comhlacht"
Her wrist cuts itself and the stars whisper, she sees his face, he looks sad.
"Tell me where he is."
She whispers to the stars and they sing if lowly. She can feel his pain, he is close. Her eyes shoot open. Oh no. He's in that man's house; he's in Bradley's home. She suddenly feels the pull to run towards him, she even forgets to complete the spell. The cuts on her wrist are still visible as she walks. They're only covered by her sleek jacket.
She walks to the other side of the house, careful to avoid the widows of the backyard. Her magic is still pumping; she can feel something, pain maybe? Maybe he wasn't here...she has to check, something is drawing her into this home. She goes to the window; the stars pull her toward the surface.
"Oscail"
The lock clicks. She looks down to her wrist, she needs to keep the connection with the stars...but she can't have open wounds being seen.
"Clúdach"
The spell made the cuts close and look more like powerful scars. She moves the window open, and slowly steps in. She is quiet; she does not want to arise suspicion with Morgan. She turns and slowly clasps the window shut. She slowly turns, and looks to the door first. Locked good...
She takes off her shoes as to not make any noise on the carpet, and to keep her balance as to not fall over...three inch heels are not made for sneaking. She looks around the dark room, but she only gets halfway. She pads over to a book, the pages are worn, someone loves these drawings. First, sitting on top of the trash was a syringe, she smirks.
"Boy goes hardcore," she whispers into the room, her voice in one of an impressed individual. She looks down to the paper, first is of lilies, they make her feel warm, of somewhere she wishes to be. Then there are a few others...but her eyes finally settle on the 'Broken' picture. She brings it to her face, she scans it for a moment, her breath caught in her throat.
Broken.
Broken.
BROKEN.
It screams at her, the stars pulsate, even in their cooled state. She shakes more, her hand coming to her lips, tears pouring down her face. Her finger clenches, crumbling the piece as she falls back. Her hands come to her face, her tears smudging the artwork. She trembles, suppressing the urge to cry out, for everything she's lost. Harriet's words run over her, her inadequacies, the horrible things she has done.
She falls back, her knees squishing together, her back hitting a wall. She bites her hand, only a small squeak coming out. You can trust me Morgana. For a moment she did, for a while he was her only confidant. She feels as if he is close. She wants to reach out to him, to have him tell her that it will be ok, to protect her. She wants his goofy grin back; his devotion to his friends. Her lips tremble again; the constriction of her throat reminds her why she will not see that face look her way again. The tears start up again.
Marty lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Soundless tears fall down his cheeks. Tight and slow breaths rip from his lungs and exit his mouth and nose – it's a laborious job. His lips are curled under in disgust at himself.
When someone entered the room, he didn't move. He didn't look. He didn't care. He hoped the person would leave actually. But, it didn't seem whoever it was, was going to. Was it Bradley? Marty didn't think so because Brad would not have snuck into his room through a window. Instead, the being looked through his stuff Martin noticed as he turned his head. He frowned. That wasn't right!
He shakily pushed himself up and got off the bed. With eyes flashing and glazed over from the drugs, he strode over to the person. The young man loomed over her. "What are you doing here," he demanded. "What are you doin' with my stuff? You've got everything else of mine. You feel like ruining the rest of it?"
Her eyes flash open when she is addressed. She trembles when she looks up, when did he get in here? She lets go of the picture, she cannot speak cannot feel. Her throat constricts. It's the same, always the same. She wants to run, to move, to do something.
She can't move, his words ring like Uther's, scolding her for being an insignificant girl. Her opinions, her voice means nothing. She is nothing more than a doll at this point, a broken pathetic excuse of a woman. She looks up at his eyes, they are hazed over. He is high. And for some reason his words break her more than they should.
She brings her knees up, her skirt suddenly feeling very small on her body. She can't look at him anymore, he may be high but his strong blue gaze makes her feel even smaller. She brings her head into her knees, her body shakes as she cries into her flesh.
"I don't even know..." And honestly...she doesn't.
Marty stoops and picks up the drawing. He turns his back on her. Sitting down, he lays the drawing on the table. Carefully, he smoothed it until there are few wrinkles left. Then, he pulls out his charcoals and begins to correct the smudging. His sweaty brow is furrowed as he works and there is intensity flickering through his eyes as he studies the work. After a good ten minutes of work, he puts it back in the folder.
"Of course you do! You always do or at least act like that," he says. His voice is quiet and his glassy gaze is penetrating. "You've got to know and you've got to tell me."
He crosses his arms over his chest. He's trying to hide the two track marks, even though she probably knows he's tripping on the golden liquid he'd just shot into his veins. Marty also starts to pace, but doesn't look at her any more. He couldn't really see her anyway – too many tears are falling from his eyes.
"You just can't leave me alone, can you? What do you want of me Morgana? What? I've got nothing left to give. I've got no one. I've got nothing. I bloody mess up everything I do. I can't…I can't even stay clean," Marty rambles. He doesn't even realize the name he's called her. "I can't do a thing without having to sleep. I drop everything. All the things I own are gone. All the people I care about gone. My art isn't even as good as it used to be. I've got nothing."
His throat is sore. It's like he was yelling, but the dark-haired man's voice hadn't even risen above a whisper. Marty shakes his head. "And you don't care. You don't know how," he accuses.
Her lip trembles as he yells at her. It may come out as a whisper but it feels like the deepest scream. She should tell him to be quiet, that Morgan is here, but she can't find it in herself. The fire, revenge, shakes her to her core. She looks up at him. She can see the tears, they match her own. She wants to go home, back to Camelot, back to before, when she didn't know of her magic, when her life was simple - when this man didn't invade her every thought. She is a pathetic woman.
"You know nothing of me, do you Marty?" She looks up at him, so broken, her emotions so fragmented. She wants to scream her incantation, to revel in the cuts on her body, to hear the stars sing, instead of the whisper they are sending towards her. She looks at her wrist as it sets upon her legs; the longing to be in pain suddenly overwhelms her. She is startled by the name slip, her lip trembles. How she longs to be called Morgana again...to be that woman. She has to rectify this soon; her body is an emotional wreck.
She tries to regain composure. She is a powerful woman. She should remember that. She moves against the wall, but as she moves up her head spits, a rush of blood seeps into her brain and she falters and falls back down - pathetic.
She looks at her hands, finely manicured, sharp beautiful rings. She sees her tears drop on the rich crystals. "You know nothing of who cares for you Marty. You know nothing in the abandonment of love."
She shakes and then stands up in front of him, slower this time. She tilts her chin in the air, but her eyes give away her pain, her longing.
"You don't know how much I've cared, what I've done in the past. Nothing I do is correct...you can't stay clean...I could never scrub my skin hard enough to get the dirt off my flesh."
Her head falls back onto the hard surface, her lip trembles, she looks to the ceiling, her knees bent, her body arched, raw, pathetic...
"Maybe I don't want to. Maybe I've seen enough of what you've done to know I don't want to know. Maybe I've experienced enough to know I shouldn't know a thing. I see who you are and I don't like it," he hisses.
He stops pacing for a minute. He is so tired. His body wants him to lie down. It's even wobbling, but he doesn't. He just stands there, staring. His hands ball into fists and then he releases.
"No one cares about me! And I think I do know. By the gods, I do know," he whispered. "My own mother detests me. My uncle can't stand the sight of me. My roommate sure doesn't care, even if he claims to – he's arrested me six times. My father was murdered. My girlfriend and best friend are both dead. I have no house, no money, nothing!"
He shakes his head. "Cared? You don't know how to care for anyone but yourself," Marty spat. "Oh, you do care for one other thing, at least your company does – money and things."
Her eyes become sharp, he thinks he knows everything, has it all figured out. Her tears pour, but they become angry.
"Do you ever hear yourself Marty? I, I, I...you think you know me so well, but look at yourself. You can't stop crying over your own problems, the things that have wronged you. Your father died? Join the club, I lost both my parents at the age of 20, died by an idiot drunk driver. I push forward because I have nothing. At least you have your mother and uncle. I would give anything for that."
For a moment she is not Morgana...but Ana. The young girl with hopes and dreams, striving for one day becoming something better than she was, climbing higher into a future of so many possibilities...and this boy is insinuating that she doesn't care.
She moves forward and grabs his shirt to bring him face to face with her, he is so close, but all she can think about is how naive he is.
"I know everything about you Marty. You lost your father, Basil, girlfriend, Fay, and best friend, Willie. You have been on a downward spiral for years since their passing and the only thing to keep you going is your drugs and bike. Now that I've informed you of your life, let me give you a taste of reality. I grew up a lower middle class child, my parents did their best but there were months that we ate just mac n cheese, and that was fine. I loved my parents, but they were the only people I allowed myself to love. I ended up in a coma for a week and in that time they had passed. I couldn't even tell them goodbye. I am sorry about you father, I am sorry that you choose every second to accuse me, of something so heinous, but don't think that for one moment you know me. You know nothing."
"Of course I hear myself," he remarked. Hurt in his eyes. He shook his head. "Yeah, and they hate my guts. I don't see them. I don't want to see them. I don't care if I never see them again. Actually, I don't care about anything."
Marty pulls away. His eyes are wide. "Don't touch me. Don't," he growls. He young man wipes his eyes. "Just leave me alone. Leave…now. Just go. Just leave. But, before you do, the drugs don't keep me going. Do you honestly know how much I hate myself? I hate the drugs. You think you know so much about me, but you don't know everything."
She doesn't leave though. She continues talking. He uncrosses his arms and crosses them again. "It's better that you didn't. I saw my father die, surrounded by his own blood. I held him as he died. I saw the same black car that's followed me everywhere for years pull away from the scene," Marty remarks. "And you know…that car put me into a coma for four days. It gets even better, I leave to check on my bike and the car follows me. It nearly runs Bradley over. It would've if I hadn't pushed him away. But, as a result…I had to have part of my skull removed." He lifted his hairline and showed her his healing wound."
"Who else am I to blame? You wanted my father's things more than anything in the world. I heard the conversations before his death. You wanted more than what you got though. You wanted his research – at least your company did," Marty raved in a quiet voice.
He shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Please, just go. I want to be alone. I'm really tired," Marty said. The young man went back to his bed. Drawing his knees up, he rolled over onto his side.
Her eyes harden; she shakes her head, her hands in fists at her side.
"Once again you hear nothing Marty. You are too quick to make your own point that you haven't heard a word I've said. My company only wants money, you are correct, and I guess by default I am my company."
She laughs, but it sounds twisted and pained. His rejection of her hurts more than she can bear. She misses the days when he was her only confidant. Her voice is suddenly small, like a scared child.
"I know nothing of your father's things. If you knew me so well you would know that I change cars every year. I can't stand to have the same car, it reminds me of the van my father drove around for 15 years. An old Chevy, not a speedy car but would get us to soccer practice. I have to change all the time, because if I stand still I remember and it hurts. So no, with your logic alone I had nothing to do with your father's death, my cars the last 3 years have been either silver or red, this is the first time I've had black. I don't usually like the color on my car, too easily lost in a crowd."
She turns towards him, the tears have stopped. Her pain rages, but that is the woes of life. For a moment she is sincere, for when she looks at him she wishes everything to be different.
"I will leave. I still don't know why I'm here, but I guess it doesn't matter. You've already assumed the worst of me, and I guess I deserve it."
She walks over to the window and opens the lock, her body shaking. The realization that she may never have this intimacy with him again pains her. She wants Merlin back. She wants to tell him her secrets and have him assure her it will be ok. Her eyes sadden again. She turns to Marty one last time.
"You should know that your mother came to see me. She informed me that the bike that was totaled wasn't yours and asked me to return it to you, hoping her initials on the bike would provide you with protection. So I guess that's why I am here, I had it on authority your new friend had it. I was trying to do the right thing and once again I end up a foolish woman. Imagine that."
Marty looks at her with his eyebrows raised. "Oh really? If it's not you, it's someone at your company who's interested. I've been there enough times and I've passed it enough times to recognize the car from the unpleasant meetings I've had with it," he replies. "And I'm really surprised you wouldn't want the paperwork my father gave me. It would make your company worth trillions."
He shook his head. "I only assume the worst from how I've treated. Got it? Good. If you treated someone with a little more decency, you might get it in return," Martin said. "I fully believe in what comes around, goes around."
"Oh really," he said. The tone clearly shows he doesn't believe her. "There's no bike here, by the way. Just little ol' Marty."
He pushes himself off the bed when he hears rattling. Someone's trying the door. "Crud," he whispered.