Title:
Without You

Disclaimer:  Roswell, the characters, and situations are the property of Jason Katims and the WB – I just get to take them to the circus from time to time.  No infringement is intended, so please don't sue me - I'm a poor university student.  All you'll get are a bunch of debts and a couple of CDs, but if you are really offended and want to take something, you can have my goldfish.

Summary:  Isabel is reflecting on her life.  Takes place two days after "Departure."

Author's Note: This is the first part of my "Lost" series and is written in Isabel's POV.  As always, I crave feedback.  If you want more, you've got to tell me!

Distribution: Ask and ye shall receive.   Just tell me where it's going.

I don't know exactly when or where or how my life got so screwed up.  One day, I was just a normal, everyday teenager.   I went shopping with my friends, I went out on an endless parade of meaningless dates with thick-skulled guys who just wanted to get into my pants, and I hung out with my brothers.  I was perfectly normal.

Wait, no.  That's not entirely true – my life was never really normal to begin with, and it got exponentially screwed up as more and more time passed.  You see - I'm not like everyone else.  I wasn't born; I was hatched as a six-year-old child.  I'm an alien. 

But my life didn't really begin the night I was born.  After I got out of that pod-thing, I started wandering around in the desert.  I could feel others out there, in the dark, under about a million stars.  I was so cold and so scared.  I didn't want to be alone.  Those feelings aren't unfamiliar - even now, so many years later.  That's all I ever really wanted, I guess.

And then I found him.  Like me, he wasn't wearing any clothes, and he looked just as cold and miserable as I felt.  But when I took his hand, everything felt right, somehow.  I felt safe, even though I didn't know the meaning of the word then.

My brother and I continued to wander around aimlessly.  We both knew we needed the other; we weren't complete yet, not without him, but we just didn't know where he was hiding.  Then, all of a sudden, there he was, standing on a rock, as if to say, here I am, now deal with me.  My second brother has always been like that, from the very beginning.  I could learn something from him.

My first brother reached for him at the same time I did, and I really believe he was going to take our hand.  Somehow, I guess I thought that if we were all together, we could take on the world.  I guess I've never really stopped believing that.  Maybe that was my first mistake.

But that's when we saw them: two perfectly round circles of light that reminded me vaguely of the stars above my head, accompanied by the roar of a car motor.  But none of us knew what a car was, no more than an infant would.  It was just this big, scary thing.  And in that moment, I lost my second brother.  He was just too scared to take our hands.

The car stopped, and two people got out.  They picked up my first brother and me, wrapped us in warm blankets, and tucked us into the big machine.  The woman crooned over us in a language we didn't understand yet, while I twisted in the seat to try to see him one last time.  But I couldn't see him in the dark, and I started to cry.

Crying has always been the ultimate form of release for me, whether I'm happy, sad, or angry.  Some people scream, or pound their hands on the walls, or indulge in vices like smoking and eating, or even curse the fates.  But not me.  I cry.  I cried every night for three years until I found him again, my other brother.  My first brother could never quite seem to make it better for me, no matter how hard he tried.  I needed both of them.   I just kept picturing him how we left him: cold, scared, lost and alone.  I was barely alive and I already knew that that was the worst feeling on earth.  I vowed I would never feel that way again.

Boy, was I ever wrong.

 

The people in the car took us to their home.  They dressed us in t-shirts that we tripped over and they fed us strange food and they tucked us into a warm bed and they kissed us goodnight.  That was the first kiss I ever remember getting – from a beautiful blond woman who seemed like an angel to me as her lips brushed across my forehead.  It felt so good.  I can honestly say, now, looking back, that that moment was one of the highlights of my life.  It's been a long time since I felt so safe and secure.

But the next day, some people came and took my brother and me away.  I didn't want to go…I just wanted to sit on the lady's lap and touch her golden hair, or have the man pick me up and carry me up to bed, the way he did the night before.  But of course, I didn't have a choice, and even if they had given me one, I wouldn't have been able to articulate my wishes.  So, I just held tight to my brother's hand.  I still believed that he could protect me.  He couldn't even protect himself, let alone me.  He was just as lost as I was.

They took us to a children's home and asked us what our names were.  I looked at the woman who asked that blankly; somehow, I understood what the words meant, but I couldn't answer the question because I didn't have a name.  That was absolutely terrifying, you know.  The woman told us her name, just like the nice man and lady from last night had.  I knew a name was important – it was your entire identity – but I was so insignificant that I didn't have one.  So the woman called me Jane Doe, and they called my brother John.

A few weeks passed.  I was always searching, among the other children, for my other brother, but I could never find him.  I cried a lot then, except when I was with my first brother, because he held my hand, and I felt safe.  One day, the nice man and lady from the first night came to see us.  She was angry at the social worker that had called us Jane and John.  She said that we deserved better than that.  The social worker was bored and told her to name us whatever she wanted, because it certainly didn't matter much to anyone.  What she was really saying – and we all knew it – was that we didn't matter much to anyone.

The lady looked at us for a minute, and then said that my brother's name would be Maxwell, for her father, but that we would call him Max.  Her forehead crinkled as she frowned at me, and she bit her lip.  She lifted me up in her lap, and her lips brushed against my forehead again.  "You deserve a unique name," she told me.  "Your brother has old eyes, like he's seen everything before.  They remind me of my father's.  But everything seems new to you, so you need a name of your own.  I think Isabel is the most beautiful name in the world for the most beautiful little girl in the world."  From then on, everyone called me Isabel, and I felt beautiful.  For the first time in my short life, I felt wanted and loved.  I felt like I mattered.

A week later, the man and the lady came back.  The lady was wearing a bright yellow sweater, and I remember thinking that she looked like the sun.  The man picked me up in his arms, and the lady kissed my cheek, and they took us home with them.  They told Max and me that we would be theirs forever, that they loved us and that they would never leave us.  They told us to call them Momma and Daddy, and that I had a name that would always be mine – Isabel Anna Evans.  That was the day my life began, not the night I emerged from a pod in the desert.

But I couldn't help but cry at night for my missing brother.  Even though I prospered during the day – I was always what my mother called a sunny child – as I learned to read and write my name and do all the things that a normal child my age should be able to do, my mother always worried over me more than Max.  I could play with the kids of Mom's friends for a little while, and be totally accepted and having a lot of fun, when all of a sudden, I would remember my other brother.  I would wonder if he was okay, and I would have to go and find Max, just to make sure he was near me, that he was safe.  That I hadn't lost him, too.  That I hadn't failed again.

I was nearly eight when we finally went to school, and no one would ever guess that I was in any way different than the other little girls in my class.  But I still cried at night for my other brother, so my parents made me see the school counsellor during recess a couple of times a week.  They thought I cried at night because I remembered my real parents.  I wanted to tell Mom the truth, but Max made me promise not to, no matter what, because we knew early on that people wouldn't like us if we were different.  Max and I could do things that other kids couldn't.  I don't even know how we knew, because in the beginning, except for the time we lived at the children's home, we didn't spend that much time with other kids.  We just knew, instinctively, that we were different, and that different was bad.  The day that our parents brought us to the UFO museum and we saw the display of a dead alien autopsy was probably one of the most frightening moments of my life.  I burst into tears, and they brought me home.  I cried for days and days.  I was scared that someone would do that to my brothers.

The school counsellor tried to trick me, though.  She asked me a lot of questions, and if I hadn't been so scared of that alien autopsy, I probably would have just told her the truth.  I was still just a little kid, after all.  But I didn't tell her.  I loved my brothers and my parents too much to do that.  I didn't want anyone to take me away, not ever.

I still don't. 

I knew that I scared my parents, though, because I heard her talking to the counsellor one day.  I still remember exactly what she said.  I was colouring a picture for Mom to put on the fridge, like the lady made me do every week.  They thought I was totally absorbed in that, but I guess I was able to multi-task from an early age.  "Isabel is exhibiting clear signs of memory repression, probably because her early memories are so horrific that her psyche cannot fully process them at this point without risking permanent damage," she told my mother.   "She will, eventually, remember, when she is capable of understanding and processing these memories."  That made me mad, because I knew I wasn't repressing anything.  I had just promised Max that I would never tell.  We even pinkie-swore, and you can't break a pinkie-promise.

The day we found Michael was the day I felt complete.  It was like the world was tilted on its axis, and when my other brother was returned to me, it righted itself.  Like I had finally found the part of myself that was lost.  I felt calm, at peace, in a way, although I was still scared every minute of every day.  Even more since we found Michael.  I was terrified that we would lose him again.

Michael and Max tried to protect me, to shelter me from the world.  Strange, isn't it?  That the most outgoing of the three of us needed the most protection?  But for some reason, they never thought I could handle the truth.  They just told me to concentrate on blending in, being normal.  They never wanted to worry me, even though they both knew I worried about them constantly.

I'm a worrier by nature, I guess.  It's something I really didn't grow out of.  I just learned to hide it better as time wore on.

By the time I was thirteen, I was, from all appearances, a normal teenager, albeit a very lucky one.  I was blessed with clear skin and cursed with a quick-growing bust, which in turn brought about a lot of notice from all the 'right' people.  The popular kids, the ones blessed with either good looks or money.  The fake friends, the ones who don't see you for who you are, but instead, for what you can do for their status.  I've learned, over the years, that there are very few real friends.  People who want to be around you because they like you, and not what you represent or how you complement their own reputation.

The only real friends I had were Max and Michael.  My brothers, the only other people on Earth like me.  The people who had to accept me for who I was, like it or not.  They were the only people I could be myself with, after the age of eleven or so.  They were the only people that I could say anything to, and not worry that they would think I was weird. 

But Max and Michael had their own little world, which I could never really be a part of.  It came from years of protecting me, I guess.  They got use to shutting me out.  It was like they had their own little boy's club, and I couldn't join because I lacked a Y-chromosome.

So I got use to putting on the act in front of them, too, and in time, they almost forgot the girl I used to be.  Hell, I almost forgot.  The act of hiding who I really was - what I really thought or felt - from the world became close to perfect.  Max and Michael - they think they know me, better than anyone else.  But they really don't know me at all.  No one does.

My parents saw the change in me, even if my brothers, wrapped up in their own problems, didn't.  I heard Daddy tell Mom once that he felt like he'd lost his little girl.  Mom told him that I was still in there, somewhere, and that he'd see me again, but not for a long, long time.  Not until I figured out who I wanted to be.  I hope she's right.  I'd like to see the girl I used to be again.  I'd like to ask her why she left.  I miss her.

So I took the only avenue available to me, and I played the role to perfection, to the point where even I believed it.  The beautiful, popular, homecoming queen who hated her friends and her life.  The girl who screamed inside because no one saw who she really was.

Sad as it sounds, those were the good old days.

Then my life left normal and did a nose-dive into insane.  Suddenly, the sheriff, the FBI, and evil enemy aliens with a severe case of dandruff are after us, all because my brother fell in love. 

All my life, Max and Michael warned me not to get involved.  Not to tell anyone our secret, that Mom and Daddy wouldn't love us if they knew the truth.  Then Max goes and throws our rules out the window, and we all pay the price.

Sure, there were benefits.  Alex, Liz, Maria, Kyle, even the sheriff, eventually.  People who didn't run, screaming in horror, once they learned the truth…at least not after they had time to process it all.  But I knew that my life would never be the same again.

And it hasn't been.  I got someone who would listen to me, the real me.  The person I haven't been in years, not since Max and Michael and I were little.  Someone who loved me, not despite what I am, but because of who I am.  Alex.

The guy who broke down all my defences.  Who got under my skin.  Who made me need him, want him, love him, more than anything else on this planet – something I swore I would never do. 

I said before that the first time in my life that I felt complete was the day we got Michael back.  I found out, later, that that wasn't exactly true.  There was still a piece of me that was lost, missing.  I just didn't know it yet.  The day I really felt complete was the day I kissed the man I loved and let him into my heart.

He completes me.  He's my other half.  He's what I've been missing all my life, but I didn't even know anything was missing until I kissed him. 

I didn't want to need him.  I didn't want to love him.  I tried to fight it, I really did, but eventually I gave in to what we both knew was inevitable.  We were meant to be, no matter how hard I fought it.  Only neither of us knew that we didn't have a lifetime to spend together.

And now he's gone, too.  Because of us.  Because we let Tess in.

Tess.  My best friend.  The girl who taught us more about our alien heritage than we ever dreamed possible. 

Knowledge had a price, and it was far too steep.  I got to see my birth mother, but I had to listen to her tell me about a destiny I didn't want or need.  I got to find out who I was in my previous life, but I learned I was evil personified and was responsible for the deaths of my entire family and the destruction of my world.  And I got to love, but he was stolen from me, far too soon.

I'm lost again.  I don't know what to do, where to turn. 

I haven't spoken since we discovered the truth, two days ago, and I'm having trouble figuring out what is real and what isn't.  I've stopped trying to distinguish between the two, because when I just accept the confusion, Alex comes to me. 

But eventually, he leaves again, and I cry.

I cry for him, for me, for the life we will never live, for the children we will never have.  I see them, sometimes, a little boy with his father's hair and my eyes, and a little girl with my hair and her father's smile.  Children I will never know, never love.  I mourn for them, even though I don't know their names.  I mourn for a future without Alex.

I'm crying now.  Hot, stinging tears that run down my face and drip off my chin.  I don't know who I am.  Not without Alex.  Not without him.  I'm lost.

From now on, I'll make a career out of running for my life, because if I don't keep moving, keep going forward, I know I'll lose my will to move at all.  I've already lost my identity, if I ever really knew it to begin with. 

Sometimes, over the last few days, I've had trouble remembering my own name.  Sometimes, I've had trouble remembering what's a lie and what's the truth.  What's real and what isn't.

I've forgotten who I am, if I ever knew to begin with.  Am I Isabel Anna Evans, beloved daughter of Philip and Diane Evans, sister of Max and Michael?  Am I Izzy, troubled soul, abandoned alien?  Am I Iz, murderer of Skins and boyfriends?  Am I Vilandra, betrayer of her family and her planet?  Am I Lonnie, who will betray them again?  Am I the girl who loves her dead boyfriend more than her own life and plots ways to hurt her best friend, the one who killed him? 

I just don't know.  I don't know anything anymore. 

The one thing that I do know is that, once upon a time, there was a girl who loved a boy, and she liked who she was when she loved him.

The only problem is, the boy is gone, and he took that girl with him.  She can't exist without him. 

And I'm more lost than I was before.