Raising Atlantis
By GeoGirl
Rated PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Alias. I'm just playing and will trade them back for my Barbies when I'm done.
Distribution: Fanfic.net, Cover Me and anyone else who asks.
Atlantis disappeared from view centuries ago. Some say it sank into the ocean. Some say the Gods destroyed it because they were displeased. Some say it was destroyed by a volcanic blast. However it happened, a great civilization was lost to the world. Legend has it that when the world is desperate for peace, understanding and unity, then the Gods will raise Atlantis again.
Jack sat at the table staring a blank piece of paper. The fountain pen poised in his hand, several inches above the paper, ready to begin. But where to begin. He was sinking, again, and he didn't know how to ask for a life preserver. He knew whom to ask, but not how.
Catastrophe (the beginning of the middle)
He was numb. He sat on the edge of the pink and white striped comforter, looking at his sleeping daughter and he felt nothing. The absence of any feeling. A void no occupied the place where his heart had been. How could he take care of this precious life before him if he couldn't feel?
She was dead. His heart was dead. Screeching tires and cold water. Ice and broken metal. Gone. Presumed dead. No traces.
His hands were frigid, like the ice water that claimed his heart, as he reached to brush a strand of hair away from Sydney's face. The salt of her tears scraped the pads of his finger. Cutting, biting. No blood. He was too cold; his blood had stopped flowing when the police had arrived at the door. His body froze as he told his little girl that her mother had gone to heaven.
Brown curls and pink ribbons could not understand. A teddy bear could not console. A hug could not comfort. Where is heaven, Daddy? Why can't we go there too? I want Mommy. I WANT mommy. MOMMY! Sobs and hiccups and crumpled tissues filled the hours before he carried the unconscious child to bed.
Why. When. How. Where. Questions filled his mind, but his lips refused to work. He looked to the heavens and wished he were a praying man. Wished he knew the right way to ask the questions. Wished the angels would take away the cold that surrounded him and bring back the sunshine that was her smile.
Days merged to weeks and the cold did not subside.
Salty tears and lopsided pigtails looked at him with accusation and disbelief. Daddy could do anything. Why couldn't he bring back Mommy from heaven? He found himself lying in a too small bed, half covered with pink and white stripes most every night. Sleep never found him, only a replay of their life on the backs of his eyelids. Blurry black and white tales of happiness. The color of her eyes and lips stood out against the grayness.
Black clothes and silences from everyone. Casseroles in the freezer from well meaning friends and neighbors. He tried to carry on for Sydney but he didn't know how. He went home everyday to a crying child who could not believe that Daddy would come home every day. She held on so tight to his neck for what seemed like hours. Her tears seeped into all of his clothes. The nanny gave sympathetic glances as she pried a sobbing six year old from his embrace.
Soon expensive scotch became his friend, his confidant and his consoler. It replaced little brown eyes full of sorrow and little girl hugs. It helped fill the void. It helped him forget smiling brown eyes, red lips and sighs in the darkness. With the amber liquid came the hard stare of Arvin. How did Arvin became a fixture in his misery? Scotch didn't care, he didn't care. Fuzzy, blurry, numb.
Then came the whispers. The mysterious phone calls. The veiled questions at work, how dare they. Why were they doing this?
Sir, I think you should call home and tell the nanny that you had to go out of town on business and will be gone for several days?
Why, where am I going?
Sir would you please follow me?
Tell me what is going on? Where are you taking me?
Mr. Bristow, we have some questions for you. Some questions about your wife.
My wife. What kind of questions? She's dead, or didn't you get the memo. I just lost my wife and you want to ask questions about her. What kind of sick game is this?
Please calm down Mr. Bristow. It would be better for you if you cooperate.
The room was white and stark and filled with light, only one table and two chairs. Day after day, the edges blurred into one another. Question upon question. He didn't have the right answers. More and more questions and accusations were hurled at him. Manila folders appeared against the white table, staring, accusing, poking through the blurry edges. He felt like he was sinking. Sinking to the bottom of the ocean. But he would soon find out it was only the beginning.