Title: Fingers in a Box
Author: lisek16
Disclaimer: If you believe I own Alias then you need your head checked.
a/n:: It's the past/present/ and future of the life of Sydney. The first chapter is short, but future updates will be longer. Please R/R. Happy New Year!
Taken for granted are fingers. They are strong, resilient and go unnoticed. I can't count on either hand nor foot how many fingers I have broken or sprained these last eight years; how many black and blue knuckles I've had to hide or how many nights I've had to come home and lie about why I was bleeding or limping or late.
My nails had long been bitten down because I was always apprehensive. Mission after mission, I couldn't help but gnaw at my nails in frustration or fear and sometimes in failure. It was a release; a release from all the stress that has never been like sand that poured from my fingertips. It always just built up until I did something about it. It's easy to say with the high stress factor involved with my job, I wouldn't be falling back on a career as a hand model anytime soon.
There are many plane rides home when I wake up to a dim lifeless assemblage of passengers and instead of tuning into the in-flight movie I stare down at my fingers and think. There is so much to think about. My hands especially bring back memories. Despite the fact that hands are not capable of seeing; my hands have seen a lot. Most of the memories that flood me on those insipid plane rides back to Sloane revolve around my mother.
Whether it be that sunny July day when she taught me how to tie my Minnie Mouse sneakers with the rainbow laces to the day she showed me the itsy bitsy spider in the park by the river where we used to feed the ducks. My memories of her are no longer in chronological order; they are in no order what-so-ever. They are just a mish mosh of something reminiscent of holding her hand as we crossed any street. My hand always encompassed by hers and my eyes focusing on her perfect hands with graceful fingers. They were well groomed and always painted.
They were painted a distinguished shade of red. Every time she sat at her vanity and stroked on the polish, I would ask her if she could paint my nails too. She always refused except for once; she looked at me and told me that I was old enough and she polished my nubile nails and smiled at the beauty of it all. When the paint was dry she examined both our hands measuring mine up to hers and said nothing but a sweet smile came over as she kissed my forehead and told me she had to get ready to go. I had asked her if she had to, and she shook her head and nodded; a contradiction that I was too young to understand.
She asked me to help her choose something to wear. My father and she were going out somewhere and the babysitter would arrive soon. I had thrown a temper tantrum and stormed out of her room. She came in to check on me, but I hide my head under the pillow and begged her silently to stay with me. She told me she had to go, and with that she left my room, my home and my life. Later I found out she ended up choosing a simple black pantsuit and was presumed dead.
The way I found out was traumatizing. The babysitter picked up the phone as I pretended to sleep in my room, she dropped the phone and I'll never forget the loud sound it made as it crashed onto the herringbone hardwood floor that titled the entire expanse of our living room. She jogged up the stairs and looked in on me believing I was asleep and she leaned her back against my flowered wall and sank into the pink carpet and cried. I had no idea what had happened but I knew everything had changed.
TBC
Author: lisek16
Disclaimer: If you believe I own Alias then you need your head checked.
a/n:: It's the past/present/ and future of the life of Sydney. The first chapter is short, but future updates will be longer. Please R/R. Happy New Year!
Taken for granted are fingers. They are strong, resilient and go unnoticed. I can't count on either hand nor foot how many fingers I have broken or sprained these last eight years; how many black and blue knuckles I've had to hide or how many nights I've had to come home and lie about why I was bleeding or limping or late.
My nails had long been bitten down because I was always apprehensive. Mission after mission, I couldn't help but gnaw at my nails in frustration or fear and sometimes in failure. It was a release; a release from all the stress that has never been like sand that poured from my fingertips. It always just built up until I did something about it. It's easy to say with the high stress factor involved with my job, I wouldn't be falling back on a career as a hand model anytime soon.
There are many plane rides home when I wake up to a dim lifeless assemblage of passengers and instead of tuning into the in-flight movie I stare down at my fingers and think. There is so much to think about. My hands especially bring back memories. Despite the fact that hands are not capable of seeing; my hands have seen a lot. Most of the memories that flood me on those insipid plane rides back to Sloane revolve around my mother.
Whether it be that sunny July day when she taught me how to tie my Minnie Mouse sneakers with the rainbow laces to the day she showed me the itsy bitsy spider in the park by the river where we used to feed the ducks. My memories of her are no longer in chronological order; they are in no order what-so-ever. They are just a mish mosh of something reminiscent of holding her hand as we crossed any street. My hand always encompassed by hers and my eyes focusing on her perfect hands with graceful fingers. They were well groomed and always painted.
They were painted a distinguished shade of red. Every time she sat at her vanity and stroked on the polish, I would ask her if she could paint my nails too. She always refused except for once; she looked at me and told me that I was old enough and she polished my nubile nails and smiled at the beauty of it all. When the paint was dry she examined both our hands measuring mine up to hers and said nothing but a sweet smile came over as she kissed my forehead and told me she had to get ready to go. I had asked her if she had to, and she shook her head and nodded; a contradiction that I was too young to understand.
She asked me to help her choose something to wear. My father and she were going out somewhere and the babysitter would arrive soon. I had thrown a temper tantrum and stormed out of her room. She came in to check on me, but I hide my head under the pillow and begged her silently to stay with me. She told me she had to go, and with that she left my room, my home and my life. Later I found out she ended up choosing a simple black pantsuit and was presumed dead.
The way I found out was traumatizing. The babysitter picked up the phone as I pretended to sleep in my room, she dropped the phone and I'll never forget the loud sound it made as it crashed onto the herringbone hardwood floor that titled the entire expanse of our living room. She jogged up the stairs and looked in on me believing I was asleep and she leaned her back against my flowered wall and sank into the pink carpet and cried. I had no idea what had happened but I knew everything had changed.
TBC