A/N: Sorry for the major delay. School is a killer! As always, thanks much to Mel for all the wonderful help. And also thanks to her for putting up with my complaining and whining, and all the silly things I tend to say at around 12AM.
Part Two
Sark parks the car and walks the short distance to the large mansion where the ball is being held. Sydney is waiting for him at the front door, chatting with the door attendant. His breath catches in his throat as he catches sight of her, dressed beautifully in a black dress with spaghetti straps. It hugs her body, accenting her curves. The bottom of the dress flares out slightly, resting just above the ground. The knee high slit on both sides show off her long legs and strappy black sandals. Her hair is swept up in an elegant updo, soft tendrils framing her face gently. There's a bit of glitter in her hair, which catches the light. She beams as she catches sight of him, dressed in a white button down under a black suit jacket with a bowtie and black dress pants.
He walks up to her, greets the door attendant and offers her his arm. "Shall we?"
She smiles and places her hand on his upper arm, nodding to everyone they pass on their way in.
He leans down and whispers into her ear. "You look beautiful." He gently fingers the tendrils of hair that frame her face.
A slight blush creeps into her cheeks as she tells him, "You look gorgeous too."
Inside, the main ballroom is bustling with people, and they greet friends and acquaintances alike before taking their seats for dinner. During dinner, everyone at the table introduces him or herself and soon falls into comfortable conversations.
After dinner, the small orchestra in the corner begins to play slow melodies. The host of the party encourages everyone to get up and dance.
Sark stands up and holds a hand out to Sydney.
"May I have this dance?"
She doesn't hesitate. Smiling, she takes his offered hand. "Of course."
They move to the dance floor. Sark wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close. She slides her free hand behind his shoulder. They follow the slow beat, losing themselves in the music and in each other.
When the night is over, they stand in the parking lot, walking towards the car usually driven by Sydney. Since they arrived in separate cars, they have to drive both home.
"Mmmm," Sydney mumbles after planting a short kiss on Sark's lips. "You want to drive this one?"
He nods, pulling her in for another, slightly longer kiss.
As Sydney walks slowly away, further into the lot, Sark stares after her, admiring the way she looks in that stunning dress, the way her hips swing, the way her body curves. When she disappears from view, he climbs into the car. He frowns as he spots a folded white piece of paper on the passenger seat. Picking it up and unfolding it, his eyes widen at the two words written: SAY GOODBYE.
He throws open the door and begins to run in the direction Sydney went in, the square paper clutched in his hand. In the silent, still night, he can hear the distinct sound of a car engine stalling. There is about a second of silence, and all he can hear is his feet on the pavement, his heart pounding in his ears. He hears the engine again.
An explosion blows the car into bits, the orange and red flames light the sky as Sark watches on in horror. The fire crackles and erupts into the night. The bright colors dance in his eyes as the suddenly overwhelming heat swelters around him. The images, replaying in his head like a movie stuck on repeat, suffocate him. The grey smoke mingles with the flames drifting around him. The burning smell, along with the paper in his hand, is a taunting reminder that it is ultimately his fault.
All his fault.
----
"Morning," she whispers into his ear, still tucked into his side, under his arm.
"Morning." He smiles and turns over to kiss her lightly.
"How did you sleep?" She keeps her eyes on his face, looking for any indication of any bad dreams.
"Good." He tries to keep his tone matter of fact, mentally blocking the images in the dream from his mind.
She doesn't believe him, but doesn't push it.
At the breakfast table, he asks her, "Any exciting plans today?"
They smile at each other knowingly, an inside joke that would mean nothing to outsiders. Nothing on the island could compare to their previous lives but they both enjoy it that way.
She shrugs and tells him through a mouthful of bagel, "I don't know. I might drive to Mel's. It looks like it's going to rain tonight."
At the mention of driving, the images of explosion and fire flash through his mind. "Why don't we just stay in today?" He knows his suggestion is right out of left field, because he has never been one to suggest staying in. He tries to keep his strange fears out of his voice.
"Yeah, sure, I guess." Something nags at her. She suspects there's a reason for this request.
They spend the day in front of the fireplace, letting the warmth from each other and the fire block out the cold front that seems to be moving in. If not for the small worry that still unsettles her, everything would be perfect. She smiles to herself ironically. One year ago, when she lived alone, slowly spiraling away from herself, living the broken life, she would've never imagined having a normal life ever again. She would've never imagined even seeing Sark again, much less being content with him. The thought of perfection at that time scared her, for what did she have besides broken and shattered pieces?
He notices the smile and content look on her face. "What are you thinking about?"
"This. Us. How normal. How perfect." She smiles sheepishly and nestles closer to him.
Her innocent statement brings a pang to him, causing an unsettling feeling in his stomach. If only she knew…
She lifts her head off his shoulder and glances out the window, where dark clouds are rolling in over their heads. "It looks like it's about to pour. I'm going to move the car to the garage." She gets up and walks to get the keys.
"No," he blurts out quickly.
She freezes halfway across the room and looks at him. "What?"
"Just…" He realizes that now she'll know something is wrong. "I'll move it. You should sit back down." He gets up and grabs the keys before she says anything.
"Sark, what's going on? Is everything…" She stares at him, silently asking for an explanation.
"Nothing," he protests softly. "Why would anything be going on?"
"You are acting very oddly. First, you actually want to stay home the whole day. Now, you won't let me move the car. Something is going on. Plus, I know there's more to your bad dream the night before. Did it involve cars by any chance?"
"I—well, kind of. It's silly, really," he insists weakly.
"Sark." She grabs his arm, gently. "Please tell me." Her eyes plead with his.
He sighs, dropping the keys back onto the counter. "Okay." He takes her hand and threads his fingers in hers. "Syd… You know that I've been having these dreams. But you have no idea… how… painful they are." A look of confusion flashes over her face as she opens her mouth to say something, but he holds up a finger. "I won't lie to you. I don't know why I've been having these dreams, or even… what they say about me. In real life, I would never—"
"Sark." She says again, this time softer. Her eyes are wide with concern and curiosity. She touches his arm gently. "It's okay. Just say it."
"Sydney… the dreams are about you." He keeps an eye on her expression, watching a myriad of emotions flash across her face.
Her eyes widen in surprise, then cloud over in confusion. "But… I don't understand. What's so bad about these dreams?"
"In all of them, something bad happens to you. You are either murdered or injured very badly. By me, Sydney. It's always my fault. I kill you in these dreams of mine." He watches, waits for her inevitable reaction, wondering how bad it will be. He also contemplates the million-dollar question:
Will you run?
This time, her face twists into a strange expression, her mouth opening and closing, with no sound coming from it.
He gives a low chuckle, finding it a bit amusing that she cannot find any words. Though she may not always be the person most in control of herself, he has hardly had the honor to ever see her speechless. "Shocked?" He even surprises himself with the slight bitterness in his tone.
"You kill me?!" She bursts out suddenly, as if his words have just sunken in. She takes a step back, tears filling her wide, beautiful brown eyes.
He frowns now, his brow creasing in concern. "Sydney—"
A sob escapes her, interrupting anything he would've said. She continues to stare at him, a horrified and shocked expression glued to her face. Tears spill over onto her cheeks every time she blinks.
He takes a step forward, holding out his hand as if to wipe away her tears, but she keeps moving back with each step he takes forward.
"Stop." She manages to choke out, a whimper escaping from her. He almost doesn't comply, until a shiver runs through him, giving him a sense of déjà vu—almost the exact same scenario playing out now, happened in his dream. He takes a breath and stops in his tracks, watching her struggle to control herself—and her emotions. She draws in a shaky breath and looks him in the eyes. He sees something change in her, she no longer looks upset, instead, her eyes flash with something he hasn't seen very often in the past few months—anger. "I can't believe—how can you do that?"
He blinks, almost not realizing she has spoken. He doesn't understand her question as he himself would have no control over his dreams. "What do you mean? Do what?"
Her eyes narrow. "I mean, how can you keep dreaming about killing me? How can you want me dead?! I thought—look, you are the only person I have left in this world. Everyone else is already gone. It broke me once Sark, remember that? If you want me dead, what am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to do? What should I do?" Her voice comes out broken at first, but with each word, it gets stronger and louder.
His eyes widen at her outburst. "Sydney, please! You have to know that I would never want to hurt you—"
She ignores him. "How do I know that? You said so yourself, you've been having these dreams for some time. Dreams don't pop out of nowhere; obviously, some part of you wants me dead! If it happened once, twice, maybe it could be a fluke. I know the life we used to lead can bring about horrible things. But continuously, Sark, you can't tell me it's no big deal." She sees him about to protest and plunges on, "Not to mention, I don't know you at all. You know everything about me, but I hardly know anything about you."
He almost recoils at her harsh words, but opens him mouth to try to explain—again—"Sydney, I'm not telling you to dismiss it. But you wanted to know—"
"Don't try to turn this around. I'm glad I asked."
"I'm not—listen to me," he attempts to stay calm, but his patience is slowly disappearing, "Do you think I want these dreams? Do you think I want to have these images in my head, of your dead body? You have no idea how real they are, Sydney. How they scare me. You think I don't know that dreams stem from somewhere?"
"Then you acknowledge that you want me dead, that you want to kill me in your subconscious?"
"No! This is why I didn't want to tell you. I know you Sydney. I knew you would act like this. Stop being so stubborn and listen to me."
She bristles at his statement. "I don't think so. I'm through listening. If I'm so stubborn, I'm sure you won't mind me gone." She brushes past him.
He follows her to their bedroom, pleading with her, "Sydney, just listen to me." When she ignores him, he grabs her arm, trying to keep her from leaving. "Don't do this. Where will you go?"
She throws a few of her things into a duffel bag, and shakes off the hand he placed on her arm. "Doesn't matter. It's better than staying here."
She grabs her set of car keys and he knows his attempts to make her stay are futile. He knows her and knows how stubborn she is. The more he tries to explain, the more she will resist. With that thought in consideration, he watches her walk out the door, and out of his life—for the time being. He allows himself to hang on a bit of hope that she will come back. Even so, he walks toward the kitchen—getting out a bottle of liquor—with surprising calmness. He sits down at the kitchen table, and raises the bottle to his lips. He drowns the whole thing in a short amount of time, allowing himself to drink to the point of intoxication. It is the first time in many years he has let himself to do so. He stares at the empty bottle, laughs a bitter laugh, and throws it against the wall. It shatters upon impact. He stands up shakily and stumbles into the living room, leaving the glass shards on the ceramic kitchen tiles. He collapses on the sofa, and goes to sleep.
A/N: Review! Thanks!