Author's Note:
Hey all! Sorry this took so long to update, but I was out of town for the weekend and didn't have time to write. Good thing work is really slow today. I've divided this chapter into two parts because it's getting a little too long. I'm working on Part II now so it should be up either later today or sometime tomorrow. Thank you to all who helped me with the PM lists. If anyone else would like one please let me know and I'll be happy to add more names. Thank you so much for all your wonderful responses to this story. I can honestly say I've never had more fun writing than I have working on "Elysium." If anyone's interested I'm also archiving at "sd-1.com" and "coverme.net" I hope you enjoy this chapter!
~ * ~
It's a funny thing, the way dreams work. When I'm lying in bed, eyes closed and body relaxed, it's easy to pretend the images drifting before my eyes aren't real. I can wake up the next morning, confused and a little shaken, but attribute whatever I saw to my imagination. I can pretend my baby doesn't really exist, pretend I never made love to Sark on a beach. I can pretend my life is still the way it was two years ago, before I lost everything I ever valued.
But now, standing in my mother's living room, staring at a flesh and blood version of my little boy, I can't pretend anymore. He's exactly how I remembered him, chubby and beautiful with pale hair curling around his face. He sleeps soundly in this strange woman's arms, his face curled against her neck.
For a moment all I can do is stare open-mouthed as the room swirls around me.
Sark turns to the woman and mumbles something under his breath. She frowns and tightens her arms around my baby while my hands tightened into fists. I'm about two minutes away from slamming my fist into her face if she doesn't let go of my son. Sark brushes her hair off her face and smiles while she seems to melt. Literally melt. Her features soften and her eyes light up and my mother's hand curls around my wrist. "Not now," she says and looks pointedly at the girl. "There's time for that later."
As if she knows she's about to have her teeth knocked out, the girl gives Sark one last longing look and turns on her heel, my baby still clasped in her arms. I try to go after them, but my mother is holding me firmly in place. What is wrong with her? I just spent the last hour pouring my heart out about my missing baby and she won't let me see him? I tug harder, but she motions to Sergei and he wraps one enormous arm around my waist. That ends the struggle real fast.
Sark straightens and ambles towards us casually, or as casual as he can in a thousand- dollar suit. His eyes run from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, lingering on a few choice spots. . .like my mouth and my breasts. Under his close scrutiny I'm very aware of how crappy I look. My nose is sunburned, my hair windblown, and I'm wearing a faded sweatshirt and cut-offs. I came here expecting my mother and a confrontation; I never expected Sark. . "Ms. Bristow," he says. "How nice to see you again." It takes me forever to respond and the longer it takes the wider his smirk gets. "Cat got your tongue?" he teases.
"What are you doing here?" I finally say. "Aren't you supposed to be in prison?"
He exchanges a knowing look with my mother. "I don't have time for this, Irina. We need to discuss my trip."
She smiles at him indulgently. "In a minute." She turns to me. "You must be tired, Sydney. I'll have Sergei take you to your room. We can talk in the morning."
"What?" I cry. "How can you pretend that didn't just happen? I want my baby!"
He tries to cover it, but Sark goes pale at mention of the baby. His lips tighten and his eyes seem to glaze with ice. "It's late, Sydney," he says. "He needs his rest."
"I haven't seen him in months! I won't be more than a minute!" I cannot believe I'm begging Sark for permission to see my own child. This is getting too surreal, and I'm grateful my mother is still holding my arm because I think I'm on the verge of passing out—or slamming my fist into his face instead of that girl's.
He takes a step towards me, his eyes blazing. "Tell me, Sydney. Can you remember his birthday?"
"No."
"His favorite food?"
"No."
"Can you even remember his name?"
I hang my head. "No," I whisper. Wait, what am I doing? He is not going to win this one. I'm done with the victim act. It's time to remind Mr. Sark just who he's dealing with. I take a step towards him. "You know what, Sark? I can't remember a thing about the past two years. But I know that little boy is my son and I know I love him and no one, especially not you, is going to keep me from him." My eyes are blazing and my cheeks are flushed—but I'm not going to let him win.
He bends his head so his lips brush my ear. "Do you remember this, Sydney?" he asks and runs one hand down my side, his fingers massaging the scar on my stomach. "Do you remember the day you laid our baby in my arms? Do you remember making love in the waves?" His breath is hot on my cheek and his fingers feel like fire against my skin.
I suck in a breath. "You know I don't."
"Then stop talking about things you don't understand." He pulls away, leaving me quaking in my flip-flops. So much for tough, badass Sydney. It's more like movie-of-the-week Sydney who needs her Mommy to hold her hand. He ignores me and looks at my mother expectantly. "This can't wait, Irina. Get rid of her."
"Hey!" I cry, finding my voice again. "Do not talk to me like that!"
My mother sighs heavily, clearly not in the mood to deal with us. "Sydney, let it go. Go to bed. You'll feel better tomorrow."
"But—" I start, but Sergei is already hauling me away.
"Good night, Sydney," my mother calls over my shoulder, but I'm too angry to respond.
All this switching emotions back and forth is making me exhausted. A nice long nap would be wonderful, but I have more important work to do. I fall against Sergei's side and I'm practically incoherent when he deposits me at my bedroom. It's a beautiful room, but I don't care. I sit like a good girl on the enormous bed, bouncing a few times to test its softness, and wait it out. It takes forever before I'm convinced Sergei is gone and it's safe to venture outside. My luggage is lying in a pile on the floor and I slip on a pair of black running pants. I take a careful step and smile when I don't hear a thing. My mother can banish me to my room like I'm a little girl but that doesn't mean I have to stay.
I tug the door closed and creep down the hall. I wish I knew where I was going, but nothing looks familiar. It figures. The only time I remember things is when I least want to think about the last two years, and now that I'm calm and rational I can't remember a thing. It's not worth deliberating over, not when I such an important mission to complete. I tiptoe to the top of the stairs and listen. Below, my mother and Sark's voices drift up the stairwell. They're speaking Russian in hushed tones. I can speak enough Russian to get by, but not from this distance. I sigh inwardly and tiptoe back down the hall. I guess I'll have to learn everything the hard way.
As I slowly walk back to my room one of the wooden doorways catches my eye. There are about a million rooms in this house, most of them unused, but there's something different about this door. The wood is a little warped and there's a slight indent in the floor, as if many sets of feet have traveled over this threshold. I know instantly whose room this is.
I feel like a contestant in a game show. What's behind door number one? A trip to the Bahamas? A new car? Or my son. I'm living on a tropical island and I have twelve Wranglers at my disposal. I'm hoping this is door number three.
I take a deep breath and tentatively grip the doorknob. This shouldn't be so difficult, I'm only opening a door, but I can't get my hand to stop shaking. Up until three months ago I didn't even know this little boy existed, or at least I couldn't remember him. But now he might be just behind this thin piece of wood, where I can hold him and kiss him and love him. It scares me to death. I don't know what it's like to have a mother. The only one I ever knew died when I was six and my father was to angry and bitter to make up for it. I barely remember bedtime stories and bubble baths and my hair in pigtails. I mostly remember crying myself to sleep because my father was never there to tuck me in. How can I go in that room, with that innocent child, and love him? I don't know how.
What was it my father used to say when I asked him for help with my math homework and he turned me down because had yet another business trip? Ah, yes, "You'll never get anywhere unless you try," I whisper out loud. That was when I'd turn to my homework and tackle it furiously just to prove I could do something he asked, or in my child's mind, make him proud.
Well, I don't have Algebra in front of me and my father isn't flying across the Atlantic to defend his country. But I have an equally difficult challenge in front of me and I'm not going to get past it unless I try.
I take a deep breath and turned the handle.
~ * ~
Please, please, please respond!
Hey all! Sorry this took so long to update, but I was out of town for the weekend and didn't have time to write. Good thing work is really slow today. I've divided this chapter into two parts because it's getting a little too long. I'm working on Part II now so it should be up either later today or sometime tomorrow. Thank you to all who helped me with the PM lists. If anyone else would like one please let me know and I'll be happy to add more names. Thank you so much for all your wonderful responses to this story. I can honestly say I've never had more fun writing than I have working on "Elysium." If anyone's interested I'm also archiving at "sd-1.com" and "coverme.net" I hope you enjoy this chapter!
~ * ~
It's a funny thing, the way dreams work. When I'm lying in bed, eyes closed and body relaxed, it's easy to pretend the images drifting before my eyes aren't real. I can wake up the next morning, confused and a little shaken, but attribute whatever I saw to my imagination. I can pretend my baby doesn't really exist, pretend I never made love to Sark on a beach. I can pretend my life is still the way it was two years ago, before I lost everything I ever valued.
But now, standing in my mother's living room, staring at a flesh and blood version of my little boy, I can't pretend anymore. He's exactly how I remembered him, chubby and beautiful with pale hair curling around his face. He sleeps soundly in this strange woman's arms, his face curled against her neck.
For a moment all I can do is stare open-mouthed as the room swirls around me.
Sark turns to the woman and mumbles something under his breath. She frowns and tightens her arms around my baby while my hands tightened into fists. I'm about two minutes away from slamming my fist into her face if she doesn't let go of my son. Sark brushes her hair off her face and smiles while she seems to melt. Literally melt. Her features soften and her eyes light up and my mother's hand curls around my wrist. "Not now," she says and looks pointedly at the girl. "There's time for that later."
As if she knows she's about to have her teeth knocked out, the girl gives Sark one last longing look and turns on her heel, my baby still clasped in her arms. I try to go after them, but my mother is holding me firmly in place. What is wrong with her? I just spent the last hour pouring my heart out about my missing baby and she won't let me see him? I tug harder, but she motions to Sergei and he wraps one enormous arm around my waist. That ends the struggle real fast.
Sark straightens and ambles towards us casually, or as casual as he can in a thousand- dollar suit. His eyes run from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, lingering on a few choice spots. . .like my mouth and my breasts. Under his close scrutiny I'm very aware of how crappy I look. My nose is sunburned, my hair windblown, and I'm wearing a faded sweatshirt and cut-offs. I came here expecting my mother and a confrontation; I never expected Sark. . "Ms. Bristow," he says. "How nice to see you again." It takes me forever to respond and the longer it takes the wider his smirk gets. "Cat got your tongue?" he teases.
"What are you doing here?" I finally say. "Aren't you supposed to be in prison?"
He exchanges a knowing look with my mother. "I don't have time for this, Irina. We need to discuss my trip."
She smiles at him indulgently. "In a minute." She turns to me. "You must be tired, Sydney. I'll have Sergei take you to your room. We can talk in the morning."
"What?" I cry. "How can you pretend that didn't just happen? I want my baby!"
He tries to cover it, but Sark goes pale at mention of the baby. His lips tighten and his eyes seem to glaze with ice. "It's late, Sydney," he says. "He needs his rest."
"I haven't seen him in months! I won't be more than a minute!" I cannot believe I'm begging Sark for permission to see my own child. This is getting too surreal, and I'm grateful my mother is still holding my arm because I think I'm on the verge of passing out—or slamming my fist into his face instead of that girl's.
He takes a step towards me, his eyes blazing. "Tell me, Sydney. Can you remember his birthday?"
"No."
"His favorite food?"
"No."
"Can you even remember his name?"
I hang my head. "No," I whisper. Wait, what am I doing? He is not going to win this one. I'm done with the victim act. It's time to remind Mr. Sark just who he's dealing with. I take a step towards him. "You know what, Sark? I can't remember a thing about the past two years. But I know that little boy is my son and I know I love him and no one, especially not you, is going to keep me from him." My eyes are blazing and my cheeks are flushed—but I'm not going to let him win.
He bends his head so his lips brush my ear. "Do you remember this, Sydney?" he asks and runs one hand down my side, his fingers massaging the scar on my stomach. "Do you remember the day you laid our baby in my arms? Do you remember making love in the waves?" His breath is hot on my cheek and his fingers feel like fire against my skin.
I suck in a breath. "You know I don't."
"Then stop talking about things you don't understand." He pulls away, leaving me quaking in my flip-flops. So much for tough, badass Sydney. It's more like movie-of-the-week Sydney who needs her Mommy to hold her hand. He ignores me and looks at my mother expectantly. "This can't wait, Irina. Get rid of her."
"Hey!" I cry, finding my voice again. "Do not talk to me like that!"
My mother sighs heavily, clearly not in the mood to deal with us. "Sydney, let it go. Go to bed. You'll feel better tomorrow."
"But—" I start, but Sergei is already hauling me away.
"Good night, Sydney," my mother calls over my shoulder, but I'm too angry to respond.
All this switching emotions back and forth is making me exhausted. A nice long nap would be wonderful, but I have more important work to do. I fall against Sergei's side and I'm practically incoherent when he deposits me at my bedroom. It's a beautiful room, but I don't care. I sit like a good girl on the enormous bed, bouncing a few times to test its softness, and wait it out. It takes forever before I'm convinced Sergei is gone and it's safe to venture outside. My luggage is lying in a pile on the floor and I slip on a pair of black running pants. I take a careful step and smile when I don't hear a thing. My mother can banish me to my room like I'm a little girl but that doesn't mean I have to stay.
I tug the door closed and creep down the hall. I wish I knew where I was going, but nothing looks familiar. It figures. The only time I remember things is when I least want to think about the last two years, and now that I'm calm and rational I can't remember a thing. It's not worth deliberating over, not when I such an important mission to complete. I tiptoe to the top of the stairs and listen. Below, my mother and Sark's voices drift up the stairwell. They're speaking Russian in hushed tones. I can speak enough Russian to get by, but not from this distance. I sigh inwardly and tiptoe back down the hall. I guess I'll have to learn everything the hard way.
As I slowly walk back to my room one of the wooden doorways catches my eye. There are about a million rooms in this house, most of them unused, but there's something different about this door. The wood is a little warped and there's a slight indent in the floor, as if many sets of feet have traveled over this threshold. I know instantly whose room this is.
I feel like a contestant in a game show. What's behind door number one? A trip to the Bahamas? A new car? Or my son. I'm living on a tropical island and I have twelve Wranglers at my disposal. I'm hoping this is door number three.
I take a deep breath and tentatively grip the doorknob. This shouldn't be so difficult, I'm only opening a door, but I can't get my hand to stop shaking. Up until three months ago I didn't even know this little boy existed, or at least I couldn't remember him. But now he might be just behind this thin piece of wood, where I can hold him and kiss him and love him. It scares me to death. I don't know what it's like to have a mother. The only one I ever knew died when I was six and my father was to angry and bitter to make up for it. I barely remember bedtime stories and bubble baths and my hair in pigtails. I mostly remember crying myself to sleep because my father was never there to tuck me in. How can I go in that room, with that innocent child, and love him? I don't know how.
What was it my father used to say when I asked him for help with my math homework and he turned me down because had yet another business trip? Ah, yes, "You'll never get anywhere unless you try," I whisper out loud. That was when I'd turn to my homework and tackle it furiously just to prove I could do something he asked, or in my child's mind, make him proud.
Well, I don't have Algebra in front of me and my father isn't flying across the Atlantic to defend his country. But I have an equally difficult challenge in front of me and I'm not going to get past it unless I try.
I take a deep breath and turned the handle.
~ * ~
Please, please, please respond!