Author's Note:
Hey all! Look what's back! To your amazement, I've actually had this chapter ready for the last few days, but my posting permissions were taken away for some odd reason and I had to clear that mess up before I could put up the newest chapter. I'll warn you, after being away from this story for so long this chapter is rather short because I'm trying to find my bearings again before I launch back into things full time. The premiere really got me excited about writing again, but I have to thank all my readers for all your amazing support and encouragement. That's what's helped me finally beat my writer's block and pick this story up again. I can't thank ya'll enough. I hope you enjoy!
~ * ~
In the end, it was easier to stay awake than dream of him. Every time I closed my eyes images of our night together would flutter across my mind and I'd wake up restless and panting, clutching the sheets between sweaty hands. I could still feel his fingers clutching my hips, his lips slanting over mine. . .it was making my life hell. I spent the night curled in my window seat, knees drawn to my chest while I watched the moonlight glitter on the water.
The sea is quiet tonight, hardly a ripple marring its smooth surface. It's calm, too calm for my taste--nothing like I feel inside. No, I'm anything but calm. It's like everything is spinning out of control and there's nothing I can do to stop it. It's not just that I lost my memory and can't remember the last two years of my life--now there's a child involved, a lover, complications I'm not prepared for. If I can't deal with Vaughn marrying another woman I have no idea how I'm supposed to handle Adam and Sark.
I reach out, press my hand to the window as if I can touch the sea, create strife to rival my own. The ocean used to bring me peace, strength, but now, gazing jealously at its endless expanse of tranquil blue, I feel nothing resembling peace. I'm agitated, edgy, uncomfortable in my own skin--because it isn't mine anymore. It belongs to a different girl, a girl who used to live in this room and sleep in this bed and play with her baby on a wide, wraparound porch. I'm not that girl, but I'm not Sydney either. I don't know who I am, but brooding in a fetal position isn't getting me any closer to what I want.
I take a shower instead, letting the pelting water wash away all the anger and hurt, at least temporarily. I scrub my skin furiously, as if I can remove the taint of mistake and uncertainty that haunts me. But rubbing my skin raw doesn't make my memory return, it doesn't help me understand the overwhelming love I feel for my son, and it doesn't explain my conflicted feelings for Sark. Sighing, I step out of the shower and pad into my room to dress.
I haven't been here for over two years but it's like I never left. Without a second thought I find my body lotion in the second cabinet under the sink, my moisturizer in the far right drawer. I feel a little better as I head to my closet to find something to wear. I'm beginning to feel more comfortable in this place I used to inhabit. With each tiny step, like remembering what hook I hang my robe on, I feel a little closer to the past, to my old self. With each little accomplishment I feel closer to figuring out who I am.
That is, until I get to the vanity.
It's beautifully crafted, roses and hearts carved gently into the wood, with a cool marble countertop. I run my fingers over an ivory handled hairbrush, hold a bottle of custom-blended French perfume to my nose and sniff. The scent is soft, flowery, nothing like the Obsession I wore to drive Vaughn crazy. I pretend to wonder who I wore this perfume for, but it's pointless. I know who I wore it for and I don't want to think about him. I put the bottle down hurriedly and it totters dangerously on its rim, threatening to fall. I catch my reflection in the mirror as I steady the bottle and gasp.
I'm still too thin, have been too thin since I kicked Vaughn's ass in Hong Kong and realized it wasn't all a dream, but there's something different about my face. Sure, my nose is still sunburned and the sun's brought out a sprinkling of freckles across my cheeks, but that's not it. There's a sparkle in my eyes, a hint of curiosity, a warmth I haven't seen since the day I got my dad out of jail. It's like I've been frozen for three months, locked in the past filled with disappointment and pain, but here, in the warmth of the Caribbean air and my son's love, I'm starting to thaw. I smile broadly, liking the way it makes my eyes crinkle at the corners and brightens my entire face. I do it again, and again, even daring to laugh once. I could get used to this, seeing light in my eyes, being able to laugh with humor and not sarcasm. . . just being happy again period.
But then, as it usually does, my mind destroys my illusion.
I see myself gazing in the same mirror, the same perfume bottles and creams littering the vanity, only I'm not alone. Long-fingered hands wrap a chord of diamonds around my throat while blond hair prickles my skin and soft lips press a gentle kiss to my bare shoulder.
"Happy Birthday," he whispers in my ear. "And many more to come." I reach up and clasp my hands over his, watching our reflections in the mirror. My eyes are lit up and my cheeks glowing. . .
And then it's gone, before I learn what happens next. But the memory's still there, my shining face and brilliant smile, just like I was a few moments ago, before the past ruined everything.
"Dammit!" I cry. It's like every time I'm so close to remembering something important, a clue that would explain the last two years of my life, its snatched away. I don't understand why my own mind hates me so much, is so desperate to keep the truth from me.
I turn away from the vanity, the mirror and all it reveals, and pad to the closet. Just like I expected, it's filled with clothes I don't recognize, but are still familiar. I brush my hand over a silk evening gown, a cotton sundress, remembering the feel of the fabrics against my skin, but not when I wore them. I settle on the one dress I do recognize, the red and white flowered halter I wore the night my son was conceived. I run the skirt through my fingers in hopes of remembering something, but all I see when I close my eyes is Sark's mouth curving against mine, my back pressed against a rough, wooden pillar.
Shaking my head to dislodge the memory I raise my arms to pull the dress over my head, but something seems a little off. I scan the material, unsure of what I'm looking for, but knowing something is wrong. And then, just like the memory at the vanity, it comes to me. There's supposed to be a stain on the skirt, right above the hem, when Adam's clumsy hands spilled my glass of red wine. But there's nothing there. I drop the dress and pick up a pair of cargo pants, searching for the frayed pockets, but the pants are brand new. So is everything else in my closet. And when I rush back to the vanity and examine the hairbrush, the hairline crack in the handle is gone.
I sit down on the bed and take a deep breath, wondering if I'm truly going crazy--but I know I'm not. I remember those things the same way I remember Adam. I know they're real, because I can remember the day I dropped the brush and cracked the handle, or the way I loved my cargos so much I washed them to near exhaustion.
Confusion doesn't begin to cover my feelings. I feel betrayed, almost violated. It's like someone has tried to erase my existence, as if, if my things no longer exist I wouldn't either. But if someone wanted me gone, why replace my things with new ones? The whole thing is downright creepy.
And I'm going to figure out what's going on, but glancing at the clock, my investigation will have to wait. It's nearly noon, way later than I wanted to sleep. Adam should be up and about by now and I want to see him in the full light of day, when he doesn't have to be sleeping and Sark can harass me.
I reach for the cargo pants, but then I think of the gorgeous blonde panting after Sark and I pick a sundress instead. It's cool, sexy, subtle. . .perfect. Not that I'm trying to impress anyone, but I have something to say to that woman downstairs and I want to look my best. I remember her smirk last night, when I stood in my mother's living room like a petulant child and she clasped my baby to her breast. She had such power in her gaze, such superiority, but that's about to end. I'm tired of crying, tired of pain, tired of hyperventilating every time I think of Sark or Vaughn and my missing two years. I need to get control of my life back and that begins with her. As of tomorrow, Svetlana caring for my baby will be a thing of the past.
~ * ~
Please, please, please respond!
Hey all! Look what's back! To your amazement, I've actually had this chapter ready for the last few days, but my posting permissions were taken away for some odd reason and I had to clear that mess up before I could put up the newest chapter. I'll warn you, after being away from this story for so long this chapter is rather short because I'm trying to find my bearings again before I launch back into things full time. The premiere really got me excited about writing again, but I have to thank all my readers for all your amazing support and encouragement. That's what's helped me finally beat my writer's block and pick this story up again. I can't thank ya'll enough. I hope you enjoy!
~ * ~
In the end, it was easier to stay awake than dream of him. Every time I closed my eyes images of our night together would flutter across my mind and I'd wake up restless and panting, clutching the sheets between sweaty hands. I could still feel his fingers clutching my hips, his lips slanting over mine. . .it was making my life hell. I spent the night curled in my window seat, knees drawn to my chest while I watched the moonlight glitter on the water.
The sea is quiet tonight, hardly a ripple marring its smooth surface. It's calm, too calm for my taste--nothing like I feel inside. No, I'm anything but calm. It's like everything is spinning out of control and there's nothing I can do to stop it. It's not just that I lost my memory and can't remember the last two years of my life--now there's a child involved, a lover, complications I'm not prepared for. If I can't deal with Vaughn marrying another woman I have no idea how I'm supposed to handle Adam and Sark.
I reach out, press my hand to the window as if I can touch the sea, create strife to rival my own. The ocean used to bring me peace, strength, but now, gazing jealously at its endless expanse of tranquil blue, I feel nothing resembling peace. I'm agitated, edgy, uncomfortable in my own skin--because it isn't mine anymore. It belongs to a different girl, a girl who used to live in this room and sleep in this bed and play with her baby on a wide, wraparound porch. I'm not that girl, but I'm not Sydney either. I don't know who I am, but brooding in a fetal position isn't getting me any closer to what I want.
I take a shower instead, letting the pelting water wash away all the anger and hurt, at least temporarily. I scrub my skin furiously, as if I can remove the taint of mistake and uncertainty that haunts me. But rubbing my skin raw doesn't make my memory return, it doesn't help me understand the overwhelming love I feel for my son, and it doesn't explain my conflicted feelings for Sark. Sighing, I step out of the shower and pad into my room to dress.
I haven't been here for over two years but it's like I never left. Without a second thought I find my body lotion in the second cabinet under the sink, my moisturizer in the far right drawer. I feel a little better as I head to my closet to find something to wear. I'm beginning to feel more comfortable in this place I used to inhabit. With each tiny step, like remembering what hook I hang my robe on, I feel a little closer to the past, to my old self. With each little accomplishment I feel closer to figuring out who I am.
That is, until I get to the vanity.
It's beautifully crafted, roses and hearts carved gently into the wood, with a cool marble countertop. I run my fingers over an ivory handled hairbrush, hold a bottle of custom-blended French perfume to my nose and sniff. The scent is soft, flowery, nothing like the Obsession I wore to drive Vaughn crazy. I pretend to wonder who I wore this perfume for, but it's pointless. I know who I wore it for and I don't want to think about him. I put the bottle down hurriedly and it totters dangerously on its rim, threatening to fall. I catch my reflection in the mirror as I steady the bottle and gasp.
I'm still too thin, have been too thin since I kicked Vaughn's ass in Hong Kong and realized it wasn't all a dream, but there's something different about my face. Sure, my nose is still sunburned and the sun's brought out a sprinkling of freckles across my cheeks, but that's not it. There's a sparkle in my eyes, a hint of curiosity, a warmth I haven't seen since the day I got my dad out of jail. It's like I've been frozen for three months, locked in the past filled with disappointment and pain, but here, in the warmth of the Caribbean air and my son's love, I'm starting to thaw. I smile broadly, liking the way it makes my eyes crinkle at the corners and brightens my entire face. I do it again, and again, even daring to laugh once. I could get used to this, seeing light in my eyes, being able to laugh with humor and not sarcasm. . . just being happy again period.
But then, as it usually does, my mind destroys my illusion.
I see myself gazing in the same mirror, the same perfume bottles and creams littering the vanity, only I'm not alone. Long-fingered hands wrap a chord of diamonds around my throat while blond hair prickles my skin and soft lips press a gentle kiss to my bare shoulder.
"Happy Birthday," he whispers in my ear. "And many more to come." I reach up and clasp my hands over his, watching our reflections in the mirror. My eyes are lit up and my cheeks glowing. . .
And then it's gone, before I learn what happens next. But the memory's still there, my shining face and brilliant smile, just like I was a few moments ago, before the past ruined everything.
"Dammit!" I cry. It's like every time I'm so close to remembering something important, a clue that would explain the last two years of my life, its snatched away. I don't understand why my own mind hates me so much, is so desperate to keep the truth from me.
I turn away from the vanity, the mirror and all it reveals, and pad to the closet. Just like I expected, it's filled with clothes I don't recognize, but are still familiar. I brush my hand over a silk evening gown, a cotton sundress, remembering the feel of the fabrics against my skin, but not when I wore them. I settle on the one dress I do recognize, the red and white flowered halter I wore the night my son was conceived. I run the skirt through my fingers in hopes of remembering something, but all I see when I close my eyes is Sark's mouth curving against mine, my back pressed against a rough, wooden pillar.
Shaking my head to dislodge the memory I raise my arms to pull the dress over my head, but something seems a little off. I scan the material, unsure of what I'm looking for, but knowing something is wrong. And then, just like the memory at the vanity, it comes to me. There's supposed to be a stain on the skirt, right above the hem, when Adam's clumsy hands spilled my glass of red wine. But there's nothing there. I drop the dress and pick up a pair of cargo pants, searching for the frayed pockets, but the pants are brand new. So is everything else in my closet. And when I rush back to the vanity and examine the hairbrush, the hairline crack in the handle is gone.
I sit down on the bed and take a deep breath, wondering if I'm truly going crazy--but I know I'm not. I remember those things the same way I remember Adam. I know they're real, because I can remember the day I dropped the brush and cracked the handle, or the way I loved my cargos so much I washed them to near exhaustion.
Confusion doesn't begin to cover my feelings. I feel betrayed, almost violated. It's like someone has tried to erase my existence, as if, if my things no longer exist I wouldn't either. But if someone wanted me gone, why replace my things with new ones? The whole thing is downright creepy.
And I'm going to figure out what's going on, but glancing at the clock, my investigation will have to wait. It's nearly noon, way later than I wanted to sleep. Adam should be up and about by now and I want to see him in the full light of day, when he doesn't have to be sleeping and Sark can harass me.
I reach for the cargo pants, but then I think of the gorgeous blonde panting after Sark and I pick a sundress instead. It's cool, sexy, subtle. . .perfect. Not that I'm trying to impress anyone, but I have something to say to that woman downstairs and I want to look my best. I remember her smirk last night, when I stood in my mother's living room like a petulant child and she clasped my baby to her breast. She had such power in her gaze, such superiority, but that's about to end. I'm tired of crying, tired of pain, tired of hyperventilating every time I think of Sark or Vaughn and my missing two years. I need to get control of my life back and that begins with her. As of tomorrow, Svetlana caring for my baby will be a thing of the past.
~ * ~
Please, please, please respond!