A/N: So obviously I don't own Alias. It all belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Bad Robot, etc. I also don't own anything relating to the song 'Possession,' by Sarah McLachlan. I might end up using lyrics from the song, or maybe not, but it inspired this story and I used some lyrics for chapter titles.
This takes place a few weeks after The Frame, but it's not really crucial to the story.
I hope this makes sense. Enjoy.
Possession
_____________________________________
My purse hits the wooden floor with a loud thud as my body crumples onto my bed. I was in Cape Town last night. Or was it yesterday morning? With the 13 hour time difference and the 25 hour flight, it's difficult to remember.
Or maybe it wasn't even Cape Town. Maybe that was last week. It's not really important though. It never matters anymore. There's always going to be another mission in another trendy part of another far away city. I'll continue putting on leather mini skirts and stilettos, over-applying eye shadow, and pretending to be a 24 year-old so I can ingratiate myself into the clueless crowds.
And now I have these bruises again. After a few minutes of preparation, I muster enough strength to heave my body off the bed and walk towards the mirror over the bureau. I strain my eyes to make out my reflection. The sickening yellow and purple mixture underneath my skin is peeking through the foundation I applied yesterday night. Or yesterday morning. Whenever it was...
It turns out that when I know I'm coming home to an empty house, I don't really mind if my make-up doesn't make it home from Africa.
Slowly I unbutton my black jacket. It falls to the floor. I cross my arms and pull my charcoal gray tank top over my head in one fluid motion. With my eyes focused on the mirror, I undo the zipper on the back of my skirt, which slowly slides down my calves. Now I'm standing here in pastel pink, cotton undergarments, which are completely unflattering. It doesn't matter, though, since no one will be seeing them anytime soon.
I stare at my broken body in the mirror and have trouble believing it belongs to me. I run my hand over my abdomen, over the scar I've had since I returned, over the bluish blotches on my ribs, over my chest and my neck until I reach my face. My lip is cut. My cheek is bruised. My eyes are overflowing with tears.
I open the top drawer and remove a black camisole. I drop it over my head and it falls gently over my wounded rib cage. I pull my gray, cotton pajama pants out of the drawer, too, and gently pull them over my legs. I tie the drawstring so they loosely fall over my hips.
I shuffle into the bathroom and lift my blue toothbrush out of its holder. I remember a time when there would have been two brushes in that holder. I cringe as I remember that for a moment I had allowed myself to believe his toothbrush would return.
He would have used to it to erase the taste of that cup of coffee we were going to have.
But that cup of coffee was supposed to be weeks ago. It never happened. It never will. My toothbrush is lonely.
I brush, I spit, I rinse. I splash my face with warm water and linger a moment buried in the towel before wiping the wetness of my face. I pull my hair out of its pony tail and it falls messily over my shoulders.
My feet are sore. My eyes are tired. My bruises actually ache. My cabinet is crowded with Tylenol and Advil and even leftover prescription painkillers, but why mask the pain? It's still going to hurt tomorrow. I might as well get used to it tonight.
Mainly, I'm just exhausted. I fold my comforter down and fluff my pillow and sit on the edge of the bed. In a few minutes, I'll sink into the realm of dreams, or nightmares, whatever the case may be.
And then the phone rings. I consider not answering, but it's hard to ignore a phone call when you receive it at one in the morning.
"Hello?" I ask, barely whispering.
"Sydney," Vaughn begins.
I swallow hard. I know what I have to do, and it hurts. But after the last few weeks, I don't have any other choice. "Good night, Vaughn," I say, sliding my finger over the off button and getting ready to press down.
"Sydney, wait!" he demands. "I'm at the door. Your door. Do you think you could let me in?"
_________________________________________________
As long as you guys like this, I'll be glad to finish it. I'd love any feedback you have and I hope you enjoyed this. Thanks for reading!!!
This takes place a few weeks after The Frame, but it's not really crucial to the story.
I hope this makes sense. Enjoy.
Possession
_____________________________________
My purse hits the wooden floor with a loud thud as my body crumples onto my bed. I was in Cape Town last night. Or was it yesterday morning? With the 13 hour time difference and the 25 hour flight, it's difficult to remember.
Or maybe it wasn't even Cape Town. Maybe that was last week. It's not really important though. It never matters anymore. There's always going to be another mission in another trendy part of another far away city. I'll continue putting on leather mini skirts and stilettos, over-applying eye shadow, and pretending to be a 24 year-old so I can ingratiate myself into the clueless crowds.
And now I have these bruises again. After a few minutes of preparation, I muster enough strength to heave my body off the bed and walk towards the mirror over the bureau. I strain my eyes to make out my reflection. The sickening yellow and purple mixture underneath my skin is peeking through the foundation I applied yesterday night. Or yesterday morning. Whenever it was...
It turns out that when I know I'm coming home to an empty house, I don't really mind if my make-up doesn't make it home from Africa.
Slowly I unbutton my black jacket. It falls to the floor. I cross my arms and pull my charcoal gray tank top over my head in one fluid motion. With my eyes focused on the mirror, I undo the zipper on the back of my skirt, which slowly slides down my calves. Now I'm standing here in pastel pink, cotton undergarments, which are completely unflattering. It doesn't matter, though, since no one will be seeing them anytime soon.
I stare at my broken body in the mirror and have trouble believing it belongs to me. I run my hand over my abdomen, over the scar I've had since I returned, over the bluish blotches on my ribs, over my chest and my neck until I reach my face. My lip is cut. My cheek is bruised. My eyes are overflowing with tears.
I open the top drawer and remove a black camisole. I drop it over my head and it falls gently over my wounded rib cage. I pull my gray, cotton pajama pants out of the drawer, too, and gently pull them over my legs. I tie the drawstring so they loosely fall over my hips.
I shuffle into the bathroom and lift my blue toothbrush out of its holder. I remember a time when there would have been two brushes in that holder. I cringe as I remember that for a moment I had allowed myself to believe his toothbrush would return.
He would have used to it to erase the taste of that cup of coffee we were going to have.
But that cup of coffee was supposed to be weeks ago. It never happened. It never will. My toothbrush is lonely.
I brush, I spit, I rinse. I splash my face with warm water and linger a moment buried in the towel before wiping the wetness of my face. I pull my hair out of its pony tail and it falls messily over my shoulders.
My feet are sore. My eyes are tired. My bruises actually ache. My cabinet is crowded with Tylenol and Advil and even leftover prescription painkillers, but why mask the pain? It's still going to hurt tomorrow. I might as well get used to it tonight.
Mainly, I'm just exhausted. I fold my comforter down and fluff my pillow and sit on the edge of the bed. In a few minutes, I'll sink into the realm of dreams, or nightmares, whatever the case may be.
And then the phone rings. I consider not answering, but it's hard to ignore a phone call when you receive it at one in the morning.
"Hello?" I ask, barely whispering.
"Sydney," Vaughn begins.
I swallow hard. I know what I have to do, and it hurts. But after the last few weeks, I don't have any other choice. "Good night, Vaughn," I say, sliding my finger over the off button and getting ready to press down.
"Sydney, wait!" he demands. "I'm at the door. Your door. Do you think you could let me in?"
_________________________________________________
As long as you guys like this, I'll be glad to finish it. I'd love any feedback you have and I hope you enjoyed this. Thanks for reading!!!