Disclaimer: Fox is what I aspire to be, omnipotent owner of everything related to the OC. Alliteration baby…

Author's Note: Dedicated especially to Heather, cause your review made me so happy on the crappiest day of the year for me. Thanks to all my other reviewers for making me smile as well.I promise that the vagueness is not intentional; it's kinda how the writing style to this story goes. But I think this chapter explains a little more. Not sure when the next update will be, I'm planning to go home to Amsterdam soon so bear with me.

Lost In Babylon

Ch 5


I can't sleep tonight
Everybody saying everything's alright
Still I can't close my eyes
I'm seeing a tunnel at the end of all these lights
Sunny days
Where have you gone?
I get the strangest feeling you belong
Why does it always rain on me?

Is it because I lied when I was seventeen?
Why does it always rain on me?
Even when the sun is shining
I can't avoid the lightning
Oh where did the blue skies go?
And why is it raining so?

Why does it always rain on me? - Travis

"Tell me about your childhood…" The AC hums prettily after his words have become airborne, and I settle myself further back against my chair. Somehow dark luscious curls are all I can picture right now, and it's so damn hard to concentrate on anything else.

As he speaks I realize that I love the rhythm of his voice, his inflection…the way his tongue pushes out certain words and keeps some of them hidden in its fold. It's soothing. It's exactly how a doctor should speak, I declare silently to myself. The old man's wild eyebrows wiggle as if in response, and I try not to distract myself with the amusing moves of his whiskers.

"Can't remember." I say steadfastly, as always my answer remains the one thing that annoys Dr. Van Dale endlessly. Maybe I should change it up a bit, act as if I might answer differently just so he could taste the thrill of it. I grin to myself, feeling oddly chipper for someone who's just faced a memory head on and still can't figure it out. I wish I could feel the smoothness of the photograph again, it might shake stuff up for once.

"I saw that you noticed that picture," Dr Van Dale is full of surprises in his old age, he seems triumphant as he bores his dusty blue eyes into me. I nod…yup, I noticed, I saw myself standing on a beach I should have probably recognized, beaming smiles while a man is nuzzling my neck. The only thing I do recognize, my stomach flips and twists as the thought wriggles its way into my dizzy busy brain… There he was again, deliciously familiar Mr. Cohen.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to look at it…" I say hastily, not sure if what I had done was really that wrong. I catch his gaze, uncertain of course because that's who I am. Or perhaps that's only who I am now, I remember being sturdier somehow, fiercer within myself.

Thankfully he understands that it's time to change the subject. For now at least. And if I know devious Van Dale even a little bit, he'll most definitely broach the subject again…and again until all I can dream about is that handsome man nuzzling my neck.

"Come on Summer, tell me anything you remember from when you were little. Anything will do, really go on," his tone heightens softly, urging me on in its comforting lull. I wish I could get away from his fake fatherly performance, since it's making me want to crawl out of my own skin.

"Little girls are made out of sugar and spice," I laugh, not sure why I said that. "But not me!"
I hear the old man shift in his seat, pen hovering greedily over the blank sheets of paper. Finally, he seems to think, finally he's getting his wrinkled greedy little hands on something worthwhile. His excitement is flagrant in the air, and the hairs on my arms stand on end as we both wait with baited breath for what else might come tumbling out of me. It seems I'm full of surprises today, and all of a sudden I recall a particular bold move, of how I did away with my fuzzy little pills earlier that day.

"I'm made out of fires and flames." I declare rather pompously, which causes me to blush a little afterward. I don't understand where that came from, but I'm pleased to see the old man scribbling away for dear life for once. I do have some purpose left in me.

"Who told you that Summer?" Dr. Van Dale voices my thoughts precisely, and yet the answer doesn't pop up to the surface until it's said aloud. "That's a really interesting thing to say." His desperation is noticeable, and I feel a great amount of pity for the man now.

"My father…" I'm silent in my confusion for a moment. God, I haven't ever thought of him, and yet the moment the words leave my lips I feel so cold. So very lonely all of a sudden. The old man scrambles to his feet for some reason, a worrisome expression taking hold of his wrinkled friendly face. He hands me a handkerchief. "What's wrong?" he whispers tentatively.

I brush my hand against my cheek, surprised to find it wet. Why am I crying? Why am I upset? Instead of thinking of answering either question, I merely dry my face with the quaint little piece of cloth he's handed me. I refuse to meet the old man's gaze, turn down the endless questions that must be coursing along his face.

Stubborn mule that he is though, he is not to be deterred. "Your father?" He seems to poke me in the back with that faint little tone of his…urging, pushing, tempting me to venture further into dark eerie places I can't even fathom diving into.

"He said I was brighter than anything he'd ever seen in his life. And I could rage unlike any other person he'd ever known." I'm very quiet all of a sudden, very still. Perhaps that's what it's like when you remember things. Pretty nice things that might make you miss pretty nice people. I decide I don't like the feeling, and I notice my cheeks are wet once more.

"What else did he say, Summer?"

Urge…Push…Tempt…

I hate him when he does that, when he plays me like the madwoman I forget I am sometimes. Tugging at my strings until I do the dance he wants me to. I dry my face again, but behave like the good little girl they've trained me to be. Respect the white coats, the people with the drugs, the people with the needles and the notepads. They might end things for you, in a very bad way. And despite his friendly Santa smile, the old man still wore whites to work. To me that said enough…

"Daddy was afraid I'd burn people, or I'd hurt myself…I'd fizzle out in my own flames," I chortle nervously, and wring my hands around the damp handkerchief, coiling it around my fingers until I can't see the blood in them. "I always told him, I'd never hurt anyone…I'd never intentionally hurt anyone Daddy!"

"Why was he so afraid you'd hurt someone?" I see the glint in his eyes and I am certain he already knows the answer. He's just doing what doctors do, teaching you about yourself without telling you the answers. I'm the loony lab rat and he's the evil scientist allowing me to chase my own tail.

"Can I see that picture again?" I am polite in my defiance; I will not amuse him any longer with my inability to understand anything. This is one of those moments I wish my head was cloudy again, that I'd be less aware…more numb so nothing would bother me.
He nods, much to my relief, and hands me the smooth photo. I reward my fingertips by letting them slide along the surface one more time, before gazing at the little people captured on it.

"Do you think he'll come back tomorrow?"

 
The old man gives me a pitying look, which just makes me turn back to me and Mr. Cohen looking so damn happy together…so sane. What does he know anyway? I glare at his jolly face, and I can't find myself finding him endearing anymore. He only wants to hear about my childhood. Dissect stuff I could care less about. He doesn't know about this boy with his sad pretty eyes and how he can always make things tumble around inside my stomach.

"He'll come back!" I declare firmly, and dig my fingernails into the softness of my palm. "He said he'd take care of me." This catches Van Dale's attention, although I'm not sure why really.
"When did he say that, Summer?" I shrug, slowly, unsure as always.

I press the picture against my chest, wanting to feel the hum of happiness coursing from it. I can't feel anything. Pursing my lips, I close my eyes for a split second. "After my Daddy left."
Don't worry, Seth Cohen always keeps his promises, voices titter against my skull. How comforting, how warm…I can feel the picture hum now.