Chapter Three: Live For Me
Sylvia could feel the bed underneath her; the mattress, firm and stable; the comforters folded over her body were soft but chilling as her skin seemed to burn from the inside out. These sensations felt real, but she knew them to be only the side effects from the medication she'd taken. Her eyes stung when fresh tears pooled to her lashes, dribbling down her cheeks like rain down a glass window.
What could she do? What could she say to Charleen to make that girl understand that she wanted to help! God, how she wanted to! But this emptiness in her heart was much too large.
"Are you really going to just let that teenager walk into the Sirens, unprotected?"
Sylvia startled, turning on her other side the instant she heard his voice.
Her eyes widened to see Oswald lying in the bed next to her. He was dressed in the way she'd remembered him last: in one of his extravagant suits; although, the only difference was that he appeared less lively, having not retained the glow when Sylvia's conscience reminded her that his appearance in the now was only a manifestation created from the drugs she'd taken an hour ago.
Her small smile faltered when she saw him watching her expectedly.
Oswald's eyes were their brightest blue; they peered down at her when Sylvia lied on her back, peering up at him defensively.
"She won't go." Sylvia denied.
"You're unconvinced. Noted."
"What can I do?" She asked unhappily. "It's not like I haven't tried. Barbara's got everyone under her thumb now, I-I can't do anything. The only people who stayed are in the living room."
"You and I both know that there are others who would support you," Oswald reminded firmly. He leaned forward, caressing her face in the palm of his hand. "Everyone around you believes you can take back all that you've lost. The only person who doubts you is lying down in front of me."
"The only thing I want back— the person I want back is you." Sylvia said sadly, looking at him as fresh tears fell. "How can everyone just assume I can just do what needs to be done? They don't know what I'm feeling. They don't know what—It's not like 'hey, Lark, back in the game, snap to'. It's not that easy! How can they think that?"
"No one is denying that you are lost without me." Oswald reassured softly.
She turned away from him.
"Even if I confronted Barbara, even if I got everything back, it wouldn't be the same."
"Maybe it's not about you."
She turned her head, glaring back at him: "It is about me. I'm the one who lost everything. I'm the one that Barbara decided to keep alive because she thought I'd be grateful to her. If she were my real friend, if she had even the slightest idea about how devastated I am, she would have killed me too!"
"I meant that while you've been sleeping all day, taking these pills," Oswald said softly, gesturing to the bottles on the end table, "your people are being run into the ground. I know you're lost—and I know you're hurting. But they need you now, more than ever. Charleen, included."
"I can't think." Sylvia managed, sitting up. "Every time I move, it hurts. Even if I got everything back, who's to say how long I could manage. I-I'm crying all the time, I can't stop thinking about what I could've done differently. H-Had I just tried to struggle harder when Butch sedated me, I could have stopped them! I could have kept you from dying—I could have done so much more, but I didn't! I didn't and now I feel like I'm all alone—I'm back where I was before I met you and—and there's no one…"
She didn't get through half of what she was trying to say. Instead, she seemed to collapse onto herself, laying back down before she might fall out of the bed out of despair. Oswald—whether or not he was either real, or dead, a figment of her imagination—moved closer to her; his arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her into him as Charleen had, and his embrace had never made her feel more alone.
"I just miss you so much," Sylvia cried, burying her face into his lap. "And it hurts too much…"
"I know, Pigeon." He combed his fingers slowly through her hair.
"I don't know how to move on from this…"
He was silent. As was she. When he spoke, his voice was soft and low.
"Do you remember what happened when Tabitha killed my mother?"
Sylvia mumbled, "We ended up hiding at Falcone's old place—in the basement. Only Falcone and our Crime Family knew about it."
"Right." Oswald interlaced one of his hands with hers; the other continued to move through her hair, sometimes massaging the back of her neck. "What happened when we arrived?"
"We had to start plotting out our revenge." She answered quietly.
"Was I able to do anything?"
"No, of course not. You were heartbroken." Sylvia turned so she looked up at him from his lap. "You could barely speak—you wouldn't let me touch you or anything."
"Precisely. So, what did you have to do on my behalf?"
"I gave your men instructions to wait and I talked to Victor. Oswald, I don't understand where you're going with this. I can't—"
"—You knew I was hurting; you knew I was broken." He interrupted her firmly. "You were just as devastated as I was, but you knew that one of us needed to think clearly. You ignored your own pain so that I could be free to wallow in mine. How did you do it?"
Sylvia sat up, turning to sit on her knees: "I chose anger over despair."
"And what came from that?"
"Productivity, I guess." She said dismissively. "But I've tried that. Even when I get angry, I don't stay angry. It's impossible. That's the point."
"My point of reminding you about my mother's death was not a point of you staying angry to get through your devastation, Pet." Oswald said gently.
"So, what is your point?"
"You need to work through your sadness. Find a conduit."
Sylvia's lips parted in realization: "You mean find a way that channels my grief into something that makes me more clear-headed?"
Oswald nodded: "It's the only way you can hold onto the people you have. They're running in circles without you, and the rest of them are looking for a worthy contender to mediate between people like Barbara Kean and Tabitha Galavan. To protect them as you always have. Also, not to drag this topic into the mud: Charleen, your 15-year-old ward, is about to walk straight into the Sirens, demand reparations for what's been done to her and her unconventionally appointed mother. Do you really want Charleen's death on your hands?"
Sylvia rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand.
"I'll find a way." She uttered shakily. "I-I'll find a way to get through this."
"That's my girl." Oswald praised, smiling proudly. "You really are one of my most loyal subordinates. You've done anything I've asked and would do anything for me, even now, wouldn't you?"
"In an instant." She breathed faithfully.
"I'd ask you to do one more thing for me."
"Anything. What is it?"
"You can prove how your love for me outweighs any torture anyone could lay upon you."
"How?" She begged for the answer.
He leaned forward and kissed her cheek: "Take back your territory: Show the Sirens that you are not easily bested by your own weakness. You've killed for me. You wouldn't hesitate to die for me. Now…" His lips met hers in a tender kiss. "Live for me."
"I can…I-I will." She returned the kiss, although fresh tears started rolling down her cheeks as she smiled. "I love you, Oswald."
"As I love you." He smiled knowingly. "Also…" He indicated the pills on the end table. "Throw those out before you leave."
"But it's the only way I know I'll be able to see you again."
"You and I are bound together by more than just earthly representations." Oswald said understandingly, resting his forehead against hers; she closed her eyes, truly treasuring the last time she'd feel him. "I know you miss me. But you cannot fully live in the present if you're still hanging onto the past and I don't want that for you. Not now. Not ever."
"Okay…Okay, I'll throw them away." Sylvia sniffled, looking at him sadly. "For you."
"Good girl." He kissed her lips. Tender, but meaningful.
She startled awake. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.
Sylvia turned on her back, looking up at the ceiling. Then she glanced at the pills with a second's hesitation before she sat up. There was a note scribbled on the nightstand underneath the specific bottle that allowed her to see Oswald anytime she fell asleep. It was a handwritten note, scribbled and scratched like a typical doctor's handwriting, of one doctor in particular: Hugo Strange.
She pushed herself off the bed and placed the penguin plush doll that had fallen back on her pillow. After patting its head, she left for the bathroom, taking a pair of black leggings, matching crop top, socks, and black laced boots with her.
If Hugo Strange had found a way to allow her to see Oswald again, maybe he was able to provide her with something stronger to ignore her sadness and heartbreak and become the Lark again, one who ignored her own emotions in order to do what was best for everyone.
Strange's practices always had a price, but if one had nothing else to sacrifice, was the price really that important?
What else did she have to lose?
