Scars
S J Smith

Disclaimer: Oh, I'd desperately love to be Tanith Lee. But I'm not. *sigh*

Rating: Eh. Teen?

Summary: Life goes on, taking Jane with it.

A.N.: One of my favorite YA/SF novels of all time, I first read The Silver Metal Lover when I was close to Jane's age. She and Silver remain one of my top five favorite couples, ever. This story takes place post-novel.

I wear bracelets now, big enough to cover the scars on my wrists, and long sleeves to hide the ones that track up my forearm. Dying, oh, dying is not an option any more. Though I don't doubt it could be.

I work on my novel, of how I met Silver, how I bought him, and how he became mine and I became his. It's difficult, sometimes, writing of him as if he were a machine when he was never anything to me but a man.

My mother has agreed, amazingly enough, to pay to have my story published, though she also insists that all names be changed and I set the story elsewhere. She wants no real connection to her - I think she'd prefer it if I use a pseudonym, just to be sure that she is not implicated in any way with the aberrant behavior of her one and only daughter.

Clovis is not sure how to react to the idea, though he was gracious enough to read the first two chapters I'd written. "Jane, no one's going to believe this." His hair was dark again, no longer tinted with red (to resemble Silver. Obviously, his aberration didn't last as long as mine).

"That's not the point," I tell him, even though it is - I want people to believe. I want them to understand what happened to me, what happened to Clovis, what happened to Silver. I don't want them to be outraged or frightened - even though Clovis points out human beings are irrational and they will probably act that way, regardless of what I want.

I know he worries about me - he offered to get me a new policode, so that if someone did attack me, I'd be protected, but I told him I wasn't worried about it.

And I'm not, not really. I lived with Silver in the slums. I still live there and the people there are people, just like everywhere else. They know me as the girl whose boyfriend got killed; the girl who sings and makes bad puns; the busker with her white cat on a green ribbon leash. The button man still comes to see me and brings the two buttons to hear me sing and once, when it was cold and in a fit of generosity, he brought me coffee, too, to warm my throat and my hands.

I admit, it's hard, so very hard, without Silver. I want to run back to our apartment with the rainbow carpet and the whale in the bath and open the door to find Silver, strumming his guitar, waiting on me with his gorgeous smile and a warm kiss to welcome me home.

After it happened, I told myself stories, sometimes, about how things should've been. Without, of course, the tragic ending. I've outgrown that. Those daydreams hurt me. And I try to think of better times now, of busking with the other singers and musicians, of sharing my songs and music with them. Of my novel. Of Clovis and his boyfriend of the week. And when I get overwhelmed, when the day ends and it's dark outside, I remind myself of the seance, of Clovis, of Silver telling me we'd be together again, some day.

I wonder how I'll know it's him; how he'll recognize me, how I'll know it's him. And then I tell myself it doesn't matter, that love will find it's way.

Everyone I know has the scars to prove it, even if you can't see them. Mine are reminders of what I had and what I lost and what I might stand to lose again.

I'm not afraid. No, I've learned to be strong. Through him. For me. For other people, who might fall in love with machines, and vice versa.

I touch my hidden scars and smile and shake back my hair. I'm in my greens and purples and the night is young. The other musicians are tuned; they're ready. And I take a deep breath to sing along.