Merry Christmas, Sydney
By: E.J.
Rating: PG-13 for dark subject matter.
Disclaimer: Alas, Alias and all of its beautiful people do not belong
to me.
Setting: Future.
Feedback: Hit up E.J. at extravagant_joy(at)msn.com
The bar is hazy with smoke and the air is polluted with the sweet
stench
of cigars, but, she doesn’t seem to notice or care. Her fingertips
gently
stroke the dark wood surface of the table she’s sitting at. The table
is
pitted and marred with deep cuts from years and years of misuse.
Tears well up in her eyes.
She sniffs and dashes away an escaping liquid drop.
Miles Davis is playing in the background, but she’s not really
paying
attention.
She’s entranced by the pale golden color of the liqueur inside her
glass.
Southern Comfort: sweet, warm, comforting, and wonderfully numbing.
Another sip. Sweet Jesus, more burn. Let it go down slowly . . .
slowly.
She has needs, she has desires, but she doesn’t want them.
They won’t ignore her like she’s trying to ignore them.
And, so, she takes another drink, slowly swallowing the liquid
fire. She
waits for the burn to spread; waits for it to consume her; waits until
she
is numb again.
She doesn’t think about the time, because she’s stopped living by
it.
She doesn’t long for home, friends, or anything else she’s left
behind,
because, of them all, only she remains.
She doesn’t look for meaning in anything. Meaning was for the
disillusioned: the ones who always hoped and dreamed, became
disappointed,
and never learned to quit.
I used to be that way, she thinks bitterly.
Another sip. Sweet Jesus, more burn. Let it go down slowly . . .
slowly.
She doesn’t speak unless she has to. She feels that her entire life
has
been made up of wasted words and she’s so tired of talking.
She doesn’t care about anyone anymore. She had, once upon a time.
But
things changed.
Another sip. Sweet Jesus!
She’s grateful for the comfort of her pale gold drink. Her
affection
for it is quite intense.
“May I join you,” A man’s British-accented voice, pierces through
her
thoughts.
She doesn’t look up. She doesn’t need to.
Her dismay shows, but it is not because she recognizes the timbre
of his
voice, nor is it because he’s discovered her location when she’d worked
so
hard to cover it up.
Her dismay shows because she can’t stop the sudden leap her heart
makes
when he draws near her; because, the liqueur hasn’t completely numbed
her
and she feels something she doesn’t want to feel.
“This is for you,” he says as he seats himself across from her and
takes
something from his coat pocket.
Despite not wanting to, her eyes follow the small, red, velvet box
he is
sliding toward her.
“A gift. From Irina.”
Her heart leaps again. Irina. Mom . . . Mom.
Though she’s almost convinced herself that the time she’d spent
with her
mother was only a dream, her mother’s earrings on the night stand,
beside
her bed, always reminds her, it wasn’t.
She’s afraid to reach out and take a hold of the box. She’s afraid
of
what she’ll find inside. She’s afraid of receiving anything that
might
speak of her mother’s love. Because, those rare moments where she
actually
thought it was possible, that her mother cared for her, turned out to
be the
times her mother committed her greatest acts of betrayal against her.
So, she gets up. She walks out of the bar and into the blizzard,
crossing snow-covered streets until her fingers and toes become numb.
As
numb as she longs for her soul to be.
A vehicle pulls up beside her.
“Get in,” he orders.
“Please,” she finally says something, “leave me alone.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Miss Bristow. Now, please, get
inside.”
Of course he will kill her. She’ll let him, too. She’s so tired of
running away and chasing after things. It’s all been a test, a test of
her
strength and her fears. She’s sick of the tests.
She sighs with relief as she climbs into the passenger seat. It’ll
soon
end. All of this will soon vanish.
The vehicle pulls away from the curb and makes its way along the
snow-packed roads.
She feels his blue eyes on her, but she stares straight ahead. She
thinks if she concentrates hard enough, she’ll find herself back at the
bar,
enjoying her Southern Comfort instead of waiting for him to put a
bullet in
her brain.
He smells good. She can’t help but notice. He smells like the
earth,
like the heady scent of a rain forest, like the potent smell of rain
and
sunshine mixed together.
She wonders if she should be surprised when he pulls into her
driveway,
but she’s not.
She gets out; so does he. She opens the front door, he follows her
inside, and he shuts it.
The small house is just as cold as it is outside. It’s also
completely
dark. The curtains are drawn, blocking out any light. It’s the way she
likes
it.
It’s very messy: blankets are strewn on the couch, empty tubs of
ice
cream sit on the coffee table, and half-filled glasses of peach
schnapps
adorn the end tables and the top of the tv.
She’s not going to apologize for the messiness. It’s her house.
She can
do whatever she wants with it. Besides, she doesn’t care.
She keeps telling herself that.
Sark’s not there to give her tips on housekeeping anyway, he’s
there to
enjoy the sight of a bullet entering her skull, the sound of the last
breath
she’ll ever take, and the satisfaction he’ll feel when her body
crumples to
the floor.
But it all seems so casual, the way he digs his hands deep into his
pockets and follows her into the kitchen.
She wonders where his gun is and when he’ll choose to use it on
her.
She needs something strong and stiff, something to knock her out so
she’ll not feel anything. Her hand reaches up and opens a cupboard.
A body presses against her back. A different, very strong and
masculine,
hand reaches around her and shuts the cupboard door she just opened.
Shit.
His nearness, again, is affecting her and she’s unable to control
her
body’s reaction to it.
Her pulse jumps. The air leaves her lungs.
He clasps her wrist and she knows he can feel the racing pulse
beneath
her skin.
“Come on.” He says in a low tone.
She stands by, helplessly, as he builds a fire in her fireplace.
She
doesn’t want a fire made, but what will it matter in just a short
while?
She’ll be dead.
And perhaps, as she lay on the carpet in a pool of blood, he will
finish
one of her glasses of peach schnapps and sit comfortably by her fire
until
it burns out.
She’s closing her eyes and craving a bottle of Southern Comfort.
She’s
dreaming of its pale golden liquid passing warmly down her throat,
numbing
her, sweetly, through and through.
Music is suddenly playing and she smiles sadly because he’s chosen
her
mother’s favorite Christmas record.
She pictures it: Nat King Cole will sing, “Although it’s been said,
many
times, many ways, Merry Christmas to you.” Meanwhile, Sark will pull
out his
gun, smile portentously, say “Merry Christmas, Sydney,” and then pull
the
trigger.
She shivers at the thought.
He’s a cold-blooded killer, she reminds herself, this is what he
does.
She feels his hand at the back of her neck. He pulls at a fist full
of
her hair until she is forced to look up at him.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I’ve come here for?” His tone is deep
and
velvety.
“I know why you’re here.”
He leans in close and whispers, “I’ve missed you.”
It enervates her. There’s an ache inside that she doesn’t want to
feel.
She wants her numbness back. Why was he trying to destroy her slowly?
Why
had he not chosen a quick and painless death for her?
He’s looking into her eyes, searching for something.
Finally, he releases his hold of her hair, places his hands at her
waist, and leads her in a slow dance around the living room.
He hums to the carol being sung.
She blinks back tears and tries desperately to concentrate on
something
other than him, other than the utter madness creeping inside.
He begins to sing softly near her ear, “O ye, beneath life's
crushing
load, whose forms are bending low, who toil along the climbing way with
painful steps and slow; Look now for glad and golden hours come swiftly
on
the wing; O rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing, . . .
peace
on the earth, good will to-”
“Stop it!” She snaps at him.
He chuckles. But she doesn’t care, she’s losing her mind. He’s
driving
her insane with this game he is playing.
“Please. Just do what you came here to do.”
“You assume my purpose in coming here is to extract your life.”
“What other reason could there be?”
“Irina sent me.”
“I’m sure my death will bring good news to her.”
“What about to your father.”
She’s been like an inactive volcano for the last few months. And
now,
she can’t stop it from erupting at his words.
“My father’s been dead for three months, you son of a bitch!” She
yells
furiously as she hurls a glass of peach schnapps at him. “Stop playing
these
mind games with me, Sark! Just do what you came here to do!”
He ducks as another glass flies toward him. It misses her intended
target and shatters against the wall.
She doesn’t stop yelling, nor does she quit throwing things at him;
so,
he tackles her to the floor and pins her there.
“Feels good, doesn’t it, Sydney? That surge of anger, that rush of
adrenaline, that sudden need for violence. You used to crave it,” he
says
breathlessly as he continues to try and hold her down.
She stills beneath him. He’s wrong. She’s sick of fighting, sick
of
struggling, sick of the drama her life has always been.
“Jack’s death was staged. Your mother and father are in Spain,
Sydney.”
“No! I was in the ICU with him when he died!”
“Perhaps this will convince you, then.” He says as he reaches into
his
pocket and produces the red, velvet box he’d offered to her earlier.
He presses it into her limp hand. Tears begin to fill her eyes and
trickle down the side of her face.
“Merry Christmas, Sydney.” He says as he bends down to place a soft
kiss
on her lips.
The kiss lingers.
She doesn’t move, doesn’t resist.
“Just one taste. Just one.” He whispers urgently against her mouth.
She inhales sharply at the sudden feel of his wet, warm, tongue
sliding
against hers.
Before she can react, he stands up and moves toward the door.
“Wait.” She whispers, but it’s too late because he’s already gone.
She is still lying on the floor. Her hair continues to soak up her
tears
as she opens the box.
Inside it is a plain, unmarked, envelope. Inside the envelope is a
photograph.
She sobs as she stares, blurry-eyed, at the couple who are pictured
there: her mother and father; both smiling happily and holding each
other
tightly.
“Dad, I don’t understand! I miss you so much!” She whispers
hoarsely as
she lovingly caresses the photo of his face. “Where are you?”
She turns the picture over and discovers a message.
Only three words appear in bold, black, letters:
Truth takes time.