Broken Things: Prologue
Rating: R/NC-17
Characters: Sark/Sydney
Summary: Sydney, a ghost, watches Sark, her last lover, in his spiralling descent as he searches for her murderer.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.
Notes: Thanks to Dita, Lindsay, Nu, and Gabs Hardy for putting up with my many neurotic questions.
***
And I pray that my eyes never shut,
even for death:
I who need all my vision to learn,
see at first hand, and interpret my dying.
--Pablo Neruda, "The Truth"
Prologue
The night that I died, Sark was in London. He left me the night before, sitting in front of the fireplace, the licking flames threatening to emerge from its brick-lined box. He brushed my hair away from my neck, but I didn’t turn. He said something, but I can never remember what. The last time I saw him when I was alive, I didn’t look at him, only felt his presence slip away. In retaliation, I removed myself-permanently-before he could make it back.
In London, he fell into the crowd at a busy restaurant. The lighting was bright, but nobody could remember him. He blended into the background like a pale ghost who faded back into existence whenever he wished. He waited there for a man to appear, waited for an opportunity to return to color, be real, to one person if nobody else. That was one of the many differences between us: I had always wanted to live life, while he simply drew on mine. That night we were both ghosts, voiceless and faceless, unheard. But in the morning it was only I who could not return.
Even as Sark waited, the man did not show. On the other side of the world, back in LA, I opened the door to him, to his flinty eyes that were never readable, but would sometimes soften. His black raincoat dripped water onto my carpet. I think I said something, perhaps asked what he was doing there. He might have answered with my name, or impending silence. It didn’t matter; there was no truth in our exchange, only afterwards when he raised his knife and slid it-gently, steadily, mercifully-across my throat.
With blood trickling down to my bare feet, I might have called out to him, “Daddy,” but it might have been just the whispering echoes of my childhood memories. The little girl called out to him as he pushed her higher on swings, his strong hands sending her one step closer to the endless sky. The older girl called out again; he cut the words from her lips as the stained carpet met her stained cheeks.
In my last moments I looked for the markings of raindrops and tears, but there were none: the blood had chased them away.
When Sark returned to the living, I felt the absence of our last bond. It was surely and swiftly that he left me behind.
***
As always, feedback is much appreciated. =)
Characters: Sark/Sydney
Summary: Sydney, a ghost, watches Sark, her last lover, in his spiralling descent as he searches for her murderer.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.
Notes: Thanks to Dita, Lindsay, Nu, and Gabs Hardy for putting up with my many neurotic questions.
***
And I pray that my eyes never shut,
even for death:
I who need all my vision to learn,
see at first hand, and interpret my dying.
--Pablo Neruda, "The Truth"
Prologue
The night that I died, Sark was in London. He left me the night before, sitting in front of the fireplace, the licking flames threatening to emerge from its brick-lined box. He brushed my hair away from my neck, but I didn’t turn. He said something, but I can never remember what. The last time I saw him when I was alive, I didn’t look at him, only felt his presence slip away. In retaliation, I removed myself-permanently-before he could make it back.
In London, he fell into the crowd at a busy restaurant. The lighting was bright, but nobody could remember him. He blended into the background like a pale ghost who faded back into existence whenever he wished. He waited there for a man to appear, waited for an opportunity to return to color, be real, to one person if nobody else. That was one of the many differences between us: I had always wanted to live life, while he simply drew on mine. That night we were both ghosts, voiceless and faceless, unheard. But in the morning it was only I who could not return.
Even as Sark waited, the man did not show. On the other side of the world, back in LA, I opened the door to him, to his flinty eyes that were never readable, but would sometimes soften. His black raincoat dripped water onto my carpet. I think I said something, perhaps asked what he was doing there. He might have answered with my name, or impending silence. It didn’t matter; there was no truth in our exchange, only afterwards when he raised his knife and slid it-gently, steadily, mercifully-across my throat.
With blood trickling down to my bare feet, I might have called out to him, “Daddy,” but it might have been just the whispering echoes of my childhood memories. The little girl called out to him as he pushed her higher on swings, his strong hands sending her one step closer to the endless sky. The older girl called out again; he cut the words from her lips as the stained carpet met her stained cheeks.
In my last moments I looked for the markings of raindrops and tears, but there were none: the blood had chased them away.
When Sark returned to the living, I felt the absence of our last bond. It was surely and swiftly that he left me behind.
***
As always, feedback is much appreciated. =)