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elementof_riskSomeone you cared about deeply has died. Its two weeks later and you’re suddenly confronted with a memory of them. What stage of grief are you in and what is your reaction?
The cot was hard under him, little more than a mattress attempting to do an imitation of a cement block up on legs that raised it barely enough above the floor to send cold chills of air spiraling under it, magnified by the concrete walls and seeping up into his bones. The pillow was flat, barely lifting his head up off of the rock hard mattress, when he bothered to use it, though it hardly mattered since laying flat made it almost impossible to breathe, given the condition of his nose. He was fairly certain the medical treatment indicated for a broken nose included elevating the head when sleeping, but so far the prison doctor who'd patched him up in a cursory fashion hadn't seemed to consider that his care should extend to recommending a couple of decent pillows.
Someone would likely point out that the hard bed was good support for his back, but his shoulder didn't appreciate it any more than the rest of him, aching and throbbing in the cold. Everything ached, in point of fact, and narcotics clearly were not on the list of approved medications to give prisoners--even if they had been beaten bad enough to break four bones. So, he sat, leaning against the wall, eyes closed as he struggled to breath without a whimper to rise above the labored sounds. He wouldn't give him that satisfaction, if he even bothered to watch, anymore. It was just as likely that job done to his satisfaction, he'd tossed Sark in here to rot, never to think of him again.
But if he could toss Sark aside, nevertheless, at least one comfort Sark had was that Michael, too, would think of her. His eyes were closed and he watched the explosions of color behind his eyelids, sparking out with each flash of pain like fireworks in a darkened sky. They swirled there, phantom lights in his self-imposed dark, forming patterns against the black, merging and melding then flowing apart again. Purple first, then a golden sort of green before settling into blue and back to violet. He concentrated on the colors, the patterns, letting them ease his mind, integrating with the pain until the constant throb of blood through veins became something to focus on, a pinprick of self in the loss of the rest. It was there in that state, his mind slipping deeper into itself, that he tensed, catching a whiff of something in the air that reminded him of her perfume. Slipping out of relaxed memory, it encased him, light and sensual and sliding through him until it coiled deep in his gut evoking an almost visceral response the way she had done from the first time he saw those frightened and angry eyes glaring at him in the rear view mirror. He knew if he opened his eyes, he'd find himself gazing only at walls of concrete and bars of steel, but there, in his head, he could conjure her face out of the swirling colors, pull her forward, and in the brush of the cold air from the vent under the bed, he could almost feel her touch. His breath shuddered in, then out again, and he tried to hold on to happier memories, something warm to fight back, but only the cold so visceral it made him ache seemed able to penetrate.
* * *
"She's dead..." The first whispers had come two weeks before, writhing around him like serpents trying to find a soft place to strike. Michael had not come, nor Sydney. There was no one to ask he would trust with the answer, and no one to whom he would show that he cared, save the two of them. Even after Sydney's deception...
His heart clenched inside him, the memory from a day, two at most--the pain blurred things--pressing in.
"This little trick of yours means Vaughn failed. Tell me, is he dead?"
"No, he's not. But thanks to you, Lauren won't be so lucky."
He'd been hurting, guilt, always an unfamiliar emotion, tugging at him. So much pain, and he'd never been taught to withstand that sort of interrogation. Always give it up, she'd said, but for Lauren, he had tried, had held out as long as he could before the words spilled out. But she'd escaped, she'd survived, she'd gotten free, their contact fixing things that he had broken...and then he'd done it again, unwittingly, because he had given her up. That they would bring her in, that they would put her in a cell like his made sense. That her mother would have a way to get them out, the full force of their government allegiances behind her made sense as well, and so he had given her the pass code, let Sydney have that to find the location to...
To know where Lauren would be.
And now the whispers came that she was dead, filling the hall and the room and the sideways looks of the men who brought him food and escorted him to the bathroom where he stood under the shower, gingerly trying to bathe with one hand over lacerated, swollen skin, letting the pain of each brush of his fingers trigger some feeling through the numbness generated by the pulsing cadence. No. No. No. No. No. She was smart, she was resourceful, they had Katya Derevko and Elena both on their sides. Bomani would have killed her if you hadn't been there. But she had learned from that. She didn't need him to protect her. You gave her up. They tricked him. Vaughn would go after Sydney. He'd heard he was in the hospital. And if Sydney was in danger...? He tried to choke back tears the falling water washed away. No. No. No. No. No. Not my fault, not because of me...
* * *
The grip of memory was interrupted by the low murmur that came through the bars in the voices of bored guards who didn't think a prisoner in Sark's condition could do much that needed watching. They wound themselves around him, low and fascinated, titillating gossip spilling from their lips and into his ears that strained the moment they heard her name.
"Lauren Reed..."
Sark slowed his breathing to the point where it was almost imperceptible, calming the harsh gasping sounds that seemed louder in his head than they were, filling the room and echoing with its emptiness. As quiet descended, he could hear them better.
"I heard the rage is driving him hard..."
"He burned down their house..."
"Psych evaluation..."
"I'd have killed the bitch, too..."
It clutched inside of him, that "too", as if with a casual word the rumors he'd heard when both Sydney and Michael returned were absolute truth. Such a simple word, ringing through the halls, dismissive, a life gone, snuffed out at the height of its power and beauty, and this man not good enough to lick her shoes dared to say he would have done it as well, ratifying the slaughter of a woman with no more than a tossed off phrase. Hot tears stung his eyes, but he refused to let them fall, feeling pressure build in his nose. His skin flushed with heat, and the guard, glancing in his cell just then took a step back from the venomous hatred in Sark's eyes. If he entered...if he dared...when he brought dinner...those eyes said in an otherwise chilled mask of a face mottled with bruises and swollen nearly beyond recognition. Sark welcomed the fury, feeling it cut through the ice, burning and singing back the cold that had seeped into him from the wall and the heartbreak.
"You couldn't have killed her," he said, voice clipped on each consonant, tone dripping with disdain. "The likes of you couldn't get close enough to try."
The guard looked like he wanted to say something in protest, but another look at Sark's eyes, and his own fell, studying the tiles under his feet, while his companion cast uneasy glances between them, and held his tongue as well.
Sark leaned back against the wall, head tipping a bit to try and elevate his nose, and closed his bruised eyes again, letting the fury continue to melt the numbness. Every ache of every bruise and every broken bone hit with a vicious edge, but he welcomed it, allowing the pain to feed into the rage until they merged the way the colors did behind his eyes.
She was dead, she was gone, and somehow, someday, they would pay.
The cot was hard under him, little more than a mattress attempting to do an imitation of a cement block up on legs that raised it barely enough above the floor to send cold chills of air spiraling under it, magnified by the concrete walls and seeping up into his bones. The pillow was flat, barely lifting his head up off of the rock hard mattress, when he bothered to use it, though it hardly mattered since laying flat made it almost impossible to breathe, given the condition of his nose. He was fairly certain the medical treatment indicated for a broken nose included elevating the head when sleeping, but so far the prison doctor who'd patched him up in a cursory fashion hadn't seemed to consider that his care should extend to recommending a couple of decent pillows.
Someone would likely point out that the hard bed was good support for his back, but his shoulder didn't appreciate it any more than the rest of him, aching and throbbing in the cold. Everything ached, in point of fact, and narcotics clearly were not on the list of approved medications to give prisoners--even if they had been beaten bad enough to break four bones. So, he sat, leaning against the wall, eyes closed as he struggled to breath without a whimper to rise above the labored sounds. He wouldn't give him that satisfaction, if he even bothered to watch, anymore. It was just as likely that job done to his satisfaction, he'd tossed Sark in here to rot, never to think of him again.
But if he could toss Sark aside, nevertheless, at least one comfort Sark had was that Michael, too, would think of her. His eyes were closed and he watched the explosions of color behind his eyelids, sparking out with each flash of pain like fireworks in a darkened sky. They swirled there, phantom lights in his self-imposed dark, forming patterns against the black, merging and melding then flowing apart again. Purple first, then a golden sort of green before settling into blue and back to violet. He concentrated on the colors, the patterns, letting them ease his mind, integrating with the pain until the constant throb of blood through veins became something to focus on, a pinprick of self in the loss of the rest. It was there in that state, his mind slipping deeper into itself, that he tensed, catching a whiff of something in the air that reminded him of her perfume. Slipping out of relaxed memory, it encased him, light and sensual and sliding through him until it coiled deep in his gut evoking an almost visceral response the way she had done from the first time he saw those frightened and angry eyes glaring at him in the rear view mirror. He knew if he opened his eyes, he'd find himself gazing only at walls of concrete and bars of steel, but there, in his head, he could conjure her face out of the swirling colors, pull her forward, and in the brush of the cold air from the vent under the bed, he could almost feel her touch. His breath shuddered in, then out again, and he tried to hold on to happier memories, something warm to fight back, but only the cold so visceral it made him ache seemed able to penetrate.
* * *
"She's dead..." The first whispers had come two weeks before, writhing around him like serpents trying to find a soft place to strike. Michael had not come, nor Sydney. There was no one to ask he would trust with the answer, and no one to whom he would show that he cared, save the two of them. Even after Sydney's deception...
His heart clenched inside him, the memory from a day, two at most--the pain blurred things--pressing in.
"This little trick of yours means Vaughn failed. Tell me, is he dead?"
"No, he's not. But thanks to you, Lauren won't be so lucky."
He'd been hurting, guilt, always an unfamiliar emotion, tugging at him. So much pain, and he'd never been taught to withstand that sort of interrogation. Always give it up, she'd said, but for Lauren, he had tried, had held out as long as he could before the words spilled out. But she'd escaped, she'd survived, she'd gotten free, their contact fixing things that he had broken...and then he'd done it again, unwittingly, because he had given her up. That they would bring her in, that they would put her in a cell like his made sense. That her mother would have a way to get them out, the full force of their government allegiances behind her made sense as well, and so he had given her the pass code, let Sydney have that to find the location to...
To know where Lauren would be.
And now the whispers came that she was dead, filling the hall and the room and the sideways looks of the men who brought him food and escorted him to the bathroom where he stood under the shower, gingerly trying to bathe with one hand over lacerated, swollen skin, letting the pain of each brush of his fingers trigger some feeling through the numbness generated by the pulsing cadence. No. No. No. No. No. She was smart, she was resourceful, they had Katya Derevko and Elena both on their sides. Bomani would have killed her if you hadn't been there. But she had learned from that. She didn't need him to protect her. You gave her up. They tricked him. Vaughn would go after Sydney. He'd heard he was in the hospital. And if Sydney was in danger...? He tried to choke back tears the falling water washed away. No. No. No. No. No. Not my fault, not because of me...
* * *
The grip of memory was interrupted by the low murmur that came through the bars in the voices of bored guards who didn't think a prisoner in Sark's condition could do much that needed watching. They wound themselves around him, low and fascinated, titillating gossip spilling from their lips and into his ears that strained the moment they heard her name.
"Lauren Reed..."
Sark slowed his breathing to the point where it was almost imperceptible, calming the harsh gasping sounds that seemed louder in his head than they were, filling the room and echoing with its emptiness. As quiet descended, he could hear them better.
"I heard the rage is driving him hard..."
"He burned down their house..."
"Psych evaluation..."
"I'd have killed the bitch, too..."
It clutched inside of him, that "too", as if with a casual word the rumors he'd heard when both Sydney and Michael returned were absolute truth. Such a simple word, ringing through the halls, dismissive, a life gone, snuffed out at the height of its power and beauty, and this man not good enough to lick her shoes dared to say he would have done it as well, ratifying the slaughter of a woman with no more than a tossed off phrase. Hot tears stung his eyes, but he refused to let them fall, feeling pressure build in his nose. His skin flushed with heat, and the guard, glancing in his cell just then took a step back from the venomous hatred in Sark's eyes. If he entered...if he dared...when he brought dinner...those eyes said in an otherwise chilled mask of a face mottled with bruises and swollen nearly beyond recognition. Sark welcomed the fury, feeling it cut through the ice, burning and singing back the cold that had seeped into him from the wall and the heartbreak.
"You couldn't have killed her," he said, voice clipped on each consonant, tone dripping with disdain. "The likes of you couldn't get close enough to try."
The guard looked like he wanted to say something in protest, but another look at Sark's eyes, and his own fell, studying the tiles under his feet, while his companion cast uneasy glances between them, and held his tongue as well.
Sark leaned back against the wall, head tipping a bit to try and elevate his nose, and closed his bruised eyes again, letting the fury continue to melt the numbness. Every ache of every bruise and every broken bone hit with a vicious edge, but he welcomed it, allowing the pain to feed into the rage until they merged the way the colors did behind his eyes.
She was dead, she was gone, and somehow, someday, they would pay.
