So, I've never entered a fan fiction challenge before, I'm like a fan fiction challenge virgin. I was talking to Ali after reading her fantastic entry and Cai's fantastic entry and she told me that I should enter so here I am. Mine isn't nearly as good as theirs but I decided to give it a go anyway. I had a major boost of inspiration this afternoon when I was swimming. I started reading Harlan Coben's book The Innocent the other day. The prologue is written in the second person which I thought was really cool so that's where I kind of got this idea from. So enough of my rambling. I hope you guys like this.
Catatonic Dance
You are Julia Thorne.
You live and breathe death. Killing is your way of life. In some way killing completes you and you’ve been living this way for too long to look back.
Some people would frown upon this but you couldn’t care less. When you feel the cold steel of a gun in your hand it sends a rush through your body you can’t explain and you wouldn’t want it any other way.
There is someone, someone deep inside you who doesn’t agree with the way you live. Unfortunately she makes it difficult for you to live the way you wish.
You bolt upright in your bed clutching the covers. You’re screaming and sweating. You scramble out of the bed and rush into the bathroom. You grasp the toilet bowl heaving hard.
The nightmares, they haven’t left you yet. Nightmares aren’t the right word for what you experience when you let sleep wash over you. They are memories. The most vivid memories you could ever experience. You can feel, touch, smell, see and taste everything. These memories have been making you sick for the past year. They come from the woman buried deep inside you. She makes you feel human; she makes you want things that you can’t have, love, friendship, family.
She hasn’t given up, she wants you to feel it, and she wants you to suffer. You decide as you stand from the cold tile that you have to deal with this in the only way to know how.
You are Sydney Bristow and you are dead.
You’ve been dead for one year. It’s been four years since you left. You fought for a whole year; you fought through all of the torture. You didn’t break.
He congratulated you on not being broken after a year. You must have been one strong woman back then. You still had hope, strong hope that someone would crash through those impenetrable doors and save you. You knew they would.
Your sense of time was skewed there but another year went by. You still had hope although it was wavering you didn’t give in. You fought. He passed you a newspaper. Your father had died. He died in prison. He told you some say he died of a broken heart. That was when you realized something you had realized long ago no one was coming to save you.
It took a year for you to totally give in. It was hell for both you and him. He fought with you while you gave in. Your father put you through a program as a child that’s why this was so difficult. Even in death it’s as if he was still giving you the will to fight. Everyone would have moved on, forgotten about you the best they could. They would have mourned and given up hope as well. As you felt your last string of sanity let go you screamed and you felt yourself die.
You are Julia Thorne.
You had been warned many times to avoid the United States. You were given pictures from Covenant operatives of agents from the United States government you should avoid at all costs. You were told they were dangerous but you had seen the men before. They were in your nightmares; they were her friends, lovers, family. You take a deep breath as you exit the airport. This is end of your nightmare.
You drive through the busy roads of Los Angeles, you’ve never been here before but you know the roads to take and where to turn. You stop by a cemetery and step out of the car. You search through the headstones spotting the one you wanted to visit.
The grave isn’t well kept. The ones that surround it have freshly picked flowers and messages like Beloved Father are engraved into the stone. This man’s grave is different, as if no one was with him when he died. No one cared enough to cut the weeds that surrounded it and no one visited him teary eyed on Father’s Day.
You look to your left and see two beautiful grave stones. The first is a name you don’t recognize but you feel that she does. Laura Bristow. You kneel down in front of it tracing the engravings with your fingertips. This woman was loved.
You take your time staring at the next one. The name glares at you. Sydney Anne Bristow. Many people loved this woman, she could feel it. Unfortunately for those people they would all die because you just can’t take it anymore.
Your visit to Los Angeles isn’t for pleasure, it is strictly business. It’s not even business as much as it is a massacre of an old life, a life that doesn’t deserve to live anymore.
You pull the car door open leaving a smear of blood on the handle. You sit down in the front seat pulling a damp cloth from your bag. You wipe remaining blood from your hands and smile. You rip the picture of a man named Marshall Flinkman in half and throw it in a pile with your victims from the day; a woman named Carrie, a man named Marcus, a man named Eric.
After each murder you feel more relieved and she slips away. You can feel her screams, her will to take over but she has little to cry for anymore.
The neighborhood is happily suburban. It makes you want to vomit. You pull up in front of the house. You stare at the front door. This is it, the last one and then you will be free. You’ll make it quick. She’s wailing now, it just makes you want it more.
She doesn’t want you to do it. You kick down the front door and run quickly through the house. What you see isn’t what you expected.
There is a man who sits in front of you, he’s a poor excuse for a man. His face and clothes are dirty and he hasn’t even looked up from the table since you came in. When you walk closer you can tell, he’s crying. He still hasn’t looked up. He has photos spread all over the kitchen table. They are pictures of you. You’re younger, carefree and full of life. They are pictures from when life was simpler. When he looks at these pictures he sees her. He’s mumbling to himself. “Four years, it’s been four years.” He traces the picture with his fingers.
“You are one sorry excuse for a man.” You let the words roll of your tongue without realizing it.
He jumps out of his seat, recognizing her voice immediately.
“Sydney?” He asks hopefully. For a moment his face is rejuvenated, full of wonderment and questions. He thinks that she’s alive and that he can have his love again. He’s wrong.
You smile at this naivety. You smile as she wails again. You smile as you pull the sharp blade from your back pocket. This one is the worst for her which will make it the best for you.
It slides through his flesh easily. You cut through his muscles and puncture important airways. He gasps as you pull the knife out of him.
You hold him as he slides to the floor. You caress his face as he gasps for oxygen. You lean down and kiss him passionately as he heart stops beating.
You stand up wiping the blood on your pant legs. You wipe a tear from your eye. You don’t cry. You never cry. A wave of relief washes over you, it's over. She’s gone now. Her cries, hopes and fears have left you and you know they will never come back.
You pull into an empty parking lot far away from the neighborhood. You climb into the back seat pulling a blanket out of your bag. You’re tired and you know you’re going to have an uninterrupted sleep tonight.
lost in a catatonic dance
know no future
damn the past
blind, warm, ecstatic
safe at last...
You are Julia Thorne. You live and breathe death. Killing is your way of life. And today, well today was just another day on the job.
-
Thanks for reading and reviews would be fabulous.
Oh and lyrics are from Thick as Thieves by Natalie Merchant.
Erica
Catatonic Dance
You are Julia Thorne.
You live and breathe death. Killing is your way of life. In some way killing completes you and you’ve been living this way for too long to look back.
Some people would frown upon this but you couldn’t care less. When you feel the cold steel of a gun in your hand it sends a rush through your body you can’t explain and you wouldn’t want it any other way.
There is someone, someone deep inside you who doesn’t agree with the way you live. Unfortunately she makes it difficult for you to live the way you wish.
You bolt upright in your bed clutching the covers. You’re screaming and sweating. You scramble out of the bed and rush into the bathroom. You grasp the toilet bowl heaving hard.
The nightmares, they haven’t left you yet. Nightmares aren’t the right word for what you experience when you let sleep wash over you. They are memories. The most vivid memories you could ever experience. You can feel, touch, smell, see and taste everything. These memories have been making you sick for the past year. They come from the woman buried deep inside you. She makes you feel human; she makes you want things that you can’t have, love, friendship, family.
She hasn’t given up, she wants you to feel it, and she wants you to suffer. You decide as you stand from the cold tile that you have to deal with this in the only way to know how.
You are Sydney Bristow and you are dead.
You’ve been dead for one year. It’s been four years since you left. You fought for a whole year; you fought through all of the torture. You didn’t break.
He congratulated you on not being broken after a year. You must have been one strong woman back then. You still had hope, strong hope that someone would crash through those impenetrable doors and save you. You knew they would.
Your sense of time was skewed there but another year went by. You still had hope although it was wavering you didn’t give in. You fought. He passed you a newspaper. Your father had died. He died in prison. He told you some say he died of a broken heart. That was when you realized something you had realized long ago no one was coming to save you.
It took a year for you to totally give in. It was hell for both you and him. He fought with you while you gave in. Your father put you through a program as a child that’s why this was so difficult. Even in death it’s as if he was still giving you the will to fight. Everyone would have moved on, forgotten about you the best they could. They would have mourned and given up hope as well. As you felt your last string of sanity let go you screamed and you felt yourself die.
You are Julia Thorne.
You had been warned many times to avoid the United States. You were given pictures from Covenant operatives of agents from the United States government you should avoid at all costs. You were told they were dangerous but you had seen the men before. They were in your nightmares; they were her friends, lovers, family. You take a deep breath as you exit the airport. This is end of your nightmare.
You drive through the busy roads of Los Angeles, you’ve never been here before but you know the roads to take and where to turn. You stop by a cemetery and step out of the car. You search through the headstones spotting the one you wanted to visit.
The grave isn’t well kept. The ones that surround it have freshly picked flowers and messages like Beloved Father are engraved into the stone. This man’s grave is different, as if no one was with him when he died. No one cared enough to cut the weeds that surrounded it and no one visited him teary eyed on Father’s Day.
You look to your left and see two beautiful grave stones. The first is a name you don’t recognize but you feel that she does. Laura Bristow. You kneel down in front of it tracing the engravings with your fingertips. This woman was loved.
You take your time staring at the next one. The name glares at you. Sydney Anne Bristow. Many people loved this woman, she could feel it. Unfortunately for those people they would all die because you just can’t take it anymore.
Your visit to Los Angeles isn’t for pleasure, it is strictly business. It’s not even business as much as it is a massacre of an old life, a life that doesn’t deserve to live anymore.
You pull the car door open leaving a smear of blood on the handle. You sit down in the front seat pulling a damp cloth from your bag. You wipe remaining blood from your hands and smile. You rip the picture of a man named Marshall Flinkman in half and throw it in a pile with your victims from the day; a woman named Carrie, a man named Marcus, a man named Eric.
After each murder you feel more relieved and she slips away. You can feel her screams, her will to take over but she has little to cry for anymore.
The neighborhood is happily suburban. It makes you want to vomit. You pull up in front of the house. You stare at the front door. This is it, the last one and then you will be free. You’ll make it quick. She’s wailing now, it just makes you want it more.
She doesn’t want you to do it. You kick down the front door and run quickly through the house. What you see isn’t what you expected.
There is a man who sits in front of you, he’s a poor excuse for a man. His face and clothes are dirty and he hasn’t even looked up from the table since you came in. When you walk closer you can tell, he’s crying. He still hasn’t looked up. He has photos spread all over the kitchen table. They are pictures of you. You’re younger, carefree and full of life. They are pictures from when life was simpler. When he looks at these pictures he sees her. He’s mumbling to himself. “Four years, it’s been four years.” He traces the picture with his fingers.
“You are one sorry excuse for a man.” You let the words roll of your tongue without realizing it.
He jumps out of his seat, recognizing her voice immediately.
“Sydney?” He asks hopefully. For a moment his face is rejuvenated, full of wonderment and questions. He thinks that she’s alive and that he can have his love again. He’s wrong.
You smile at this naivety. You smile as she wails again. You smile as you pull the sharp blade from your back pocket. This one is the worst for her which will make it the best for you.
It slides through his flesh easily. You cut through his muscles and puncture important airways. He gasps as you pull the knife out of him.
You hold him as he slides to the floor. You caress his face as he gasps for oxygen. You lean down and kiss him passionately as he heart stops beating.
You stand up wiping the blood on your pant legs. You wipe a tear from your eye. You don’t cry. You never cry. A wave of relief washes over you, it's over. She’s gone now. Her cries, hopes and fears have left you and you know they will never come back.
You pull into an empty parking lot far away from the neighborhood. You climb into the back seat pulling a blanket out of your bag. You’re tired and you know you’re going to have an uninterrupted sleep tonight.
lost in a catatonic dance
know no future
damn the past
blind, warm, ecstatic
safe at last...
You are Julia Thorne. You live and breathe death. Killing is your way of life. And today, well today was just another day on the job.
-
Thanks for reading and reviews would be fabulous.
Oh and lyrics are from Thick as Thieves by Natalie Merchant.
Erica
