Alias Numps
Cadet
A/N: Ok really weird and angsty. Oh well. I got the idea and had to do it. Lol. It’s for the sd-1 June challenge. It’s post The Telling, of course.
Elements: 1) Attending a wedding 2) Chinese food 3) The line “She’s gone. She gave me a pen. I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen.” From Say Anything.
Death’s So Final, Isn’t It?
If I don’t step carefully enough, I know I might crush the delicate life that grows lush and green beneath the soles of those like me. Though what lies underneath is nothing more than an empty pocket of soil, it seems so much more... it is so much more.
If I move my feet too closely to the soft brown mound, I may leave a mark of it on the surface of the cool gray stone. Not a single blemish should be left upon something so meaningful, so perfect. And yet it’s so perfectly despairing.
It’s quiet here; it’s so quiet I sometimes wondered while here if time was still existent.
If maybe this entire place was... was a limbo, a universe where time itself is frozen, paralyzing all within its boundaries. Sometimes I feel immobile myself while here, wondering if I should even continue breathing as I look down upon those harsh and finalizing words, engraved so neatly into the stone.
Sydney A. Bristow
An angel of 1,000 disguises
Saving the world until her last moment in it
1974-2003
Vous serez avez aime pour toujours
This spot has haunted my dreams for the last two years, and my thoughts when I’m awake as well. Her ghost lingered everywhere, clouding my mind, holding me captive. And now her ghost is gone... but I’m still held prisoner.
I remember the night it began, the last moments I witnessed her radiating smile spread across to each well defined dimple and the bright sparkle in the large hazel eyes that were so uniquely hers.
^*^*^*^
“Syd? You ready?” I asked, knocking lightly on her slightly ajar bedroom door. When no answer came, I wondered if she’d fallen asleep for a bit. I put down the quart of won-ton soup I’d brought for us to have before we left, then pushed the door fully open.
Nothing could have prepared me for the sight I saw.
Her once full length looking glass was lying on the ground in jagged shards, reflecting the golden lights from the ceiling. Those lights were too warm, too soft for the brutal reality hidden there.
Without breathing, I stepped over the pieces. A stain of dark red brown was smeared across the edges of a few, dripping onto the floor. Blood. A silent teardrop rolled down and hit the smooth, shiny surface of one, mixing with the crimson substance.
Then I saw it, by the window. A curling yellow parchment, obviously very aged and crumbling with time. Black inked letters were scrawled across its surface, but I could not read them through the blurry film of tears.
And there, right in the center, a small but intricate sketch... a human heart. A tiny scrap of white paper lay right atop the heart, pinned to the parchment by the tip of a pen jammed into it. I took a number of shaking breaths and forced my own heart to pump again, then carefully read the words on the scrap.
“A present for you
In return for your loss.
Take your time.”
^*^*^*^
She’s gone. She gave me a pen. I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen.
I’ve heard that line somewhere before, and it has stayed with me crystal sharp. It wasn’t her who gave those things to me, to all of us. I know that. I know within myself who it was, the antagonist of the too short fairy tale.
He took away my love, my heart, and left a faded prophecy and a pen. But that phrase still haunts me, left over from some old film and brought forth from the back of my mind.
I don’t remember much of what happened after that. Everything about that night after collapsing terrified onto her bed is hazy and indistinct, as though I’m watching an old silent movie in my mind.
After one year of searching and fighting the oncoming hopelessness, I finally succumbed to stage five of the grief cycle: acceptance. Sydney Bristow was dead.
Sydney Bristow, my agent, my friend, my angel, my love, my life... was dead. Sydney Bristow was dead. Sydney. Bristow. Was. Dead.
Was.
Past tense. The three letter word cuts into me, widening the hollow in my heart, settling into the crevices of my soul. Was. Waswaswas. I should be happy. I should be overjoyed, blissful, exultant. But I’m not. And that makes it all the more disheartening.
I want to grin, I want to laugh. I want to take her in my arms and never let go. I want to feel the exuberance I’d always dreamed about when she came back to me... night after night. But then I feel the cool metal against my finger, and everything drops away.
I remember attending Marshall’s wedding... he was so happy the day he was married. He reminded me of a new puppy... so very happy and excited. The way I should have been. And as I sat and watched the ceremony, all I could picture was Sydney and I. But I knew that dream was impossible. She was gone. And even though she has returned, the dream is further than ever.
I finally find my voice to do what I came here for. It sounds heavy and unlike myself, quivering with the emotion my thoughts bring. “Syd... Syd, I miss you.”
I wait a moment and hear the quiet, unsure of what to say next. “It’s strange being here... standing by an empty grave, knowing why it’s empty. But even though you’re really here, to me you’re still gone....”
I squeeze the stem of the single rose I’ve brought, the thorns digging into my flesh. I think I feel a trickle of blood snake down my wrist, but I don’t feel the pain of the wounds that caused it. “I loved you so much, Sydney... I still love you so much... more than I could ever show.”
Suddenly, a feeling creeps into my vacant being, a feeling I know all too well. My heart begins to pound harder in my chest, and I inhale sharply. Without turning around I know she is approaching. Her gentle footfalls slow to a stop next to me, and I still do not look up. I stare down at the headstone, the marker for the dead. Not the living, the dead. And yet she’s here.
“Death is so final, isn’t it?” I hear her voice, quiet and clear, cut through the hum of the cool fall breeze.
“Most would think so,” I reply, uneasiness uncloaking itself in my tone.
“I don’t know if I agree with them... what would be the point of life if all it ended in was death?” her voice is eerily unemotional... devoid of revealing sentiments.
I don’t answer. I don’t know.
She speaks again, more softly. “Do you believe in life after death?”
I’m silent for a moment as I consider. I still haven’t looked at her. I can’t. Not seeing makes it easier to believe that she’s not really there, that maybe I’m losing my mind. Maybe I’m dying too. “Yes.”
“I hope there is...” she whispers. “I truly hope there is.”
“I have to believe it. If there isn’t, how can someone go on when a person they love dies?” I wonder aloud, knowing I need an answer.
I feel her eyes, intense as a laser, burning into my left ring finger. “They move on,” she murmurs harshly. I don’t know what I can reply. I glance very quickly at her, and she is not looking back. At seeing her expression, I turn quickly back to the grave.
“I loved you more than anything, Sydney Bristow,” I say softly to the grave, to the person next to me. “I still do. I always will.”
I glance back up at her and our eyes meet. It’s all I can do to not break down. I hand her the rose. Our fingers gently brush each other’s as she takes it, and the simple graze is too much for both of us. She averts her gaze to the gravestone again. She leans down and carefully places the deep opal rose against the headstone. How could something so beautiful be so dire?
Briefly, very briefly, she touches my hand again, places a cool finger lightly against the golden band. She blinks once, leaving her eyes shut for a moment, then opens them and looks back up at me.
My eyes are drawn to hers. They are filled with sorrow, pain, longing. Across her face is the saddest smile I have ever seen and will ever see again. Her cheeks flushed with emotion, she opens her mouth to speak again. I have never heard anyone’s voice use the tone she uses now. “I loved you too, but I can’t hope to burden your soul with a ghost.”
I’m about to say something, but I shut my mouth again. I don’t know how I can possibly respond. She looks back down at the grave, her own, and touches a velvet petal. Then she stands, and without looking up, quietly speaks. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Then she turns and begins to walk away, leaving me standing alone by the plot. I stare at the flower, and trace the letters on her name. Then I quickly turn around and watch her retreating form, her dark figure shrinking swiftly with each step. I let her words sink in.
She is gone. I have made the ultimate mistake. I have let her go.
The woman I loved more than I can ever hope to love anyone again is gone, and I cannot get her back.
In my heart, in my mind, in my life...Sydney Bristow is dead.
*END*
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
A/N: Like it? Please review! Lol. Oh, translation of the French on the gravestone:
Vous serez avez aime pour toujours: You will be loved forever.
Elements: 1) Attending a wedding 2) Chinese food 3) The line “She’s gone. She gave me a pen. I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen.” From Say Anything.
Death’s So Final, Isn’t It?
If I don’t step carefully enough, I know I might crush the delicate life that grows lush and green beneath the soles of those like me. Though what lies underneath is nothing more than an empty pocket of soil, it seems so much more... it is so much more.
If I move my feet too closely to the soft brown mound, I may leave a mark of it on the surface of the cool gray stone. Not a single blemish should be left upon something so meaningful, so perfect. And yet it’s so perfectly despairing.
It’s quiet here; it’s so quiet I sometimes wondered while here if time was still existent.
If maybe this entire place was... was a limbo, a universe where time itself is frozen, paralyzing all within its boundaries. Sometimes I feel immobile myself while here, wondering if I should even continue breathing as I look down upon those harsh and finalizing words, engraved so neatly into the stone.
Sydney A. Bristow
An angel of 1,000 disguises
Saving the world until her last moment in it
1974-2003
Vous serez avez aime pour toujours
This spot has haunted my dreams for the last two years, and my thoughts when I’m awake as well. Her ghost lingered everywhere, clouding my mind, holding me captive. And now her ghost is gone... but I’m still held prisoner.
I remember the night it began, the last moments I witnessed her radiating smile spread across to each well defined dimple and the bright sparkle in the large hazel eyes that were so uniquely hers.
^*^*^*^
“Syd? You ready?” I asked, knocking lightly on her slightly ajar bedroom door. When no answer came, I wondered if she’d fallen asleep for a bit. I put down the quart of won-ton soup I’d brought for us to have before we left, then pushed the door fully open.
Nothing could have prepared me for the sight I saw.
Her once full length looking glass was lying on the ground in jagged shards, reflecting the golden lights from the ceiling. Those lights were too warm, too soft for the brutal reality hidden there.
Without breathing, I stepped over the pieces. A stain of dark red brown was smeared across the edges of a few, dripping onto the floor. Blood. A silent teardrop rolled down and hit the smooth, shiny surface of one, mixing with the crimson substance.
Then I saw it, by the window. A curling yellow parchment, obviously very aged and crumbling with time. Black inked letters were scrawled across its surface, but I could not read them through the blurry film of tears.
And there, right in the center, a small but intricate sketch... a human heart. A tiny scrap of white paper lay right atop the heart, pinned to the parchment by the tip of a pen jammed into it. I took a number of shaking breaths and forced my own heart to pump again, then carefully read the words on the scrap.
“A present for you
In return for your loss.
Take your time.”
^*^*^*^
She’s gone. She gave me a pen. I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen.
I’ve heard that line somewhere before, and it has stayed with me crystal sharp. It wasn’t her who gave those things to me, to all of us. I know that. I know within myself who it was, the antagonist of the too short fairy tale.
He took away my love, my heart, and left a faded prophecy and a pen. But that phrase still haunts me, left over from some old film and brought forth from the back of my mind.
I don’t remember much of what happened after that. Everything about that night after collapsing terrified onto her bed is hazy and indistinct, as though I’m watching an old silent movie in my mind.
After one year of searching and fighting the oncoming hopelessness, I finally succumbed to stage five of the grief cycle: acceptance. Sydney Bristow was dead.
Sydney Bristow, my agent, my friend, my angel, my love, my life... was dead. Sydney Bristow was dead. Sydney. Bristow. Was. Dead.
Was.
Past tense. The three letter word cuts into me, widening the hollow in my heart, settling into the crevices of my soul. Was. Waswaswas. I should be happy. I should be overjoyed, blissful, exultant. But I’m not. And that makes it all the more disheartening.
I want to grin, I want to laugh. I want to take her in my arms and never let go. I want to feel the exuberance I’d always dreamed about when she came back to me... night after night. But then I feel the cool metal against my finger, and everything drops away.
I remember attending Marshall’s wedding... he was so happy the day he was married. He reminded me of a new puppy... so very happy and excited. The way I should have been. And as I sat and watched the ceremony, all I could picture was Sydney and I. But I knew that dream was impossible. She was gone. And even though she has returned, the dream is further than ever.
I finally find my voice to do what I came here for. It sounds heavy and unlike myself, quivering with the emotion my thoughts bring. “Syd... Syd, I miss you.”
I wait a moment and hear the quiet, unsure of what to say next. “It’s strange being here... standing by an empty grave, knowing why it’s empty. But even though you’re really here, to me you’re still gone....”
I squeeze the stem of the single rose I’ve brought, the thorns digging into my flesh. I think I feel a trickle of blood snake down my wrist, but I don’t feel the pain of the wounds that caused it. “I loved you so much, Sydney... I still love you so much... more than I could ever show.”
Suddenly, a feeling creeps into my vacant being, a feeling I know all too well. My heart begins to pound harder in my chest, and I inhale sharply. Without turning around I know she is approaching. Her gentle footfalls slow to a stop next to me, and I still do not look up. I stare down at the headstone, the marker for the dead. Not the living, the dead. And yet she’s here.
“Death is so final, isn’t it?” I hear her voice, quiet and clear, cut through the hum of the cool fall breeze.
“Most would think so,” I reply, uneasiness uncloaking itself in my tone.
“I don’t know if I agree with them... what would be the point of life if all it ended in was death?” her voice is eerily unemotional... devoid of revealing sentiments.
I don’t answer. I don’t know.
She speaks again, more softly. “Do you believe in life after death?”
I’m silent for a moment as I consider. I still haven’t looked at her. I can’t. Not seeing makes it easier to believe that she’s not really there, that maybe I’m losing my mind. Maybe I’m dying too. “Yes.”
“I hope there is...” she whispers. “I truly hope there is.”
“I have to believe it. If there isn’t, how can someone go on when a person they love dies?” I wonder aloud, knowing I need an answer.
I feel her eyes, intense as a laser, burning into my left ring finger. “They move on,” she murmurs harshly. I don’t know what I can reply. I glance very quickly at her, and she is not looking back. At seeing her expression, I turn quickly back to the grave.
“I loved you more than anything, Sydney Bristow,” I say softly to the grave, to the person next to me. “I still do. I always will.”
I glance back up at her and our eyes meet. It’s all I can do to not break down. I hand her the rose. Our fingers gently brush each other’s as she takes it, and the simple graze is too much for both of us. She averts her gaze to the gravestone again. She leans down and carefully places the deep opal rose against the headstone. How could something so beautiful be so dire?
Briefly, very briefly, she touches my hand again, places a cool finger lightly against the golden band. She blinks once, leaving her eyes shut for a moment, then opens them and looks back up at me.
My eyes are drawn to hers. They are filled with sorrow, pain, longing. Across her face is the saddest smile I have ever seen and will ever see again. Her cheeks flushed with emotion, she opens her mouth to speak again. I have never heard anyone’s voice use the tone she uses now. “I loved you too, but I can’t hope to burden your soul with a ghost.”
I’m about to say something, but I shut my mouth again. I don’t know how I can possibly respond. She looks back down at the grave, her own, and touches a velvet petal. Then she stands, and without looking up, quietly speaks. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Then she turns and begins to walk away, leaving me standing alone by the plot. I stare at the flower, and trace the letters on her name. Then I quickly turn around and watch her retreating form, her dark figure shrinking swiftly with each step. I let her words sink in.
She is gone. I have made the ultimate mistake. I have let her go.
The woman I loved more than I can ever hope to love anyone again is gone, and I cannot get her back.
In my heart, in my mind, in my life...Sydney Bristow is dead.
*END*
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
A/N: Like it? Please review! Lol. Oh, translation of the French on the gravestone:
Vous serez avez aime pour toujours: You will be loved forever.
that's so great. I'm so glad that you brought it here because I can never pick a fic to read at sd-1, and with exams i just stopped reading the new ones. but this one is really great 
