"47" challenge
Response to the "47" challenge, and to seeing "Bob", and to the lack of Sarkney fodder it gave us. In the vein of my other shorts here, with creepy and obsessed Sark/oblivious Sydney. Rated PG 13.
The paper Sark pens his letter on is thick, handmade and cream colored; a gift from an ambassador's wife on top of the 10 million she paid for Sark to kill her husband. The indigo ink seeping through the back of the page is from the pen Irina gave him on his 18th birthday. The desk he writes on was his father's, and was the only thing he took from Lazaray's house after he had him killed. The letter is the only thing that is truly his own. It starts with the only name he didn't deserve to say.
"Sydney..."
"...you were always too good for him. I've seen you kill stronger men than Agent Vaughan and it baffles me to think he could ever have satisfied you. I wonder if you have thought of me, even for a split second, when you made love to him; like I have thought of you with so many women. It's funny really, I sleep with women to try and forget you, but all I can do when I'm with them is pretend they are you..."
"...and when I saw you at the airport, that absolute glow about you, carrying his child...God, it just killed me. For the first time in my life, I had no words..."
It hurt, like an old wound reopened, the words coming from his own head and hand. He ignored the dull ache and fought on.
"...wasn't looking for Prophet 5, he ran Prophet 5, Sydney. I'm sorry I killed Michael Vaughan, if only because you loved him so, because he brought you so much happiness. Even if Michael Vaughan was not real, that feeling was. I robbed you of that happiness you so deserve, and for that, I am so sorry. So goddamned sorry, Sydney. But because of me, you never had to see who he really was, the devil inside, and because of that, I will never be sorry I killed Andre Michaux..."
The words flowed out of Sark now, fast and desperate. The truth was like a sickness he wanted to purge himself of.
"...and if there was anything I had ever been sure of in my life, is that I would've done anything you asked of me..."
"...it would disgust you, the things I've done. I tell myself it's not all for you. I sometimes believe it...'"
His hand moved in a blur across the page, a possession gripping him. Spurred on from every cut of her knife and every word she had thrown his way that had cut deeper than her blade.
"...felt this way. Never with Alison, never with Lauren, never with Rachel. You have ruined me for any other woman. I'd care about that, if loving you hadn't been the only good thing I've done with my life."
Enough, Sark thought. Enough now.
Sark signed the letter, folded it and sealed it in an envelope. A letter he wouldn't send, except into a desk drawer, on top of the 46 other unsent letters addressed to Sydney.
The paper Sark pens his letter on is thick, handmade and cream colored; a gift from an ambassador's wife on top of the 10 million she paid for Sark to kill her husband. The indigo ink seeping through the back of the page is from the pen Irina gave him on his 18th birthday. The desk he writes on was his father's, and was the only thing he took from Lazaray's house after he had him killed. The letter is the only thing that is truly his own. It starts with the only name he didn't deserve to say.
"Sydney..."
"...you were always too good for him. I've seen you kill stronger men than Agent Vaughan and it baffles me to think he could ever have satisfied you. I wonder if you have thought of me, even for a split second, when you made love to him; like I have thought of you with so many women. It's funny really, I sleep with women to try and forget you, but all I can do when I'm with them is pretend they are you..."
"...and when I saw you at the airport, that absolute glow about you, carrying his child...God, it just killed me. For the first time in my life, I had no words..."
It hurt, like an old wound reopened, the words coming from his own head and hand. He ignored the dull ache and fought on.
"...wasn't looking for Prophet 5, he ran Prophet 5, Sydney. I'm sorry I killed Michael Vaughan, if only because you loved him so, because he brought you so much happiness. Even if Michael Vaughan was not real, that feeling was. I robbed you of that happiness you so deserve, and for that, I am so sorry. So goddamned sorry, Sydney. But because of me, you never had to see who he really was, the devil inside, and because of that, I will never be sorry I killed Andre Michaux..."
The words flowed out of Sark now, fast and desperate. The truth was like a sickness he wanted to purge himself of.
"...and if there was anything I had ever been sure of in my life, is that I would've done anything you asked of me..."
"...it would disgust you, the things I've done. I tell myself it's not all for you. I sometimes believe it...'"
His hand moved in a blur across the page, a possession gripping him. Spurred on from every cut of her knife and every word she had thrown his way that had cut deeper than her blade.
"...felt this way. Never with Alison, never with Lauren, never with Rachel. You have ruined me for any other woman. I'd care about that, if loving you hadn't been the only good thing I've done with my life."
Enough, Sark thought. Enough now.
Sark signed the letter, folded it and sealed it in an envelope. A letter he wouldn't send, except into a desk drawer, on top of the 46 other unsent letters addressed to Sydney.