Prison Break Fic: Leap (1/1)
Title: Leap (1/1)
Characters: Sara Tancredi, original characters
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen, Non-epilogue compliant (Thanks for coining this term, msgenevieve!)
Length: 1,888 words
Summary: I told him I never talked to her, that she'd kept largely to herself. That she was virtually a stranger to me. I was relaxed but non-committal. Oh, all the little things I could've told him, all the small, inconsequential things.
Author's Note: As some of you may know, I have a love affair with original characters in fanfiction; this story is me being very self-indulgent. This is Sara in an original character's eyes. Nothing much happens (wow, what a way to sell this story, huh?), and although this is M/S, Michael never appears. I apologize for the strangeness of this fic; I am just happy to be writing again. *g*
First to come were the cops who, when she did not answer, kicked open her door like they do in the movies. The ambulance was next, the medics working steadily as they took her away. Finally the G-men descended, the air heavy with self-importance as they talked to the same-floor tenants and the nighttime manager. The one I got wasn't the boss, but he certainly wished he was, I could tell. He trained his eyes on me, ready to pounce. Did you see anybody come and go, anybody suspicious.
Even then I refused to believe what I overheard as they searched through her apartment, talking on cellphones, snapping on gloves, looking for clues. That she'd OD'd, throwing in some whiskey for good measure. They found morphine, apparently. Hospital-grade. Odd, but knowing that made me proud of her. Nothing but the best for my girl.
Who the hell am I kidding. She was no more my girl than I was the Green Lantern. If the cops were to be believed, she thought she was this convicted felon's girl, the same guy who busted out of Fox River along with seven others earlier that night. Breakout was all over the evening news. Son of a bitch worked his game on her and fled.
A colleague stopped by and muttered something too low for me to catch. G-man whistled. Seems like angel here has a wild side.
The urge to smash his nose in rose quickly, like bile up my throat. But it would've been foolish, getting into a fight like that. So instead, I took a deep breath, and I lied.
I told him I'd never talked to her, that she'd kept largely to herself. That she was virtually a stranger to me. I was relaxed but non-committal. Oh, all the little things I could've told him, all the small, inconsequential things.
He dismissed me in practically no time at all, flicking his notepad closed with a snap. Got nothing here, he told his partner.
And I thought, that's right, there's nothing here. I smiled politely as they left.
oOo
It would be easy to believe that none of us knew anything about her. Us tenants, we were not exactly gregarious. When I first moved in, a whole week went by before I saw any of my neighbors. Before that, I could hear them, the glare from the TV and the occasional voice spilling softly under the doors, but it seemed like make-believe, the way some people, to keep burglars away, leave the radio on to imitate signs of life. No families, just unmarried men and women who punctuated their singleness by living alone, busy with keeping busy. At least, that was how I saw it. It was as though we were all rushing to outrun something that would eat us whole if we stopped.
I first saw her nearly a year ago, before Sanjay took a sabbatical and left the apartment to me. She was walking into the building, we were on our way out. She'd carried work home with her then. Her mouth was hidden behind the scarf she'd wrapped thickly around her neck, but her eyes were smiling, and she greeted Sanjay by name.
Don't let the social worker act fool you. Sanjay cuts me a glance. That's the governor's daughter.
I knew then that she was definitely out of my league. Like Gruyere to a rat.
Not that I was looking. Back then Shruti and I were fine. Back then, I had just come to America to try my luck, to prove myself worthy; I definitely had no energy left for any monkey business. Besides, Shruti would've killed me if I so much dared a fleeting thought about another girl. She could sense that kind of thing, she was that kind of woman.
And then she turned twenty eight, and back home, her father's long face became as unbearable as the endless insinuations that followed a woman of her age who refused to marry. She grew tired of the distance, of the phone calls that rang hollow in her ear, of the matches with suitable boys that were made then unmade by her obstinate silence. She picked up the phone for me one last time. I'm sorry. It was brief and tearless; I would have whole months after to cry. I can no longer wait for you.
Sanjay was philosophical. Soon he was playing Cupid, practically hounding me about a girl at work who had a wide mouth and a dancer's body. I was too far gone for anything to happen, but you certainly can't say that he didn't try. He's always been the intrepid, optimistic one. Before his father got a job in an Ivy League university and took his family with him, he would spend summers with us in the village where I grew up. There, we marked whole days by the river that skirted the crescent of tiny houses at the forest's edge, watching as the water ebbed and surged, listening to it sing. Sanjay, unmindful of the current, would always be the first to jump, hurtling through the air, bringing his knees up to his chest just before that almighty splash. He'd call out to me, What are you waiting for, cousin-brother? For the crows to shit stars?, while I dallied, gritting my teeth, summoning every ounce of courage from the depths of my stick-thin legs. Eventually, I'd make my way carefully down the bank before wading in, my feet tracing a well-worn path only women doing their laundry would take.
With age, I'd gotten better. I did cross an ocean and a continent for the love of a woman, did I not? But what good did that bring? I thought, better to go home and make rice wine, like my father and his father before him. To which Sanjay said, are you out of your goddamn mind. And so I stayed. Every morning at exactly five thirty, my alarm would go off, my body rising like Lazarus. At work, the books slid coldly through my hands. Even my teeth felt numb. I made appropriate, normal responses, smiled my polite smile. And the days wore on, the library's silence stretching blankly before me, my heart clenching around something that refused to break.
Then one day, the prison doctor showed up at the door. It was the stuff of movies, like Preity Zinta waking up in a large bed with white sheets, slowly lifting a pillow to reveal her impossible face. Even Sanjay was rendered immobile on the couch, his pen pausing over a student's essay. She was still in her work clothes. She had been wanting to make curry but had run out of mustard oil.
It was perfect, except for the part where we did not have mustard oil, because neither Sanjay nor I can cook the food we grew up on to save our life. From the couch Sanjay quipped, I haven't had curry since I was eight.
I'm sorry, I just thought... She turned pink. It was perfectly all right, really, with my accent as thick as ghee anyone could have made that mistake. Hell, even I thought I looked like my cupboard should be overflowing with mustard oil and fennel seeds and cumin. But she was too embarrassed to stay, too disconcerted to even look me in the eye for longer than a second as we passed each other in the lobby the next morning.
Once or twice, walking home from a late night itemizing new acquisitions, I caught her lingering outside the liquor store near the corner of Harper and 34th. I pretended not to see. Each time, she just stood there, throwing sidelong glances at the door, tucking her chin in as she stepped aside to let people through. I thought she was meeting someone. I remember thinking what an ass she must have for a boyfriend, letting her wait outside in the cold like that. Then one night, passing by Jimmy's I saw her alone at the bar, hunched over a shot glass. Before I knew it I was walking up to her, my smile ready. Hi, Sara.
I don't know what came over me. It was as though Sanjay, miniaturized and fluttering aloft in the buff, shot an arrow straight through my balls.
What are you having? Her hands, which had been reducing the napkin to shreds, lay very, very still.
Uh, I don't drink.
It was out before I could help myself. I stood there, feeling monumentally foolish. But something sprang to life in her eyes, and then she was sliding a bill underneath her glass, which still held her drink, and standing up to go.
That's how I got to walk her home. Simple as that. To this day, Sanjay doesn't believe me. As he wouldn't the other things that transpired after he left, had I told him:
How sparse her apartment was for someone who came from money. That one day, she came to my door again with some mango chutney, reminding me, with a sharp pang, of Shruti. (The chutney wasn't even that good, but that's beside the point.) And the point is that as we exchanged confidences her loneliness pierced mine, and for someone with a life full of things I can never have, I felt sorry for her. It would seem so wrong, this pity, but that was what it was, that was what led me to understand how she could so easily go two doors down to have coffee with me one night but barely say two words when I caught her in the elevator the next day. Because always, during those times when she held back, her eyes held a silent apology. She trusted me, but she was not someone to fix. And neither was I.
oOo
After someone broke into her apartment and she disappeared, I moved out. My new place is smaller, with windows facing a blank wall. My next-door neighbors seem to be angry at each other all the time, and in a crazy contradiction those upstairs like to have a whole lot of noisy lovin' all through the night. But it's all good. Sanjay sometimes comes over. Tonight he's scoffing at my palak paneer and chole, reminding me in no gentle terms it is high time to embrace new things. I tell him, for everything there is a season, so on and so forth.
I got a letter at work today, from someone I didn't think I would hear from again. The paper is plain but her words curve cleanly through the page, as I've always imagined they would. She says, I've always wanted to thank you. We are safe now.
Despite what you might think, he is a good man.
My son will be turning one soon. He has his father's eyes.
I've taken my leap of faith. My wish is for you to do the same.
I've folded and unfolded the letter so many times, it's starting to tear apart at the crease. I know the words by heart, yet tonight I will read them again. For everything there is a season. I can feel myself leaving land, the wind stinging my eyes, the river rushing up to meet me. I want to tell her, soon, Sara, soon.
Characters: Sara Tancredi, original characters
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen, Non-epilogue compliant (Thanks for coining this term, msgenevieve!)
Length: 1,888 words
Summary: I told him I never talked to her, that she'd kept largely to herself. That she was virtually a stranger to me. I was relaxed but non-committal. Oh, all the little things I could've told him, all the small, inconsequential things.
Author's Note: As some of you may know, I have a love affair with original characters in fanfiction; this story is me being very self-indulgent. This is Sara in an original character's eyes. Nothing much happens (wow, what a way to sell this story, huh?), and although this is M/S, Michael never appears. I apologize for the strangeness of this fic; I am just happy to be writing again. *g*
First to come were the cops who, when she did not answer, kicked open her door like they do in the movies. The ambulance was next, the medics working steadily as they took her away. Finally the G-men descended, the air heavy with self-importance as they talked to the same-floor tenants and the nighttime manager. The one I got wasn't the boss, but he certainly wished he was, I could tell. He trained his eyes on me, ready to pounce. Did you see anybody come and go, anybody suspicious.
Even then I refused to believe what I overheard as they searched through her apartment, talking on cellphones, snapping on gloves, looking for clues. That she'd OD'd, throwing in some whiskey for good measure. They found morphine, apparently. Hospital-grade. Odd, but knowing that made me proud of her. Nothing but the best for my girl.
Who the hell am I kidding. She was no more my girl than I was the Green Lantern. If the cops were to be believed, she thought she was this convicted felon's girl, the same guy who busted out of Fox River along with seven others earlier that night. Breakout was all over the evening news. Son of a bitch worked his game on her and fled.
A colleague stopped by and muttered something too low for me to catch. G-man whistled. Seems like angel here has a wild side.
The urge to smash his nose in rose quickly, like bile up my throat. But it would've been foolish, getting into a fight like that. So instead, I took a deep breath, and I lied.
I told him I'd never talked to her, that she'd kept largely to herself. That she was virtually a stranger to me. I was relaxed but non-committal. Oh, all the little things I could've told him, all the small, inconsequential things.
He dismissed me in practically no time at all, flicking his notepad closed with a snap. Got nothing here, he told his partner.
And I thought, that's right, there's nothing here. I smiled politely as they left.
oOo
It would be easy to believe that none of us knew anything about her. Us tenants, we were not exactly gregarious. When I first moved in, a whole week went by before I saw any of my neighbors. Before that, I could hear them, the glare from the TV and the occasional voice spilling softly under the doors, but it seemed like make-believe, the way some people, to keep burglars away, leave the radio on to imitate signs of life. No families, just unmarried men and women who punctuated their singleness by living alone, busy with keeping busy. At least, that was how I saw it. It was as though we were all rushing to outrun something that would eat us whole if we stopped.
I first saw her nearly a year ago, before Sanjay took a sabbatical and left the apartment to me. She was walking into the building, we were on our way out. She'd carried work home with her then. Her mouth was hidden behind the scarf she'd wrapped thickly around her neck, but her eyes were smiling, and she greeted Sanjay by name.
Don't let the social worker act fool you. Sanjay cuts me a glance. That's the governor's daughter.
I knew then that she was definitely out of my league. Like Gruyere to a rat.
Not that I was looking. Back then Shruti and I were fine. Back then, I had just come to America to try my luck, to prove myself worthy; I definitely had no energy left for any monkey business. Besides, Shruti would've killed me if I so much dared a fleeting thought about another girl. She could sense that kind of thing, she was that kind of woman.
And then she turned twenty eight, and back home, her father's long face became as unbearable as the endless insinuations that followed a woman of her age who refused to marry. She grew tired of the distance, of the phone calls that rang hollow in her ear, of the matches with suitable boys that were made then unmade by her obstinate silence. She picked up the phone for me one last time. I'm sorry. It was brief and tearless; I would have whole months after to cry. I can no longer wait for you.
Sanjay was philosophical. Soon he was playing Cupid, practically hounding me about a girl at work who had a wide mouth and a dancer's body. I was too far gone for anything to happen, but you certainly can't say that he didn't try. He's always been the intrepid, optimistic one. Before his father got a job in an Ivy League university and took his family with him, he would spend summers with us in the village where I grew up. There, we marked whole days by the river that skirted the crescent of tiny houses at the forest's edge, watching as the water ebbed and surged, listening to it sing. Sanjay, unmindful of the current, would always be the first to jump, hurtling through the air, bringing his knees up to his chest just before that almighty splash. He'd call out to me, What are you waiting for, cousin-brother? For the crows to shit stars?, while I dallied, gritting my teeth, summoning every ounce of courage from the depths of my stick-thin legs. Eventually, I'd make my way carefully down the bank before wading in, my feet tracing a well-worn path only women doing their laundry would take.
With age, I'd gotten better. I did cross an ocean and a continent for the love of a woman, did I not? But what good did that bring? I thought, better to go home and make rice wine, like my father and his father before him. To which Sanjay said, are you out of your goddamn mind. And so I stayed. Every morning at exactly five thirty, my alarm would go off, my body rising like Lazarus. At work, the books slid coldly through my hands. Even my teeth felt numb. I made appropriate, normal responses, smiled my polite smile. And the days wore on, the library's silence stretching blankly before me, my heart clenching around something that refused to break.
Then one day, the prison doctor showed up at the door. It was the stuff of movies, like Preity Zinta waking up in a large bed with white sheets, slowly lifting a pillow to reveal her impossible face. Even Sanjay was rendered immobile on the couch, his pen pausing over a student's essay. She was still in her work clothes. She had been wanting to make curry but had run out of mustard oil.
It was perfect, except for the part where we did not have mustard oil, because neither Sanjay nor I can cook the food we grew up on to save our life. From the couch Sanjay quipped, I haven't had curry since I was eight.
I'm sorry, I just thought... She turned pink. It was perfectly all right, really, with my accent as thick as ghee anyone could have made that mistake. Hell, even I thought I looked like my cupboard should be overflowing with mustard oil and fennel seeds and cumin. But she was too embarrassed to stay, too disconcerted to even look me in the eye for longer than a second as we passed each other in the lobby the next morning.
Once or twice, walking home from a late night itemizing new acquisitions, I caught her lingering outside the liquor store near the corner of Harper and 34th. I pretended not to see. Each time, she just stood there, throwing sidelong glances at the door, tucking her chin in as she stepped aside to let people through. I thought she was meeting someone. I remember thinking what an ass she must have for a boyfriend, letting her wait outside in the cold like that. Then one night, passing by Jimmy's I saw her alone at the bar, hunched over a shot glass. Before I knew it I was walking up to her, my smile ready. Hi, Sara.
I don't know what came over me. It was as though Sanjay, miniaturized and fluttering aloft in the buff, shot an arrow straight through my balls.
What are you having? Her hands, which had been reducing the napkin to shreds, lay very, very still.
Uh, I don't drink.
It was out before I could help myself. I stood there, feeling monumentally foolish. But something sprang to life in her eyes, and then she was sliding a bill underneath her glass, which still held her drink, and standing up to go.
That's how I got to walk her home. Simple as that. To this day, Sanjay doesn't believe me. As he wouldn't the other things that transpired after he left, had I told him:
How sparse her apartment was for someone who came from money. That one day, she came to my door again with some mango chutney, reminding me, with a sharp pang, of Shruti. (The chutney wasn't even that good, but that's beside the point.) And the point is that as we exchanged confidences her loneliness pierced mine, and for someone with a life full of things I can never have, I felt sorry for her. It would seem so wrong, this pity, but that was what it was, that was what led me to understand how she could so easily go two doors down to have coffee with me one night but barely say two words when I caught her in the elevator the next day. Because always, during those times when she held back, her eyes held a silent apology. She trusted me, but she was not someone to fix. And neither was I.
oOo
After someone broke into her apartment and she disappeared, I moved out. My new place is smaller, with windows facing a blank wall. My next-door neighbors seem to be angry at each other all the time, and in a crazy contradiction those upstairs like to have a whole lot of noisy lovin' all through the night. But it's all good. Sanjay sometimes comes over. Tonight he's scoffing at my palak paneer and chole, reminding me in no gentle terms it is high time to embrace new things. I tell him, for everything there is a season, so on and so forth.
I got a letter at work today, from someone I didn't think I would hear from again. The paper is plain but her words curve cleanly through the page, as I've always imagined they would. She says, I've always wanted to thank you. We are safe now.
Despite what you might think, he is a good man.
My son will be turning one soon. He has his father's eyes.
I've taken my leap of faith. My wish is for you to do the same.
I've folded and unfolded the letter so many times, it's starting to tear apart at the crease. I know the words by heart, yet tonight I will read them again. For everything there is a season. I can feel myself leaving land, the wind stinging my eyes, the river rushing up to meet me. I want to tell her, soon, Sara, soon.