By Joy
E-mail: jbuchkow@yahoo.com
Summary: Maria ponders the past nine years while packing up her life: Future songfic
Spoilers: Mostly Sexual Healing, so anything up to and including that ep.
Disclaimer: All characters and things Roswell are humbly borrowed, as usual, without permission, as is Sarah McLachlan's song, "Path of Thorns (Terms)"
Feedback and Distribution: Quite welcome! Let me know at jbuchkow@yahoo.com
Dedication: For Debo, my Fehrian Candygirl sister
I knew you wanted to tell me, in your voice there was
something wrong but if you would turn your face away from me, you cannot tell
me you're so strong. Just let me ask you one small thing, as we have shared so
many tears with fervour our dreams we planned a whole life long are now
scattered in the wind...
In the terms of endearment, in the terms of the life that
you love, in the terms of the years that pass you by, in the terms of the
reasons why.
Through the years I've grown to love you, though your
commitment to most would offend, but I stuck by you holding on with my foolish
pride, waiting for you to give in...
You never really tried or so it seems, I've had more than
myself to blame, I've had enough of trying everything and this time this is the
end.
In the terms of endearment, in the terms of the life that
you love, in the terms of the years that pass you by, in the terms of the
reasons why.
There's no more coming back this way, the path is
overgrown and strewn with thorns, they've torn the lifeblood from your naked
eyes, cast aside to be forlorn...
In the terms of endearment, in the terms of the life that
you love, in the terms of the years that pass you by, in the terms of the
reasons why. In the terms of endearment, in the terms of the life that you
love, in the terms of the years that pass you by, in the terms of the reasons
why.
Funny, how it seems that all I've tried to do seemed to
make no difference at all...
It really figures that the day I chose to finally move out, to finally move on, is the warmest December day that we've had in years. Nine years, to be exact, the local meteorologists so excitedly inform us. That particular December is a time that I do not need to be reminded of, however. No matter how hard I keep trying to forget it, and all the nine years that followed, deep down I know that I never will. My mother would say that mistakes happen so that we can learn from them, and this one should give me a lot of learning. It might even take me the rest of my life, such as it is, to deal with, and I see this as just punishment for getting into it in the first place. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck as I work, soaks into my already damp tank top. I pause for a moment to lift the fabric from my back, fan some air onto my sticky skin. I have all the windows open, but there's not a breeze to be found in this town, and the sun beats mercilessly through the glass, making the small apartment even warmer.
Early on in our hunt for a place of our own, I had taken an instant liking to this apartment. Actually, to be honest, I would have liked anything that didn't resemble my mother's house, or the hole in the wall he called a home that was never big enough for the both of us. He grudgingly admired the abundant sunlight that the southern exposure admitted into our living area, and that there was a separate bedroom big enough for a real bed.
That was the first piece of furniture that we scrounged up to fill our new castle. The old couch from his place didn't count, and it was relegated to a corner. We ate on the floor for a while, when we weren't eating in our new bed, of course. What our home lacked in apparent necessities was more than adequately replaced by the sunlight, and, surprisingly, our love. Little by little, donations arrived, first in the form of extra plates and other kitchen stuff from the Parkers, who predictably put me in their daughter's place while she was away getting her education in California.
Many would have been envious of my best friend, who seemed to have it all; a scholarship for a four-year honours program in some sort of biology that I could never seem to remember, a new home in an entirely different state from us, and the company of her soul mate, who was also doing the science thing. I, however, was never destined for academics, and was content with running the shop, dabbling in my music, and resting in the arms of my own spaceboy when we were finished raising the roof with our latest squabble. Or, the other way we raised the roof, though one was often interconnected with the other.
We acquired a small table, two actually, when the Evanses decided to refinish their basement. I still didn't know them as well as he did, obviously, but they didn't seem to mind, and so kept on eye out for me, through him. They also had us to dinner each week, and I let myself grow accustomed to having a family, albeit a surrogate one. As for the castoffs, the sturdier table served duty as a desk, where my lyrical scribbling competed for space with his sketches and photos. A book stuck under the back leg of the other table kept the top horizontal enough for our breakfast to stay on. We always had breakfast together, no matter what was on the schedule for the day. I invariably had lunch at the shop, and he often worked through dinner, so breakfast was the one meal we kept for ourselves. It didn't hurt that he made the best omelettes, any way I liked them, while I contributed with decent coffee, tabasco on the side for him.
The rest of our living room was taken up with boxes of my newly-arrived shipments, various camera equipment, and reject photos and merchandise. We did manage to cobble together a bookshelf for his amazing collection of classics, albeit threadbare and worn, and my meager few kiddy lit books that I could never get rid of. That part of our life was organized, at least.
What should have been our storage closet was transformed into a dark room, and I often beaned myself in the middle of the night walking into the clothesline strung up in our small hallway for the pictures to dry. In retaliation, I would wake him up to have him take care of my head, and inevitably it would be a while before sleep claimed us again.
Most of his work was local, weddings and such. The irony of this was not lost on me, but I learned to shut those feelings away, and hold on to what we did have. Picture cards of the surrounding landscape sold like crazy in the tourist shops, so on sunny weekends I would close up early and head out into the desert with him. He caught the dying light glancing off the jagged edges of rock, and the morning dew dripping off of leaves. The nights in between the sunset and dawn were almost my favourite times, almost. We staved off the nights' chill in blazing hot caresses, skin to glistening skin, as our laughter mingled in the air with our gasps. The only thing which kept these moments from perfection was the cold light of the stars, shining overhead. Out there, under those stars, I couldn't help but be reminded that there was something he wanted more than me. Something he would leave me for, despite recent evidence to the contrary as our life actually neared normal. Safely back in our room after such a weekend, I held my love tight to me, as if the closer I held him, the longer I could keep him with me.
I face the bed now, still unmade since the morning I awoke to find him gone. I haven't slept in it since, because I couldn't face the memories we had made in this bed, or the scent of us lingering amongst the sheets. I open the garbage bag I had brought in with me, and holding my breath, stuff the bedding inside, the pillows too. Our beautiful bed is naked now, as I had felt when I had turned over that morning and met empty space, never to be filled again. The bedroom is now cooler than the other half of the apartment, since the sun had already moved past the east-facing window, but the heat is still oppressive. Part of me wants to strip myself down like I had stripped the bed, to try and cool off as I finished dealing with the bedroom. The other part of me reminds the first part of all the times I had done just that, and had been rewarded with a close encounter with the kitchen counter, our sturdy table, hastily swept clear of our work, the bed before me, even the ratty couch. My sweat-soaked clothes stay on as I haul the mattress out into the hallway of the building and set about dismantling the frame.
My eyes become too blurred to see what I am doing, and I find that a hammer works well enough at getting the frame apart. The pieces join the ever-growing pile outside, where the super has told me to leave what I don't want. He has kindly volunteered to take it to the dump for me; I know he feels sorry for the poor girl whose boyfriend has left her.
I slam my heel into the door as I wrestle with my little vanity dresser, and I let loose an epithet into my apartment that is beginning to echo. I'm not sure at the moment if I'm addressing the door, him, or even myself, but all seem appropriate, and I sink into a huddle on the floor of the front hallway, observing the ruins of my life. The beautiful paintings and photos that adorned the walls are long since gone, but I can see the outlines still, where the sun has faded the walls around where they used to hang. That damn couch is still in the corner.
We actually sat in it that last night, though I didn't know it was to be our last, then. We were having a rare moment of silence, and I rested in the curve of his arm, much like we had sat almost nine years ago, the morning after our best friends found the orb in the desert. Though I tried to shut the feeling out, something didn't seem quite right, but I didn't want to tempt this peace with words just yet. We had just come back from another of our weekends, and all through my day at the shop I had kept pushing aside the niggling fear that he had been more distant as of late. That the stars were finally going to claim their own, and he was beginning to draw away. Our arguments had started up again, over small things that we never would have deemed worth fighting over. While they brought back memories of the old times, the older, gentler self I had somehow become was terrified. I had seen him push his friends away, those he considered his family, time and again, and wondered when he would do the same to me. Despite the growing apprehension I felt, I always woke up to a warm bed, in arms that soothed my fears away, against lips that begged my forgiveness while they stole the breath from me.
I sat next to him on the couch that night, as he tried to speak with his eyes but no words came, and I remembered the first time that I knew I loved him, and remembered how much I actually treasured the couch, silly as it seemed. When he had chosen not to be cold, or hurt me, and had pressed a gentle kiss to my temple. The couch had borne witness to more than that, of course, much later than we might've wanted, but not so much later as the others would have it. They would have kept us apart forever. They got their wish. I could see the stars in his eyes later on, when we had moved to our bed, and moved to the pounding of the blood in our veins. I held him close to my heart that night, but neither my arms, nor my heart, were strong enough to keep him there.
I manage to finish filling the boxes scattered around the room, tucking my books into my old backpack to come with me to my temporary abode with the Parkers. My best friend the biologist is now working on her PhD, and still hasn't come home yet. Not that she really needs to, for she's home wherever her Czechoslovakian is. I must learn to do that, too, but my home will consist of only me. There is an opening in a small building near the shop, and I take possession the first of the new year. I love that term, "take possession". I have retaken possession of my life, and it is now evident all around me in the darkening room. I often daydreamed those first few days that I heard his key turning in the lock, or caught him standing behind me, waiting to pounce, out of the corner of my eye. I learned to banish those daydreams from my mind, as I am learning to banish him from my heart. We can never go back, but I am starting to be okay with that. I am ready to move forward.
An object on the floor in the far corner, recently vacated by the couch, catches my eye. I hold it up to the few remaining rays of sunlight, and see that it is a picture of us. He had set up a new tripod one night, wanting to try it out before taking it in to the small studio he barely managed to rent. This had been my favourite picture; in it, I am flashing my megawatt smile, but he isn't looking at the camera. He is looking at me, and in that instant his eyes are not full of stars, but full of me. I am ready to throw the picture out the window, the last one to close before I leave. This picture has no purpose in my new life. A single tear falls upon his face as he watches me, the last tear within me, and for some reason I carefully tuck the picture inside one of my books before shouldering my pack and heading for the door.
Funny, how it seems that all I've tried to do seemed to make no difference at all....
The apartment is now empty, and so am I. I shut and lock the door behind me, and I don't look back.
The End