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31 March 2009 @ 07:34 am
Fic: Hide Beside Me (Chapter 10), GL, Olivia/Natalia (see special author's note below)  
Title: Hide Beside Me (Chapter 10)
Author: DiNovia
Fandom: Guiding Light
Pairing: Olivia/Natalia
Rating:  Chapter=PG-13/Overall=NC-17
Archival:  P&P, Kimly, and AUSXIP of course.  Everyone else, please ask.
Spoilers:  None
Summary:  Phillip Spaulding has returned to Springfield with a vengeance.  Olivia Spencer, afraid that Phillip will take their daughter Emma from her again, flees Springfield with the help of her assistant, Natalia Rivera.  Can they stay one step ahead of Phillip?  Will they ever be safe again?
Content Disclaimer:  This is an AU story--based on a drabble I posted in February--that splits off from the "I can trust you with my life!" scene on 2/16/09.  All canon after that does not exist in this story.  Also, the Phillip Spaulding that returns in this story is still bat-shit crazy and evil. Graphic depictions of love between two consenting adult women are contained within, obviously, but not for a while.  
Source Disclaimer:  I do not own Guiding Light or the characters therein depicted.  I do not seek to profit from this story. 
A/N:  I tried to remain as close to character as humanly possible but as I have only seen YouTube clips of Otalia and no full episodes, I cannot guarantee the results.
Style Note:  As some of you have noticed, I am switching POVs for every chapter.  Natalia, Olivia and Emma will tell their stories in their own words, first-person present tense.  Any other exposition needed will happen in third-person past-tense.  This will cover the urgency I need and will also allow for omniscience for exposition with multiple characters.  I am very interested in knowing whether this style works how I have intended it, so let me know.
Trigger Alert:  This segment contains descriptions of violence against a child.  If you are a survivor of child abuse and avoid descriptions of it in fanfiction, please avoid this chapter.
Thank You:  To mightbefound and bldy_destini for beta-ing this story.  Thank you also to Tiff for helping me to figure out the major plot problems I'd been having and for being on call when I forget them and need to review.  ;)  Thank you to djshiva for your comments and general enthusiasm for this story.   


Damn that woman--what was her name?  Robin?  Damn her! 

I look at the driver's license in my hand, the one that identifies me as Melissa Anderson, the one that gave me the courage to--to--

To make a fool of myself!  I should never have--have started that story!  What was I thinking

I nearly slam the thing on the coffee table but think better of it before I do.  The last thing I need is you running out here wondering what the hell I'm doing, your worried eyes pleading with me to be more careful or less reckless or whatever.

You're in the bedroom of our suite with Emma, getting her ready for bed, tucking her in.  Probably because she sensed my mood, she asked for you tonight instead of me and I can hear the low rumble of your conversation through the door, but not the words.  With my luck, she's probably asking you why I can't keep my hands to myself.

Don't look at me!  I throw my hands up to an invisible judge.  I don't know why either.

It was the--the lie!  It felt so good to just--and then she said you adored me and I--I--

I became a raving lunatic, that's what.

It just....  I just wanted five minutes!  Was that so much to ask? 

I cover my face with my hands.

Apparently, yes, it was.  Because I got--I don't know--I got stuck in it!  The restaurant--I felt really relaxed for the first time in days and we were--were together, like a family!  Like we always are.  We were laughing and having fun but I--I knew who I was!  I did! 

Oh, the whining's attractive.  Yeah, keep that up. 

I roll my eyes, remember the rest.  Like I can forget. 

You looked up at me from across the table with those...gorgeous dark eyes of yours and there was that little...blob of strawberry at the corner of your mouth and before I knew what I was doing, I reached over and swiped it away with my thumb.  And if that wasn't bad enough, then I licked--

Okay, stop right there

I stand up and pace around the ridiculously small coffee table until I can breathe again.  I close my eyes for a second and wonder how conspicuous it would be if I were to duct tape my hands to my sides.  Forever. 

     "She adores you--that much is obvious."

I collapse back onto the uncomfortable pumpkin-colored couch and sigh.  You adore me.  Yeah.  Sure you do.  How could you?  You'd have to be a masochist and-- 

I think about that for a second.  You could be a masochist, come to think of it.  Pining away for Gus all those years, coming to Springfield with Daisy instead of fleeing as fast as you could in the other direction, taking a job at The Beacon, asking me to move in with you...

I shake my head.

No.  You're not a masochist and you don't adore me.  There's no way.  I'm--I'm impossible and a bitch...I'm grumpy in the morning and I hit the snooze button too often and--oh yeah--I've dragged you into our own personal Lifetime Network movie of the week!  I'm a fucking basket case and you 'adore' me.  Right.


What...if you...did?

Oh God.  I'm not listening!  The 'still, small voice' is talking out of its ass!  There should be a spray or something for that. 

Yet even the thought that you might adore me has my stomach tied up in knots.  Butterflies war with dread...dread that even if you could love me like that, it would somehow all go wrong, hurt you in ways that I can't anticipate, can't prevent.  Ways that I could never forgive myself for.

I wait for the tension in my muscles to kill the nausea.  The bottom line in all this is Emma.  Period. 

She needs me to be sane for once in my life.  She needs me to be strong.  And I can't be those things for her if I'm thinking this way about you.  It's just not possible.

So I have to stop it.

I sigh and cover my eyes with my hand. 

Why don't I just figure out how to turn iron into gold while I'm at it?  You know, kill two birds with one idiot?

I look at the driver's license again and even though the name, the address, all of that is different, it's still my face looking back at me.  I'm still me, still Olivia freakin' Spencer.  I still have my history, my memories.  I still have my daughters.  I still have that unique mixture of recklessness and bravado that sees me through most things.

I may not be able to stop what I'm feeling but I can and will figure out a way to keep it from ruining everything.  For Emma's sake.  And yours.

Just then the door to the bedroom opens and you pad into the living room area, quietly pulling the door shut behind you.  You're wearing dark green plaid flannel pajamas and a pair of fuzzy socks. 

I didn't even know you owned fuzzy socks.  Adorable purple-striped fuzzy socks.  I resist the urge to raise my eyebrow at them.

"She fell asleep halfway through Chapter Six," you say quietly, smiling indulgently.  "She was really tired!  I think we wore her out."

I blink, not sure I completely understand what you've just said.  "Chapter Six of what?" I ask.  I know hotel rooms usually come with Bibles but they aren't divided up into chapters, are they?  Not like that, anyway. 

"Stuart Little," you reply, looking at me strangely.  I look back at you just as strangely.  Stuart Little is the book we've been taking turns reading to Emma at home.  Chapter Six was indeed your chapter to read.  But where the hell did the book come from?


"You brought the book from home?" I ask.  My voice is a little higher than I strictly prefer it to be and I cover it by clearing my throat.  "You packed it...in your suitcase.  With your clothes and your hairbrush and your bath gel.  A book?  For Emma?"

"I also brought Little Women and Little House in the Big Woods," you say, claiming the spot next to me on the couch.  "What?  I had a week to pack my suitcase, Olivia.  You two only had hours.  How could you be expected to remember to pack her books?"

That's not the question.  The question is 'How did you remember it?'

My hastily constructed wall of distance and restraint shakes and trembles from one blow.  From one tiny thing: you packing Emma's books, bringing some semblance of normalcy to this twisted, scary ordeal for her.  For all of us.  Grounding us.  Giving us something good and decent to hold onto in this darkness.

I am so fucked.

You must see something in my features, in my eyes, because a little frown settles between yours.

"What's going on?" you ask.  "Is something wrong?"

I flail for a response, hoping against hope that I can keep that wall I've built standing just a little while longer.  It's the driver's license that gives me the idea.

"What are we...going to tell Emma?  About these names--about using them...."  I hold up the plastic card identifying me as Melissa Anderson.  "I don't want to scare her but if she hears us using them, she'll do something or say something that will--will ruin the--"

You shake your head, reaching out for the license, removing it from my grasp.  You place it on the coffee table and take my hand in yours.  "Don't worry about that right now," you say gently.  "We're only using them at the hotel desks and--"

I shake my head back at you.  "But what if she overhears or what if--what if we need to use them more permanently?  What do we do then?  Because she's a very smart little girl and I don't want to--to go into this without a plan.  She'll see through it too quickly or she won't believe it at all.  She might not play along if we wait until it's too late.  She can be a very stubborn little girl when she wants to be."

You smirk.  "I wonder where she gets that from?" you ask.

I don't laugh.  "I just--I--I think we need something a little more thought out.  That's all."

Your thumb slides softly over my fingers in a sweet caress that very nearly obliterates the wall that I've built.  You avert your eyes and the tiny frown returns between your eyebrows.  I can see the wheels in your mind turning again and the shrewdness that you once kept hidden from the world.  Kept hidden from me.

"We could...make it a game," you say slowly as the plan becomes more cohesive to you.  "We could tell her that we're pretending to be spies, like the family in Spy Kids--except without all the gymnastics and exploding candy.  She loves that movie.  She might think it's a great game!  We could even let her pick her own spy name...."

"If she picks the name 'Reva,' I'll hang myself in the bathroom," I grouse.

You laugh and I smile even though I don't want to. 

"Olivia," you scold, shaking your head at me again.  "What do you think?  Will that work?"

I look up at you and realize that you're not only doing everything in your power to protect Emma from Phillip, you're also trying to protect her from the truth for as long as you can.  Games and vacations and scrapbooks and tourist attractions: they're all meant to insulate my little girl from the ugliness in our lives at the moment.  Ugliness that you know too much about.  Ugliness that you've...been through before.

"It wasn't like this for you, was it?" I ask softly before I can stop myself.  "It was....  No one protected you from him."

For a moment, your face doesn't change.  It's stays frozen in a slightly smiling mask until it begins to melt into horror, tears welling quickly in your eyes.  You try to pull your hand from mine but I won't let you.

"Please tell me," I plead.  I haven't forgotten our interrupted conversation from the other day.  But there wasn't a time or a place to bring it up again, not with the two of us hovering around Emma all the time.  I know I said I never needed to know but I was wrong.  I do need to know.  I need to know what happened to you--to stop the terrible scenes in my head that I've been imagining since yesterday.  I need to know because whatever it is weighs you down in ways I didn't recognize before and I want to help carry it, so you don't have to do it alone anymore.  I need to know because I...care about you.  So much.

I watch the struggle in your eyes.  Your fear battles with that core of strength inside you and I don't know how it's going to go, who's going to win. 

"Trust me...." I breathe and you look sharply at me for a moment before you slowly shut your eyes.  I see the decision you've made when you open them--before you turn away.

"This is...hard for me," you begin, staring at a rounded corner on the tiny coffee table.  You're keeping the tears at bay for the moment but you look...shell-shocked.

"I know," I say, squeezing your hand. 

"I spent so many years...burying this.  Sometimes I don't believe it really happened.  I...I told myself that...for too long."  You take a deep breath and wipe your eyes with your free hand.  Then you look at me with agony in your dark eyes and my heart breaks.  Maybe I don't need to know, after all.  No.  I don't need to know.  You don't need to relive this.  This is too much for you.  I open my mouth to put a stop to this, but the torment in your eyes...strangles me.  I can't say a word.

"My mother...tried to protect me.  She did.  She was young when I was born--fifteen--and she didn't know.  She didn't know what she was getting into--not that she had a choice.  She was still living at home with her parents--they were farmers outside of Cali--when my father saw her.  The cartel ran Cali and the men of the cartel were feared and respected.  When my father asked my abuelo for my mother, he was afraid to say no.  My father could have destroyed them and he knew it.  So he gave my mother to the man with the crazy black eyes.

"Like I told you, my father was a lieutenant in the cartel.  Columbia back then...when I was born...was a frightening place.  The cartels...fought for control of the country much more openly than they do now.  They weren't subtle about it back then."  You smirk but it's mirthless.  Whatever the joke is, I don't find it funny.  

"My father's cartel decided to win the minds of the people by starting this...this cleansing program--except instead of cleaning streets and parks of litter, they were cleansing the country of...undesirables."  You look up at me with wounded eyes.  "Prostitutes, homeless people, hustlers, beggars, street children...they murdered them and threw their bodies in the Cauca River.  Or sometimes they left the bodies in the streets, with signs on them.  'Cali limpia, cali linda.'  Clean Cali, beautiful Cali.  Those ones, those poor people left in the street as a warning, were usually the work of my father and his men."

This is...a face of the world I know nothing about.  My childhood was idyllic in comparison, filled with skinned knees and sibling rivalries and Sunday dinners.  I can't fathom the world of your childhood.  At all.

"You...saw this?" I ask and my hope that you didn't--that you were spared at least one thing from that hell--is a living thing, small and helpless.

You shake your head and I let go the breath I was holding.  "No," you say.  "At least...I don't remember it.  My mother told me later."

I nod, too grateful for that small blessing to speak.

"I lived in the compound with my mother and the other women, other children of the cartel.  My father didn't marry my mother.  He had other women, too.  They all did.  And the women--they all worked...usually in the processing of the cocaine.  Some of them became addicts...because it was so easy.  So easy to get, so easy to forget where they were when they got it.  My mother...didn't.  She told me that my father made her take some once but she hated it.  She didn't like to be out of control like that.  Even when my father beat her--which he did a lot--she wouldn't take the cocaine.  The other women didn't trust her because of it and they...shunned her."

"She sounds like a strong woman," I say gently, smiling a little despite the horror I feel at what you're telling me.  Now I know where you get it from.

"She is," you agree and your eyes slide away from mine.  You're lost in memories of her, of your mother.  I wonder what happened between the two of you, why she's no longer a part of your life.

"Did you...work for the...with the cocaine?"

You return from your reverie and shake your head.  "I was too little.  Mostly we--los niños de las putas, that's what they called us, the children of the whores--mostly we ran wild.  There was no formal schooling or anything like that.  I remember there was an old woman who lived in a small house.  She was probably the mother of someone high up in the cartel.  She had boxes filled with flowers on her front porch and she took care of them every day.  I remember watching her, standing in the dusty street with my fingers in my mouth, completely entranced by those flowers.  So bright, so happy....  She called me 'little whore' but she was kind.  She let me help her water them sometimes."

I...don't know what to say.  If someone like that called Emma a 'little whore', I would rip out her tongue!  How can you possibly think she was kind?

As if sensing my disbelief, you shrug a little.  "I know that must sound...odd.  She was kind to me, though.  My mother was always working and most of the other kids didn't want to have anything to do with me--which was a blessing, really.  They were cruel and violent.  They picked on the smaller children, of course.  So many of us walked around with bruises and cuts and other injuries that it became...well, that's how we lived.  I stood out, actually, for a while.  Because I had no marks.  They called me 'Fea'--'Ugly'.  Until...."

"Until what?" I ask.  Time stands still.  I can hear my blood thrumming in my ears.  "Natalia?"  I don't want to ask this.  I don't want to know the answer.  But your eyes....  "Did your father...beat you, too?"

You freeze, unable to answer for a moment.  Then you look at me and nod, the tears you've been holding back coming in a rush.  "I was four...the first time.  He'd come for my mother.  He was drunk.  It was dinner time and I was hungry.  I hadn't eaten since my mother had left that morning.  The arepa smelled so good, my mouth was watering.  He was trying to be seductive, I guess.  Laughing and smiling, touching my mother's hair, trying to coax her into bed.  But I was angry.  I wanted my dinner.  I tugged on his pants leg and told him to wait his turn....  He gave me a black eye then beat my mother for not raising me right.  After that, he...beat me almost as often as he did my mother.  It was his way of...he thought that was how you raised children.  It's probably how he was raised.  I don't know."

The rage I feel right now--the sheer depths of my hatred for your father--I had no idea I could feel this way about any human being ever.  Even Phillip, who terrifies the hell out of me, has never inspired this level of...of revulsion, of abhorrence.  It seethes under my skin, slick and white-hot.  I am boiling with it.

"Where is he?" I ask and my voice is a measured rasp, low and deadly. 

You blink.  "Who?  My father?  He's dead, Olivia.  He was killed when I was thirteen...by the DEA in a raid on one of his New York warehouses.  Why?"

"Why?  Why??  Because I want to dig him up and kill him again!"  I jump up off the couch and begin to pace, unable to keep still.  "I want to break every bone in his body!  I want to fucking destroy him--"

You follow me off the couch and stop my pacing, grabbing my arms with your hands.  "Olivia, don't.  Please don't get worked up like this," you plead.  "Emma's sleeping and you'll get sick.  I don't want you to get sick.  Please, Olivia, it's okay.  He's dead.  He can't hurt me anymore.  Please, come sit down."

I let you lead me back to the couch, feeling immensely guilty.  You're taking care of me again.  Even while telling me this horrible--you're taking care of me.  When do you get taken care of?  That's what I want to know.  When does someone get to take care of you, Natalia Rivera?

"How did you get away from that...that place?" I ask.  The way I say 'place' explains exactly what I think of Cali, Columbia.

Your hands are folded in your lap and you look down at them.  Your voice is soft and monotone, now.  A shadow of what it usually is.  The rage inside me ebbs to make way for the tears flooding my eyes.

"When I was six, one of my father's other women told him that my mother had slept with another man, one of my father's soldiers.  He came to our house looking for her, but she wasn't home yet.  She'd stopped to talk to someone in the street, but because she wasn't home he thought the lie was true.  He became enraged and started to beat me...screaming at me how my mother was the worst kind of whore, the worst kind of filth.  I...tried to get away but he...he just kept coming....  He was so big and he kept...hitting...hitting...."

I pull you into my arms and rock you.  We're stopping this right now.  Right fucking now.  "Shhhhh....  It's over.  It's over now, sweetie....  Hold onto me...."

You clutch at me, sobbing against my chest, your hands wound into my shirt.  "He...broke my arm....  Broke my cheekbone....  I was covered...in bruises, blood.  I spent two days in the hospital, my eyes swollen shut....  Everything hurt...."

Tears spill down my face and into your hair.  "Shhh....  Natalia, you're okay.  You're safe.  No one will ever hurt you like that again.  I promise.  I promise you.  No one will ever lay a hand on you again.  Not as long as I'm alive."

You don't hear me.  You're lost in your horror.

"My mother...we fled the hospital...in the middle of the night.  But he came after us...no matter where we went.  Somehow he always found us.  Always.  We ran.  For seven years, until they killed him.  We ran."

I cup your face in my hands and raise it up, forcing your empty eyes to see me.  "Natalia, look at me.  You're going back to Springfield tomorrow.  I'm putting you on the first plane we can find that will get you close, okay?  You don't have to run anymore.  You can go home.  Your home.  Where you're safe and...and cared for.  It's going to be okay."

Your eyes fill with panic.  "No!  Olivia, why?"

"Why?"  Are you serious?  "Because I can't do this to you!  You've been through this once already; I won't put you through it again!  I--I--"  I can't.  Don't you see?  It's killing me!    

You wipe your eyes, begin to pull yourself together.  You even look a little angry.  "No!  No, I won't go.  I won't let you send me away."


"No buts, Olivia!"  Your eyes are flashing now.  "Tell me you don't need me!  Tell me Emma doesn't need me!"

"I can't do this--  You've been through too much!  I don't want to put you through more...."

"That's not what I said.  Tell me, Olivia, and I'll go home.  Tell me you don't need me!"

I want to.  God, I want to.  But it isn't true and I don't know how long Emma and I would last without you.  I'm caught between what I want for you and what I need for my daughter and I--I hate it.  I need you more than I've ever needed anyone in my whole life.  It scares the hell out of me.

When I say nothing, you relax and the anger in your eyes recedes a little.  "You're the first person I've ever told...all this to, Olivia.  That I've ever...trusted enough to tell.  Please don't...don't make me regret that."

I close my eyes.  Don't tell me things like that, I beg you.  I wonder if I should wear a sign--Please Don't Feed the Hopeful.

"Okay," I whisper, giving in to you.  When I open my eyes, you are looking at me pensively, your face tear-stained and red, but your eyes clear and unreadable.

I'm still cupping your face in my hands and I look at your mouth, at your full lips...so beautiful...so.... 

As if in a dream, I lean forward, my whole body buzzing with the need to....

My stomach flipping snaps me out of my stupor and I realize that I am just about to kiss you!  I veer to the left and kiss you softly on the cheek instead and then pull you into my arms for a hug so you can't see the terror in my eyes.

"I won't send you away," I whisper.  I try to ignore my brain screaming at me to do just that.  Screaming at me that I'm going to ruin everything if I let you stay. 

I almost kissed you!  My heart flutters so wildly in my chest, I can't breathe.  Can you feel it?  Oh God.  I have to--I need to--

I need space.  Distance.  Now.

"I--think I should get ready for bed," I say, pulling away from your embrace.  "You should go to bed, too.  We've had a...long day."

You look puzzled and a little...wary.  "I...I was going to watch TV for a little while," you say.  "I think I need something mindless for a few minutes and since we don't have dishes...."  You smile briefly then open your mouth to add something else but I stand before you can speak.

"Good night," I say, smiling at you weakly.  I'm running and I know it.  I hope you can forgive me.

"Good night, Olivia," you reply.  "And thank you...for listening."

"That's what friends are for," I tell you and then I disappear into the darkened bedroom, leaning against the door as I shut it behind me.  I close my eyes and sigh deeply.  

I feel ten kinds of drained and I just want to crawl into bed and not think.  I don't even bother with pajamas, just strip off my boots, my jeans, and my bra from under my shirt and slide into bed behind my slumbering daughter.  I lean over and kiss her absently, listening to her deep, regular breaths in the silence of our dark room.  I stroke her hair as I lay there, willing myself to fall asleep, willing myself to stop imagining you, a dimpled child of six, lying in a hospital bed, beaten and broken.  It occurs to me that as terrified as I am of Phillip, I know he would never, ever do that to Emma.  He wants to own her, not destroy her.  Tears sting my eyes.  I never thought I'd feel grateful for that.  

I try to think of other things, less terrible things.  My mind keeps coming back to you.  Your amazing strength, the steadfastness of your faith--even after all you've been through--the openness of your heart....  

I try to stop thinking of you, too, realizing the futility of it too late. 

I can hear the muffled sounds of the TV in the other room and even something that simple leads me to thoughts of you.  What are you watching?  Are you okay?  Am I doing the right thing by letting you stay? 

I cover my face with my arm and try to blot out everything.  Your voice fills the silence.  You face lights the darkness.  I'm desperate for oblivion and there's no Jim Beam handy--so I fall back on something I haven't done since I was a child: I count sheep.

Woolly sheep with bored faces and black ears, like the ones on our farm.  

My count isn't very high--two hundred or so--when I hear the door creak open.  I freeze.

"Olivia?" you whisper, standing in the doorway.

I don't answer.  I can't.  If I answer you right now, I don't know what I'll say.  

You wait until the silence grows thin and then you sigh softly and I can hear the rustle of sheets and blankets as you slip quietly into your bed.  I listen to you toss and turn for a moment until you settle yourself and then I relax, returning to my imaginary sheep and their unhelpful companionship.

I must drift off though, because later, when I wake, my skin is hot and tight from the hotel's dry heat.  I don't know what woke me so I check Emma.  She's curled up on her side, still tucked in warm and safe.  I shrug mentally and turn on my other side, pulling the sheet up to my shoulder.  Maybe it was a dream--

There it is.  The sound that woke me.  A whimper.  Your whimper.

"Please, Papi," you cry, your voice small and frightened.  "Please, Papi, don't! ¡Le pido, para! Lastima! You're hurting me!"

I'm out of bed--rushing to your side--before I can even think.  In the semi-blackness of the early morning, I can see you're curled into a tight knot, ducking your head, hiding from a nightmare beating.  You're crying and whimpering, begging in two languages for the pain to end.  I lift the blanket and sheet over you and slide underneath them, curling up around you, holding you to me.  I whisper to you, trying to soothe you away from the dream and into a deeper sleep. 

"You're safe, Natalia.  I'm here.  I won't let him hurt you anymore."  I stroke your hair, kiss the back of your head.  "Shhhh, sweetheart.  It's okay.  I'm here.  I'm right here with you."

You begin to quiet, your cries becoming tiny murmurs, and you stop struggling against me and push backwards, snuggling deeper into my arms. 

"That's it," I whisper, kissing your head again.  "Sleep now.  You're safe.  I'm right here.  I won't let anyone hurt you."

You finally stop murmuring and your breathing evens out, becoming deep and regular once again. 

As the crisis of the nightmare fades and I can breathe again, I become aware of the heat of your body pressed against mine, of the faint scent of your perfume still clinging to you, of the spicy scent that is yours alone.  I tremble beside you, shaken and tearful, worried about you while at the same time feeling such pride in you, in what you've endured, in what you've made of a life that I know I would not have survived if it had been me.  My heart aches with adoration--so painfully that I wonder briefly if I'm going to need to go to the hospital.

I should move, return to my own bed.  I should...but I know I won't.  I could rationalize it, tell myself that your nightmares could come back, but I'd know it's a lie.  The truth is if I left you right now, it would rip me to shreds. 

Suddenly--wrapped around you in this dark hotel room in South Dakota--I'm faced with a truth I can no longer deny.  To myself anyway.

It's ridiculous and pointless to continue to try.

"God help me," I pray, my eyes closing in surrender.  I press my mouth against the back of your head one last time, rub my cheek against your silky hair, the scent of peaches and honeysuckle bringing tears to my eyes.

"I am so in love with you...."


Comments are love!

(Deleted comment)
seftiri: Olivia Spencer Amazingseftiri on April 3rd, 2009 10:24 pm (UTC)
Yeah. Sorry about that....

Glad you liked it though. You did see that chapter 11 is up, right?
Revolos55: C&H - Pray to TVrevolos55 on April 7th, 2009 05:28 pm (UTC)

I was gonna point out the various things I liked, like with the other chapters, but...

This whole thing is amazing. Just every bit of it, I could see it all in my head. Heartbreaking and heartwarming both.

Imagine the TV in my icon is my laptop.