Deep Inside of You (MA, CC) - Part Two 2/6/19 Jan 29, 2019 19:36:22 GMT -5 via mobile
Post by lillydove on Jan 29, 2019 19:36:22 GMT -5
TITLE: Deep Inside of You
SUMMARY: Liz returns to Roswell and learns even the most deeply buried secrets can’t stay hidden forever.
COUPLES: M/L, CC - for now
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Roswell, New Mexico belong to Carina Adly Mackenzie, Melinda Metz, and the CW. No infringement is intended with the posting of this story. I also don’t own the song Deep Inside of You by Third Eye Blind.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Follow-up to What Happened to Rosa
Deep Inside of You - Part One
Denver, Colorado - August 2009
“So, you blame her?”
“No!” I say quickly. “Of course not!”
I twist my hands together in my lap. No response.
“Of course I don’t blame her. How can I? She was sick.”
“But you’re angry?”
“Yes...” I begin, words trailing off as I twist harder. “I mean, no, not at her. I’m angry it happened at all, I guess.
“But you don’t feel angry at anyone in particular.”
I think about it for a moment, and the familiar ache builds behind my forehead.
“I don’t know who I’m angry at,” I say finally. “Or what. The universe, maybe? Can I say the universe?”
I joke to lighten the mood, relieve some of the tension building inside me.
Dr. McDougall is not amused.
She sets down her pen and takes off her glasses, looking at me with that look she’s given me right about this time in our last three “chats.”
“Liz, you came here because your boss was concerned about you. You haven’t been sleeping. You haven’t been eating.”
I break eye contact.
“Something is clearly affecting you,” she says. “If I’m going to be able to help you, I need you to try and dig with me on this.”
“Maybe I don’t want to dig. Maybe that would be worse.”
She’s silent for a while, so long I finally drag my gaze back up to meet hers.
“You can’t figure out how to solve a problem until you know what it is.”
Roswell, New Mexico -- January 2019
After Rosa died and I left home, and I threw myself into work. I folded the tragedy of my life into a neat, little box and packed it away. Buried it.
And like a time capsule marked to open on my return to Roswell, everything seemed to be resurfacing.
But why my mind had suddenly dragged up that memory, I don’t know.
My brief foray into counseling was not what my therapist would call “satisfactory.” There was a wall I couldn’t get past, and after my mandatory six sessions were finished, what I learned was that I needed to pack that shit down further. So, I started to sleep. Not well, but enough so it was noticeable. I forced myself to eat. Mainly when I was being watched. I crafted the outward appearance of “normal” that people wanted to see.
The rest of the time I lived with a gnawing, nagging feeling in the pit of my chest that refused to ease. Whenever I tried to examine that feeling, whenever I tried to feel - period - the discomfort inside me grew to a pounding in my head.
So, I learned not to look at it.
Around about year three, I realized it was less noticeable. Still there. But I remember the first time I realized I hadn’t thought about her, or him, or that feeling yet that day. It was such a sudden realization that then, of course, I thought about it. That sucked. But you know, it was progress. Every day before I’d had to remind myself not to think about it.
Eventually, I started to force myself to think about it - how hard I worked not to think about it - and I began to feel angry again. Angry that it happened at all. Angry that the buried box of pent up feelings was even there to begin with.
And for the first time, I felt angry at something. More accurately, angry at someone.
Year four was a pretty angry year. My dad would call, and we would happily catch up like we had since I moved away. He’d tell me about the diner, and I’d tell him about work. He’d ask me about my love life, and I’d tell him that was super weird and change the subject, laughing so he didn’t think anything of it. We’d joke about the tourists, which new servers were complaining the most about their antenna, and come up with catchy names for new menu items.
Then, he’d bring up Rosa.
He’d make some loving remark in the midst of our laughter about how he missed her or how much she would’ve loved to see me off changing the world, and I’d shut down like a government trying to fund a wall. I’d become suddenly aware of project that needed my attention and not-so-subtly find a quick reason to end the call.
Eventually, I figured he’d pick up on it and stop. When he didn’t, I got busier and busier and our weekly calls became more and more infrequent.
I didn’t want to talk about the things Rosa would’ve loved to see or the things she would’ve hated to miss. I didn’t want to remember her fondly when all I could think about was the damage she’d caused. I didn’t want to think about the selfish, destructive choices she made and act like it was okay.
I wanted to be angry. Angry at her for her carelessness. Angry at her preoccupation with drugs and music and boys. Angry that she let it mess everything up.
So I let myself be angry, because it felt better than the alternative.
What can I say? Deep-seeded rage feels better than unrelenting grief.
...and like I said before, I’m not what you’d call the poster child for therapy success.
Around about year five, I started going out and making friends, new people that didn’t know me or her or the terrible tragedy of Roswell, New Mexico. Pretending got easier and easier, and somewhere along the line, I finally moved on.
Around about year eight, I met someone. Not just someone casual, but someone who made me forget. Forget about being so angry. Forget about the moments she missed. Forget about dancing to the radio, open top Jeeps, and sharing earbuds.
He was so perfectly vanilla that Rosa would’ve been furious.
Two years, I threw myself into that life. Two years, it seemed I could be really happy again.
Until last week when my project lost funding, and I had the rug ripped out from under me. I called my dad and the sound of his voice after so much time and distance filled me with a sudden need to go home. An urge that hadn’t been there in ten years.
So, I decided to rip the rug out from under everything.
But enough about that.
I’d spent the better part of the eight hour drive to Roswell not thinking about any of that. No point starting now.
This random resurfacing had to be just my mind spinning from being so close to home.
Or from seeing Max again.
I mean, give me a damn break. Literally, the first person I run into? Even in the damn cowboy hat, seeing him made my body react in a way that I did not appreciate after ten freaking years.
Mierda. What the hell had I gotten myself into?
The universe, it seemed, had not lost its sense of humor.