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Post by lillydove on Jan 29, 2019 19:36:22 GMT -5
TITLE: Deep Inside of You
AUTHOR: lillydove
SUMMARY: Liz returns to Roswell and learns even the most deeply buried secrets can’t stay hidden forever.
COUPLES: M/L, CC - for now
RATING: MATURE
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.
TBC...
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Post by RachelEm on Jan 29, 2019 20:18:55 GMT -5
"...shut down like a government needing funding for a wall." LMAO. That was hysterical! The rest was painfully sad.  I feel for Liz and her anger, and knowing what she went through to feign healing was rough. Not eating, not sleeping. And then only eating when being watched. And then of course the obvious sabotaging of relationships (but that's okay, because this other unknown guy obviously wasn't Max), even with her dad. To slowly allow him to fade away from her life. Not Arturo! Failed poster child for therapy or not, she needs to give that shit another go. I really like Dr. McDougall should have shot her in the head with a nerf gun.  This was wonderful! ILU! |
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Post by lillydove on Jan 29, 2019 20:46:10 GMT -5
"...shut down like a government needing funding for a wall." LMAO. That was hysterical! Haha, yeah, I thought that was a good one.  |
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Post by alwaysparis on Jan 30, 2019 17:37:32 GMT -5
I can' help but think that quote is there especially for me... Oh, Liz, you're a girl after my own heart! I love this lillydove, the entire thing is so heartbreaking. And it explains a lot about why Liz is still screwed up about this whole thing even though so many years have passed since. I feel her pain. I can't wait for more - to see what is going on in her mind as the story unravels itself. Something tells me Liz is in for a rough ride. |
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Post by lillydove on Jan 30, 2019 19:37:47 GMT -5
I can' help but think that quote is there especially for me... Oh, Liz, you're a girl after my own heart! I love this lillydove , the entire thing is so heartbreaking. And it explains a lot about why Liz is still screwed up about this whole thing even though so many years have passed since. I feel her pain. I can't wait for more - to see what is going on in her mind as the story unravels itself. Something tells me Liz is in for a rough ride. Haha, yes that one was definitely for you! This story was actually inspired by our episode discussion last week! I'm glad you enjoyed it! I'm already working on more  |
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Post by alwaysparis on Jan 31, 2019 1:55:14 GMT -5
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Post by lillydove on Feb 6, 2019 14:15:21 GMT -5
Author’s Note: Started writing this last week before last night’s episode aired. Some things happened a little differently in the show, but I’m super stoked that my idea hasn’t been shot to shit by the show yet!
Deep Inside of You - Part Two
~~~~
Michael
Ten years.
She was gone for ten years.
Of course, when she finally shows back up, shit goes to fucking hell.
Right now, I want to be thinking about anything other than Liz Ortecho. Well, what I really want is to be thinking about Alex. I want to think about him lying beneath me and waking up in my bed. I want to relive every moment of that night, and imagine for a second that things are finally going to come together for us.
Instead, I’m thinking about the reason things blew up between us in the first place. The reason we both continue to blow it up, even after all this time.
I stare down at my left hand and see the scars. I squeeze my hand into a fist as I think about the drive-in.
”FILL IN ...a reason to walk away.”
“And you’re so good at giving them to me.”
He has no idea how right he is.
One night. One mistake. One troubled girl that made sure Alex would have a reason to walk away.
She burned everything to the ground and took Alex and me along with her.
I could’ve healed the scars. I could’ve erased them. The way I had Isobel erase everything else.
Call me a sucker for punishment. Call me a masochist.
I look out the window as the lights in town slowly fade to black.
We’re not kids anymore.
But I’m still paying for the mistakes I made when I was one.
~~~~
Isobel
When the town goes dark, I immediately know why.
I look at Noah, his face dimly lit by the candles he laid out around our patio, and he knows before I say it that I’m going to leave.
He touches his hand to my cheek, and I lean into it for a brief moment, before I stand to go. I don’t deserve him.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Go.”
As I move through the house, gathering my shoes and phone and keys, I think to myself that maybe I could tell him the truth. I think to myself that he loves me, all of me, and maybe he would understand. Maybe he wouldn’t be scared or angry. Maybe he would still be my Noah and look at me the way he always has.
I shove the thought aside.
Now is not the time to think about things like that.
I reach out to Max, but it’s like hitting a brick wall. I know things are bad if he’s that closed off.
I check the missed call on my cell phone and instantly hit redial.
The phone rings as I climb into my car and take off towards the desert. Max’s voice picks up on the other line, but it’s only his voicemail.
What the hell is going on with him?
I race down the darkened roads, calling Michael next. He picks up after one ring.
“Michael, it’s Max.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m already on my way.”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“What the hell are we going to do, Michael?” I ask.
He’s silent on the other line for a moment. I hear the gears shifting in his truck and the sound of gravel on the ground being kicked up by his tires.
“We have to tell her the truth,” he finally says.
~~~~
Max
Michael and Isobel find me in the backyard.
I’m on the ground, hands gripping my knees, head slumped forward from the weight of what just happened.
I should feel relief from the release, but the pressure inside me is already building again.
She thinks I’m a murderer.
I’ve loved her my whole life, and she believed I killed her sister.
The feeling continues to build inside me as I picture her face. My pulse starts to race and I can hear the blood begin to pound inside my head.
“Max?”
Isobel’s hand reaches out to touch my shoulder. I didn’t even realize when she knelt on the ground in front of me. I didn’t even hear them walk up. All I could hear was the rage inside of me.
Her eyes are filled with fear and concern, bright blue eyes I’ve seen more angry and afraid this week than anything else. I see the look of sadness, the flash of pity, that crumples her face when I finally look up. She controls it in an instant, and I feel her give me a slight squeeze.
Michael hands me something from where he stands beside me. I take the bottle and welcome the relief I feel when I take my first sip. My left hand relaxes its grip on my jeans, and I’m able to sit back on my heels.
“Let’s get you inside,” Isobel says.
I nod, letting their hands slowly help me to my feet. They stay on either side of me, one hand on each of my arms, until we’re in the house. I lower onto the couch, and Isobel has already found a blanket to try and wrap around my shoulders.
“I’m alright, Is,” I say, shrugging my shoulders out of the blanket.
She stubbornly pulls the material back up. “Shut up, Max.”
Michael snorts, head dropping slightly to hide his bit of laughter. He stands in front of me, arms crossed over his body like a disapproving parent. But I can tell he’s not angry, he’s always enjoyed watching Isobel scold me like a child.
Maybe that’s what I am.
A pathetic kid still in love with a girl that doesn’t feel the same way. A child that can’t control his emotions, still losing himself to outbursts and destroying things in an effort to deal.
Michael and Isobel are waiting silently, but I know they want an explanation.
“Liz confronted me tonight,” I tell them. I take a deep breath, the next words causing physical pain before they even leave my lips. “She thinks I murdered her sister.”
Isobel’s grip reflexively tightens with her gasp. Michael lets out a different kind of laughter this time, a strangled, exasperated, disbelieving kind of sound, as he shakes his head and turns to face away from us.
Isobel and I watch him carefully.
“Fuck.” We hear him mutter under his breath.
He turns to face us again and the look in his eyes fills me with concern.
“We have to tell her the truth, Max.”
“Michael, no.” Isobel immediately interjects.
“No, Isobel,” he argues back. “This has gone on long enough. It’s time to pay the piper.”
“We can’t. Max, tell him we can’t. Michael, what the hell is that going to solve?” She looks back and forth between the two of us, struggling to find control in this situation.
“At least if she knows, Max won’t have this secret eating him up all the time!”
“She won’t understand,” she says, shaking her head emphatically. ‘She’ll never forgive him.”
“It’s not his fault, and you know it!” Michael’s voice raises as he slams his fist into the arm of the couch. Isobel flinches, but stands her ground.
“Of course, I know that,” she growls out. “You and I both know that,” she says pointedly, “but that’s not how she’ll see it.”
I half-listen to them, as they continue to argue in front of me. I’ve already thought about telling Liz a thousand times.
Even in my most optimistic moments, each time ended the same.
But now I know first-hand what her reaction will feel like. Now, I know how it feels to hear her believe I’m a murderer.
At this point, what do I have to lose?
“I’ll tell her,” I say finally. The bickering between ends abruptly, as they both stare at me in disbelief. Michael, surprised I sided with him. Isobel, shocked for the same reason.
Before they can respond, I stand up. “I’m not dragging you guys into this,” I say.
“But Max—“
“No, Isobel.” I stoop to grab my belt and hat from beside her on the table. “She wants the truth and she needs to hear it from me. I’m going alone.”
Only slightly surprisingly, they both allow me to walk past them. I can see Michael’s jaw working it’s way up to an argument, but the look in his eyes tells me his mind is fighting a different battle. Isobel is torn between coming after me and staying with Michael, to try and assuage some of the familiar crushing guilt that’s begun to weigh him down.
It was ten years ago. One night. One accident. One lie that ruined everything.
It was time to make things right.
TBC...
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tasyfa
Roswell, NM Curious
Posts: 36
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Post by tasyfa on Feb 19, 2019 17:23:51 GMT -5
This is fascinating! I'm enjoying it a lot.
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I feel for Liz and her anger, and knowing what she went through to feign healing was rough. Not eating, not sleeping. And then only eating when being watched. And then of course the obvious sabotaging of relationships (but that's okay, because this other unknown guy obviously wasn't Max), even with her dad. To slowly allow him to fade away from her life. Not Arturo! Failed poster child for therapy or not, she needs to give that shit another go.
