So the song If You're Going Through Hell by Rodney Atkins pretty much summarizes how I feel about GH recently and played like a broken record until I jotted this down. Hopefully, it'll be something more uplifiting for Liason than what we've currently been seeing. As always, thanks for reading.


Prompt: "Do you know what nothing feels like?" 8/99


He was in hell.

The heat was licking at his limbs, melting his flesh and turning his muscles into useless putty. Sweat trickled down his forehead, the salty moisture stinging his eyes, making his vision cloudy but he was unable to stop its unrelenting progress. He flinched as he tried to move his arms, the jagged remains of the abandoned church's once sturdy roof now nothing more than fallen rubble that pinned his body to the hard floor.

Hot perspiration mixed with rivulets of his blood to form a sticky pool under his frame, each moment in the tropical heat draining him of stamina and the chance of getting out of this inferno alive.

Through the pain that mottled his senses, he struggled to hold on to the bare necessities of survival. He needed to move before dehydration and blood loss overcame him so that he'd live to have the opportunity to worry about infection later.

With supreme discipline, his normally powerful limbs trembling from exertion, he tried to shimmy his upper torso just a little to free his arms. His efforts were quickly waning but he managed to get the slightest of leverage as the precarious rubble shifted and his uninjured shoulder slipped loose from the massive chunk of plaster weighing it down like a two ton paperweight.

A grunt of relief accompanied his unfettered hand as he swiped at the bullets of sweat that riddled his forehead, the action smearing grit across his brow but forcing the stinging assault into retreat. He puffed out a shallow breath, preparing for the next onslaught of pain all the while knowing that he had to keep moving, that he couldn't give in.

He gripped his palm around the beam that immobilized his wounded left shoulder, the aged wood dry and irregular, the splinters like a serrated knife cutting into the more tender flesh of his hand as he pressed against it with all of his might.

His breathing was labored, his body taxed to the brink of exhaustion as his sinews creaked like a rusty hinge until, finally, flesh and wood gave way to sweet release.

Instantly, he felt the demons of surrender breathing down his back, the searing pain that tore through his previously incapacitated gunshot wound consuming him, the deathly flames of misery dragging him under into oblivion.

***

Shadows whispered around him, the darkness cloaking their forms and making their identities a mystery. His mind raced to sift through their movements, their words an indistinct blur, a whirlwind of voices that were neither friend nor foe.

He tried to catch fragments, snatches of their sentiments, but clarity wouldn't come from the shapeless beings that circled around him.

The low tones suddenly changed, the barely audible hum now pounded around him, through him, as they chanted as one. Still, he couldn't decipher what the unknown group was telling him, the utterances not making sense to his beleaguered mind.

Suddenly, blinding light invaded the darkness, infiltrating the corners and routing out the last vestiges of anonymity the shadows had claimed. Through barely slit fingers, he peered at the assemblage that encircled him.

One by one, they stepped forward, their individual voices now something he could separate from the rest of the harmonious group.

Wavy blonde curls dusted her shoulders as Carly narrowed her eyes and let her throaty voice be heard like a rusty blade. Next to her, Michael's angry tone and Kristina's high pitch punctuated each mark of their never ending chorus.

Their condemnation pierced his ears, infiltrated his senses, until all he could remember was their voices culminating into a resounding accusation of his failure. When he couldn't take it any longer, when he just wanted to claw out his own ears for a moment of solitude, it abruptly became deafeningly quiet.

The only sound that broke the new silence was his ragged breathing. It wasn't a peaceful silence, there was an uncomfortable, almost ominous, feel to the shocking lack of sound.

He felt his heartbeat surge, the uncertainty of what would come next mingled with the unavoidable knowledge that those he held dear had judged him and found him wanting. With a sense of foreboding, he looked around the assemblage but they'd unanimously turned their backs on him all but one.

Dark tresses cascaded down her back like an enchanting waterfall, framing the porcelain skin that looked like a polished pearl as it met angel's wings at her arched brow. Her graceful hand reached down to tenderly stroke the downy head at her hip as her honeyed voice echoed from their past, "Do you know what nothing feels like?"

He wanted to answer her, he wanted to tell her that he did, that he understood more than most men ever would about how nothing felt. He wanted to shout out to her, to lace each word with the despair and utter wretchedness that infiltrated all aspects of his life without her but, instead, he choked on his own remorse.

He'd turned from her, questioned how she could love him, and broke all ties.

The harsh reality was that he'd had ample opportunity to keep the chasm that widened between them each day from growing and, instead, he'd purposely walked further away to protect her from her own dangerous choices.

He'd wallowed in the bleak existence that shadowed his world firmly believing that what he'd sacrificed had been for a greater good. He'd exhausted his reserves trying to salvage those he'd inexcusably let become more than just fringe accessories in the dangerous trappings of his life but, in reflection, he knew the truth now.

He'd fallen prey to his own insecurities and chosen a simpler path. One that didn't challenge him or torturously stretch his capabilities for he couldn't fail if he didn't even try.

The bitter truth was rancid in his mouth, more noxious and vile than the worst poison, and he couldn't utter a word as the unvarnished admissions strangled his tongue.

Misery, disappointment, and betrayal etched the deeper flecks of her stark blue eyes for she already knew the damning truth, his persistent silence merely confirming it. With dignity, her slender hands nimbly reached to draw their son up into her arms, a comforting action, as the little toddler started to whimper, "Dada, see Dada."

She mustered her composure, her resolve clear, as she indelibly inked the finality of their rift upon his heart with a whispered coo, "No, baby, that's not Daddy. He's a stranger to us."

Her lithe arms snuggled the little boy against her side, hugging him tight, as she turned away from him without another thought. Her fading footsteps resounded through his shattered heart like a death knell.

Panting, he tried not to show his burgeoning horror, he struggled to keep his mind from registering his worst fears materializing before him. The woman he'd forced himself to leave, the one he'd hoped would never turn away, had finally realized her faith in him wasn't justified.

Demons of his own making burned his conscience, scorched the tattered remnants of his soul as an anguished plea bleed from his blistered lungs, "Elizabetthhhh."

A sinister chuckle billowed around him, the smoky tone foreign as it may be, was his only answer.

***

He felt the cold gaze penetrating his feverish haze.

Icy tendrils of fear danced along his spine as his flushed body tried to respond to his tacit commands. Sluggishly, his eyes finally opened and landed upon the sneering and all too knowing face of the devil.

"Ah," the lilting voice taunted, "the indomitable Mr. Morgan has finally awoken to a situation where he can't play hero." Distastefully, his nemesis added, "That tarnished cape you've been dragging around with you was getting rather tedious anyway."

"Wh-where's Michael," he puffed through gritted teeth.

"Tsk, tsk," his enemy derided. "That's the only question you should have been worrying about before you meet with such unpleasant circumstances."

The craggy smile that bloomed on Jerry's face made him all the more wary of what his adversary was planning now. There was something more insidious than normal brooding under the nefarious Australian's skin and it wasn't just his fever fueling that belief.

If he was lucky, he might get out of this without Jerry knowing that he'd utterly failed those that should have been able to count on him. Biding his time, his legs still pinned under the hazardous debris, he gulped, "Wh-what did you do with Sam?"

Sardonically, the older criminal drawled, "Ah, Sweet Sam, she's found herself in a nasty bit of business but it's something she's remarkably well suited for."
With a sick fascination, Jerry sighed, "It's a pity though, she won't last long in her new enterprise if she keeps fighting them. Her new owners will keep her so doped up on heroine that it won't matter what orifice her customers use."

"You-you sold her," he incredulously rasped.

"Yes," the shady mastermind confirmed, "she's probably on to her fifth john by now but you've got no need to feel inspired to heroic acts on Sweet Sam's account for, in the end, she was willing to sell you out to save herself."

Jerry's inference lingered, making fear cloy to his skin tighter than his sweat drenched t-shirt. There was no telling what secrets Sam would have bartered in a deal to keep her own hide from jeopardy. Her sister was probably safe but anyone else was potentially walking around with a bulls eye on their back.

He'd been fooling himself all this time, forgetting the pain she'd caused, thinking that the woman he'd once cared for and thought he knew wasn't capable of betraying him again. It had been so easy to fall back into their old working cadence since he didn't have to shelter her like he did Spinelli but when the circumstances were dire, he remembered all too clearly her true nature.

His jaw clenched hard as he tried not to give away the looming dread that had settled around the base of his spine, overriding the pain from his gunshot leg.

"Enough of this sordid discussion," the unscrupulous man chided. "It seems that I was playing cat and mouse with the wrong brunette."

His blood quickened, the fear roaring like a blazing monster as it tore through his flesh while Jerry mocked, "I should have known that Sam, as temptingly sweet as she may be, wasn't your Achilles heel."

He swallowed hard with regret, it was tough knowing that he'd set himself up again to be duped but he couldn't change that now. All he could do was focus on getting out of this forsaken church alive.

Late afternoon sunlight filtered in between the rafters that hung precariously over their heads, a stray beam illuminating the rubble at his side. The silvery glint looked like a tarnished angel's halo just as his enemy stalked ever closer.

A calculated evil swirled in the soulless depths of Jerry's eyes as the black marketeer loomed over him and excused, "Forgive me, it seems that I've got a long overdue appointment with a former captive."

With triumph, Jerry shrugged off the heat and devious banter they'd been exchanging and sauntered away.

Desperate, he gritted his teeth at another wave of excruciating pain from his shoulder as his fingers scraped through the dirt and shattered remains of the stucco walls. His muscles felt like they were being stretched past the breaking point as he willed himself closer to the weapon he knew better than most wives knew their husbands.

His palm lovingly embraced the hard metal, his finger tenderly stroked the ready trigger just as his nemesis looked back for one last victorious glance. With deft certainty, he kissed this enemy farewell as the bullet landed squarely between his eyes.

The man who'd practically killed his father and tortured everyone he cared about crumpled ignominiously to the dilapidated floor. While that was a fete of accomplishment, he was more relieved that Jerry wouldn't be knocking on Elizabeth's door any time soon.

But, he would.

He was tired to the marrow of his bones and exhausted by living his life as if knowing how nothing felt was okay. With a grunt, he fell to his side knowing that when he recovered, he'd have to face that fire that singed his conscience, made his mistakes blaringly clear, and hope that Elizabeth would still believe in him enough to try.

And, if she didn't, he'd have to keep going, keep trying, and continue walking through this hell of his own making until she did.



Edited 1 time by tinkerbell74 09/02/09 7:19 PM.