[fic] I'll Be Your Mirror - posted for m31andy

fionnabair@gmail.com — Tue, 11 Sep 2007 06:57:34 GMT

TITLE: I'll Be Your Mirror
AUTHOR: Andromeda
FANDOM: Life on Mars
SUMMARY: But that I am forbid. To tell the secrets of my prison-house.
RATING: Red Cortina, non-con, incest, paedophilia, character death.
WORD COUNT: 1,300
EMAIL: fiandyfic@livejournal.com
AUTHOR'S NOTES: The unhappy ending to Fionnabair's Venus in Furs and Beginning to See the Light. (alternative to I'm Set Free and all stemming from Sunday Morning) Just to prove that there is one. Again, I find there is a lower Hell than the one currently occupied. Poor old Dante degli Alighieri must be spinning in his grave. Beta'd by Fi, who is surprised she kept her lunch so long.
DISCLAIMER: Life on Mars is copyright Kudos and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.

I'll Be Your Mirror

There were other Uncles after Uncle Sam left, but Sammy still thinks of him sometimes. Uncle Sam was quiet where the others were noisy. Uncle Sam had stayed, while the other Uncles were always in and out of the house at strange hours. Talking to his Mum, taking them out on day trips, playing football with Sammy. Trying to do the substitute Dad thing, but never there the way Uncle Sam was.

He remembers the last time he saw Uncle Sam. Uncle Sam had walked him to school, the only time he ever did so. He spoke of promises and the importance of knowing when to break them. Sammy hadn't really understood, but he didn't get the chance to ask Uncle Sam what he meant because the bell rang and he had to go into school. He'd turned at the door, looking back to see Uncle Sam standing there with a small smile on his face. Mum was standing just behind Uncle Sam, but Sammy didn't know whether or not he knew she was there.

That evening, Auntie Heather had picked him up from school and told him that, as a treat, he would be staying with her for a few days.

He stayed at Auntie Heather's nearly a week, his mother finally collecting him on the Sunday, her face tired and worn, a fading yellow bruise on her cheek. Auntie Heather had clucked her tongue and Uncle Sam's name was never mentioned again.

But the years have passed and it's the summer and he's early home from football practice. Exams are coming up and Sammy wants to be sure that he gets into the top stream for his 'O' levels. He still dreams of being a policeman and he needs good marks in order to get into the Force.

It's warm in the house and Sammy dutifully takes his boots off by the back door so he doesn't tread mud in the kitchen. He makes a glass of orange squash, drinking it down in one to quench his thirst. The house is silent and that is odd. His mum is always home at this time, talking to Auntie Heather, or busy making tea. He quickly buries the panic that she has disappeared and goes looking for her. The sitting room is empty, as is the front room. Perhaps she is upstairs. Another worry, that she is sick, passes through Sammy's mind and he stifles the yell he is about to let out in the fear that he might wake her from feverish dreams.

Passing the stairs he notices the cellar door is ajar.

Sammy has never been in the cellar before. The door has always been locked and the cellar out of bounds, his Mum sternly warning him that it was dangerous down there. But he never found the key, so he was never tempted to see for himself.

The door is open now and the temptation is too strong. Sammy pulls on the door knob, making no noise as the door swings open. It's dark in the cellar, and he has to feel his way down the rickety stairs, one at a time, slowly, cautiously. As he descends his eyes adjust to the gloom, thrown into sharp relief by the pale sunlight streaming through the opaque glass in the ceiling from the pavement outside.

He steps closer to the pool of light and turns, taking in the room. It's almost empty, just a table just visible in the dark corner and Sammy knows his mind must be playing tricks on him because he swears he can see a figure sitting at the table. But there is no movement and the shadows look all wrong.

A soft sound behind him causes him to turn again and he notices a mattress in the opposite corner of the room. His Mum is curled up on the mattress and she's looking at him and through him like he's a ghost.

Sammy starts, opening his mouth to explain himself. But his Mum stands, walking the few paces across the room and shushes him with a finger on his lips. He can see now that she has been crying, her eyes red, and he wonders what could make his Mum so unhappy.

"Sam!" she says in a wondering voice, her eyes lighting up as she takes in his face. "You went away and left me all alone," and she puts her arms round Sammy, drawing him close in to her embrace. And he's grown a lot in the last year, because he's now taller than her. She pulls back, gazing up into his eyes, hands cradling his head. "I thought I'd killed you," she breathes and he knows that this is not making any sense any more.

He tries to draw away and the hurt in her eyes is instant and shocks him totally. She takes advantage of his hesitation by pulling him round, pulling him towards the mattress. She pushes on his shoulders and he collapses down, for such a small woman his Mum has a lot of strength.

She kneels down, face close to his and kisses him. But this is no mother's peck on the cheek, her mouth is pressed on his lips, hard and insistent, all teeth and tongue. She reminds him a little of Pamela Smith in 4B, the feelings, the warm rush of blood the same, but this is his Mum and Sammy tries to push her away, reaching forward, hands as if to pray in the confined space between her arms. She glances down with an angry look and her expression clears. "Of course," and she reaches down behind her. A pair of handcuffs, unobserved on the mattress, find their way over his wrists without warning. The shock of the cold metal burns into his wrists, paralysing him with fear.

Sammy stares up as she strokes his hair. "There, there, my love, my boy. Mummy will look after you, Mummy always looks after you." Her hands stroke his face, across his jaw and further down his neck, under his shirt, her nails scratching lightly at his skin. She straddles him and moves her hips and this is no longer like Pamela Smith. That excitement is now laced with fear and shame and anger. With love. This is his Mum and this is surely wrong. But his Mum knows best and he loves her very, very much. So he lets her take his hands, guiding his fingers and palms, showing him what to do.

He calls her "Mum" as he comes, and she smiles a brilliant smile. Sammy really doesn't want to know the reason why, but is so very afraid that he's going to find out.

She strokes his forehead afterwards, pushing the damp hair out of his eyes while they are both trying to get their breath back. Slowly standing up, she pushes him back to the mattress as he moves with her. "You stay here, Sammy, while I get us some tea. Don't worry, I'm going to take good care of you from now on. Mummy isn't going to let you get away from her again."

With only a single backwards glance, she ascends the stairs and a moment later he hears the unmistakeable sound of the door locking.

With difficulty he manoeuvres himself into a sitting position, back against the cold brick. Tears in his eyes, shocked, bewildered and alone, Sammy stares into the middle of the room, his still-cuffed hands lying loosely in his lap, his underpants still around his ankles. The late afternoon sunlight has shifted further, casting light into new parts of the cellar, causing dust motes in the air to sparkle and give the cellar a hazy, unreal sense.

The light catches on the medallion around the neck of the impossible figure at the table.

fin

London

fionnabair@gmail.com — Thu, 07 Jul 2005 11:43:26 GMT

Just to update for people worried:

I'm fine. Smitty (who has no LJ) is fine. As are, so I have heard, Lexin, Gloria1 and Mandragora.