Her life by Criss Moody

Date: September 29th, 2001
Disclaimer: I really, truly don't own these guys.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Isabel
Summary: Isabel's life.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Roswell Improv: memory -- servant -- air -- idolize (#1)
Notes: Unbetaed. Assumes that Max's healing power wasn't always capable of fully healing someone. This was a quick 'have to do something other than think about how the other thing I'm writing sucks' fic.



She traces the tiny almost circular scar on her hip. Barely the size of penny. Nine years old and she and Max had stumbled into the coffee table. An empty burnished silver candlestick fell to the ground, followed by Is and she caught the sharp edges of the candlestick in her hip. Cried for Mommy and held Max's hand in fear. Fear for what her blood might look like. Max passed a tiny, shaking hand over the wound and, for the most part, it healed. But it left a scar.

Memories don't go away like Isabel would like them to. They keep lingering, like smoke in the air, ready to annoy her. She needs to keep her mind focused on the right now but these little traces of two months ago, two years ago keep ripping around her head.

She still feels an irrational dislike of Liz. Because if it weren't for Liz, they would still be 'normal'. Isabel would still just be the prettiest, most popular girl in school. Nobody would be dead. And Isabel wouldn't have these new haunting memories chasing the old haunting memories.

As she lets her hands drift up to her breasts, coolly studying the weighty curve of them, Isabel considers that maybe she's just too many people. Max isn't the only one who's had a problem reconciling his physical self with the memories and urges of an alien long dead.

Villandra loves a creature long dead. She wants her brother dead. She needs her servants back, her throne back, and her life back. She craves the masses who idolized and loved her.

Isabel wants to rewind until she gets to the point where she fell on that candlestick. She wants to remember the fear. She wants to remember when her life was as simple as holding on to her brother.

Grabbing the black shift dress off of her bed, Isabel takes one last look at her nude form. Thrusts into the dress and lets the soft fabric cover her flesh. Grabs a scrunchie for her hair and her book bag. Isabel takes on last look in the mirror before she turns to leave.

Isabel doesn't remember what Villandra looked like. Not quite. It's like trying to look at yourself in a fun house mirror. Up is down and fat is thin.

But Isabel knows what she looks like. And mostly, she knows who she is.

It's just that on days like today, she doesn't want to be anyone.

And that's her life.

~end~