Title: Silently Screaming

Author: sugarplum17

Disclaimer: I do not own Roswell, it's characters, and the situations that it created.

Summary: She hasn't been the same since he left her . . .

Author's Note(s): No idea where this came from. Don't ask me, I'm just the messenger. *shrug*

Part One of One

She wakes up slowly, her eyes still closed, and immediately she thinks of it. She knows that he's gone. He's left her and there isn't anything that she can do about it. She lays in her bed and with her eyes still closed, she is regretful. She wishes that she could have told him all of the things she'd never said before he left. She wishes that she could apologize for anything that she had said or done to hurt him in the years, months, weeks and days before he left her.

She squeezes her eyes shut - even though they were already closed - and she can feel the moisture behind the lids. She can feel the would-be tear being squished between her lower lid and her upper lid. She can feel that tightness in her chest. The lack of air as she tries to keep herself from sobbing. She desperately wants to release her tears. She desperately wants to bury her head in her fluffy yellow pillow and cry and scream until her throat is burning and throbbing. Until her tears have dried up and until she loses her voice. Until she can do nothing but close her eyes and drift back into the dreamless abyss she had come to know as sleep since he left her.

She takes deep breaths, which make her shake with every gulp of inhaled oxygen and heave with every puff of carbon dioxide that she exhales. She only opens her eyes to greet the early morning light that streams through her window, when her breathing has returned to normal and the wetness directly underneath her eye is a memory she longs to forget.

Her movements are robotic as she gets out of bed. Flicking the bathroom light on she avoids looking into the mirror. She relieves herself, allowing herself to take pleasure in that, as she realized she had fallen asleep at six in the evening and had slept straight through the night. She washes her hands and face and brushes her teeth, as if she were one of those robotic puppets being controlled by a remote in some hidden puppeteers hands.

She stares into the mirror, ignoring the image in it, as she brushes her hair - but only on the right side - as memories of when he was with her float through her head. And when she's done she shuffles back into her room and pulls on a black cardigan. She had slept in her clothes from the day before, and doesn't give a second thought to wearing them again.

She shuffles to the front door and ignores the worried glance that her mother shoots her way. She took him for granted, and she never told him that she loved him enough. She never said the words often enough, assuming that he had already known. She looks at her mother, and she knows she should say it. She should say, ‘I love you mom.' Just incase something happens. Just incase she never sees her mom again. Just so that her mother will know, will be able to think, ‘She loves me.' But she looks away from her tentatively expectant face. She looks at the door and she sighs. She should say something, anything. Just to let her mother know that she isn't slowly dying inside, even though she really is. She hasn't spoken since he left her. She'd only said one word, and she had believed at the time, that if she had said it with conviction it would make his absence untrue. If she had said that one word, and if she had meant it, he wouldn't have left.

She opens the door and walks out into the bright morning light. Michael is there, standing awkwardly beside his bike. Ever since he left her, Michael started coming around more, trying to coax words out of her. He had started offering her all of the comfort that he thought she needed, although he was never quite sure of what to say or do. His words were tentative, his hand hesitant to touch her back or shoulder. He didn't want to upset her, but he wanted to help. Michael wanted to be there for her, because he had left her. It seemed as though everyone wanted to be there for her. Everyone except the one person that she truly needed.

"Do you want to go to school today?" He asks her. His voice quiet and his eyes full of concern. His soft, concerned eyes look over her hair, only brushed and free of kinks and knots on the right side. The left snarled and sticking out every which way.

She shakes her head no. She doesn't want to be there. She doesn't want their pity. She doesn't want their sympathy. She doesn't want to see them mimicking her pain. He didn't leave them. He didn't even know or care about most of them. He left her.

"Where do you want to go?" He asks her, hoping that she will break her self-imposed muted silence and speak to him. If only one word, he wants to hear her voice.

But she doesn't speak to him. She shrugs her shoulders instead, looking down at grass beginning to brown.

"The mall?" Michael asks her, hoping for some sort of a reaction.

She shakes her head no again. Too many people there.

"The movies?" He asks, already knowing that she'll say no to that as well. Noise, of any kind, seems to bother her now.

He sighs when she shakes her head no. "The desert?" He asks her.

She seems to consider it for a moment, before she shrugs her shoulders, saying to him ‘I don't care.' without really saying it.

He motions to the bike, and she shuffles over to it. Her mother is watching from the kitchen window, and Michael looks at her. His expression pathetic and worried and sad. He doesn't know what to do anymore. He doesn't know what to say to her. But as he kick starts the bike, he shoots her mother a look through the window that says he won't give up. In his eyes, her mother sees desperation and determination. And in that moment, through the window pane he sees relief in hers.


They have been out there for an hour, maybe two. Sitting on a rock that sat next to the edge of a cliff. Michael has been having a one-sided conversation with her. Keeping her updated on all of the things that have been happening on all her favorite shows. He's taken to watching them, because he knows that she's taken to turning them off.

He keeps looking at her periodically, hoping to see some sort of a reaction: a smile, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, her head turned in his direction. But he finds nothing. He finds her looking out into the valley below them, or staring up into the bright blue sky. Her eyes swirl with unreleased emotion. There are so many he can't make out but one. Pain.

"It will help you, ya know." He tells her. Switching from an update on Phoebe and Joey from Friends, her favorite ‘not quite' couple. Meaning, she thinks they should be one, but they aren't.

She looks at him, her brow furrowing as though she's confused. He waits for her to ask him, ‘What will help?' but she never does.

"If you let it go." He tells her. "If you release it."
She rolls her eyes at him but he doesn't even need the flippant silent reply to tell him he doesn't know what he's talking about. Who is Michael Guerin to tell someone to let pent up emotions out? Who is Michael Guerin to give advice on opening up? Who is Michael Guerin to tell someone that they need to stop running from their hurt and pain? That they need to face up to it?

He stands up, dusting off his faded blue jeans. "Come on." He says to her as he holds out his hand to her. She looks up at him, her brow furrowed once again. She doesn't want to leave. Not quite yet.

"Stand up." He tries to make his voice sound commanding. He tries to exert some authority, as if he has any of her. He's been growing tired of this. Her silence. He's been growing tired of seeing her withdraw, and tired of seeing her close out the world around her. His features suddenly grow hard. "Stand up!" He yells at her making her head whip up to look at him. Her eyes wide with shock and surprise.

When she doesn't comply with his demand, he grabs her roughly by the shoulders and yanks her off the rock. Her feet are barely touching the ground, and he shakes her roughly. She is facing the edge of the cliff, looking over at the vast stretch of hollow valley below. "Say something!"

She doesn't. She has yet to make a noise. It's as if she really is mute. As if she has no vocal cords and no voice box to house them in.

"You can't keep doing this!" He yells at the back of her head. "You can't keep shutting everyone out! You can't keep yourself so . . . contained!"

He shakes her, just a little bit harder, her feet still dangling just above the rock infested ground. He doesn't even know what he's saying. He just keeps yelling. He just keeps shaking. He doesn't even realize that tears are trickling slowly down his cheeks. "Tell him! Tell him everything you never said! Ask him all the questions you've always wanted the answers to but never got to ask!"

Through his shaking, he doesn't realize that she's crying. He doesn't realize that she's thrown her head back and he's startled when she screams into the air. He's startled when she doesn't sound like the girl that he's known for years. Her voice is hoarse and creeks with disuse. It's deafening and eery when it echos. It's raw with pain. "WWWWWHHHHYY?"

It shocks them both, and she finds herself panting as she stares out into the gorge below them. He lowers her, so that she's standing on her feet now, but he doesn't let go of her arms. He pulls her back against him, and he rests his forehead on her shoulder as he whispers to her, "Don't stop."

"Why?!" She asks again. Her voice still raw with pain and still hoarse from being unused for so long. "Why did you leave Alex?"

He doesn't respond, but she never waited for him to. "Why did you go? I never told you how much I love you. How much you meant to me. You were like the brother that I never had. You were my rock, my shelter when it started to storm. You . . . I never told him Michael. He left and I never said anything going on the assumption that he knew and now he'll never know. He was my best friend! And his life was cut so short! He was going to give me away at my wedding. Did you know that?" She is sobbing now, for the first time since he had left. "We made a pact when my . . . and he said he'd walk me down the aisle! Alex . . . he . . . "

He hugs her to him, harder than he ever thought possible. He wants to cry with her, but he wants to laugh and shout into the desert at the top of his lungs because he has broken through. Because she's talking and letting it out.

By now, she is crying so hard, that he has to turn her around. "It's okay Maria. Let it all out." He tells her gently as he rubs her back. "Let it go baby."

"I'm angry Michael." She says through her broken sobs. "I'm angry that he had to die! I'm angry that in one STUPID minute, one STUPID accident took him away from me forever!"

"I'm so ANGRY!" She shouts into his shoulder. "My children will never have an Uncle Alex! We'll never laugh at one of his corny jokes! We'll never hear it told the way that only he could tell it!"

"He's GONE Michael!" She cries. "He's gone and the only other best friend that I have left is too busy trying to find someone to blame!"

She cries, and cries and cries until there are no more tears left in her to shed. She hiccups and exhales shaky breaths, inhaling even shakier ones. His shirt is soaked down the sleeve and he's pretty sure that there's snot on it too. But he doesn't care. He can't remember any feeling better than holding her. He vaguely registers the thought of holding her for the rest of his life.

"I'm sleepy now." She murmurs against his shoulder. Her eyelids have become unusually heavy.

He bends down slightly, making her uncomfortable, as he grabs hold of the back of her thighs and wraps her legs around his waist. He walks swiftly to the bike and sits down on it, starting it up and heading toward her home.

They ride in silence, and when they pull up infront of the Deluca home, he almost believes that she's asleep. The only thing that convinces him otherwise is the whispered thank you. Neither one moves from the position they had been in. Instead, Michael strokes her back.

"Maria . . . maybe Liz . . . maybe trying to find somebody to place blame on . . . maybe she's using it?" He muses. "Maybe, she uses the search for answers the same way that you used silence?"

He gets no response and for a moment, he's worried that she has gone back into her shell. That she has gone mute once again. "All I'm saying is . . . don't be mad at her. And don't feel like she's abandoned you. You needed time, and so does she."

Lifting her head up, Maria looks at her boyfriend. Her face is streaked with tear tracks wide enough to be considered small countries. "I love you." She tells him, leaning into the hand he's placed on her cheek. She turns her head and kisses the palm before she leans in to lightly press her lips to his.

"You okay?" He asks her, his voice dripping with his concern.

Thoughtful, Maria smiles ever so slightly. "Not yet."

He kisses her forehead - unaware that Amy has been standing in the window ever since they pulled up to the curb infront of the house. Amy's hand is pressed up against the glass, and her other hand is pressed against her mouth.

"But you will be." He tells Maria, smiling down at her.

The End

I'm sorry I'm not even a Michael/Maria shipper. I actually ship her with Alex, so I don't even know where this came from.

[ edited 3 time(s), last at 15-Dec-2002 9:32:40 AM ]