Part 1
"She is reminded that once again, her best was not enough. Someone she loves was hurt. Because her best is never enough."
You made me a shadow boxer, baby
I wanna be ready for what you do
I been swinging all around me
'Cause I don't know when you're gonna make your move
Fiona Apple
Thwack. Bam. Thud.
Sydney attacks her unseen enemy, her perpetual shadow boxer in the form of the punching bag. She tries to purge herself of all the anger she feels, but no matter how she tries, that face still floats around wherever she looks. Taunting her. Driving her further into rage. She is reminded that once again, her best was not enough. Someone she loves was hurt. Because her best is never enough.
She tries to sleep. But who is she kidding? Sleep doesn't help. Sleep plunges her into memories that she'd rather not relive, realities that she'd like not to face. She finds that dreams are another form of shadowboxing. She knows they're around, tries frantically to escape them, but has as little effect as a boxer swinging at thin air.
Sydney, come here and help Mommy make lunch.
OK, Mommy.
Beautiful, capable hands lift six year old Sydney up to counter height. It's all smiles and sunshine as they make peanut butter sandwiches and pour glasses of milk.
Those same hands tuck the covers around Sydney, after making sure that all the monsters have left the closet and the crawl space under the bed.
You know how much I love you, right baby?
Mmm-hmm. More than the sun loves the sky.
That's right, sweetie. More than the sun loves the sky.
Those same hands, years later, pressed up against the glass of a windowless cage.
I hope it goes well but there's no guarantee. So whatever happens, there's something I need you to know. Sydney, I love you.
Those perfectly manicured hands, pointing a gun, squeezing the trigger.
Mom, don’t!
She awakes in a cold sweat, gasping for air. Sleep is hastily delegated as out of the question.
Insomniac TV distracts, but doesn't eliminate the source of her torture. "Send us some money and we'll send you a new life." She is disgusted by this. All she wants is to fix the life she has, an option not offered by infomercials. The constant pressure on her heart can't be diverted by the Home Shopping Network.
She can think of one thing that is certain to help temporarily, but Vaughn doesn't get enough sleep as it is. She can't bring herself to wake him up, even if it is to engage in what they've agreed is their all time favorite activity.
So by the elementary process of trial and error, Sydney finds herself in a darkened gym at 3 in the morning, taking out her frustration on a punching bag that, in all actuality, never did anything to her. She wonders if feeling sympathy for a punching bag is a sign of impending insanity.
One more kick should do it, she tells herself. An unintelligible yell escapes her lips as her leg flies at the bag. A voice comes from the back of the darkened room. "You're improving, Sydney."
Sydney stills at the sound of that voice. "Thank you," she says stiffly. She tells herself she should be surprised at this turn of events, then amends silently that it's hard to be surprised by the workings of a parallel mind.
"You know," Irina says, stepping out of the shadows of the room into the main light, "punching bags are great tools. Very useful for training and the like. However, when fighting out one's hostility, I've found it's much more beneficial to spar with a partner."
Sydney walks over to her gym bag and wipes her face with a towel. "I don't see any volunteers, so for now the bag will have to do." She gathers up her things and prepares to go.
"Sydney," Irina says imploringly.
Sydney holds up a hand. "Don't. I have no idea what you want, and to be honest I couldn't care less.' She hitches her gym bag up on her left shoulder, taking a defiant stance against her mother. Because it's all she can do. Because if she's not defiant, she'll crumble at the gaze of those knowing eyes. "I won't tell anyone you were here. It wouldn't do any good anyway; you'd just vanish again. But starting now, you don’t come near me. And if you value your life, you certainly don’t talk to me."
She is almost to the door when she hears her mother's low, resonating voice verbalize the unusual request. "Use me."
Sydney does not turn. She stares at the exit sign, wondering why she is rooted to her spot, unable to draw any closer to those glowing red letters. "As usual, I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You said you didn't have a partner to train with; well, you have me. It's me you're angry with, I might as well be the one to help you relieve that aggression." Irina pauses for effect before continuing. "Besides, I'm sensing a profitable bargain can be made."
Despite her better judgment, Sydney turns slowly and arches her eyebrows at Irina, who is wearing an expression eerily similar to her own. "In my experience, bargains between us always end up heavily in your favor. Excuse me for resorting to a teenage question, but why the hell should I listen to you?"
Irina walks over to the equipment rack and grabs a pair of hand wraps. She slowly, deliberately, begins wrapping her hands in the cloth. "I'm going to avoid the obvious response to that question. I've learned that 'because I'm your mother' is much more effective on a five year old than a grown woman." She tests the tightness of the wraps, fisting and releasing her hands. Sydney watches these actions, fascinated by the hands that have filled her dreams for so long. Knowing that those hands have the capability to maim, to kill.
Irina moves to the wall, leaning against it for balance as she begins to stretch out her legs. "We spar, you and I. Basic rules apply. Neither of us strikes a fatal blow. The first to hit the floor loses. If you win, I do just as you have asked. I leave, and you can go about your business, which at the moment seems to be avoiding reality." She smirks at her daughter. Sydney thinks to herself that she hasn't felt so belittled since the days when punishment involved being seated in the time-out corner.
"And if you win?" Sydney asks, squaring her shoulders. One thing she's learned in her line of work, body language conveys everything. Hers, she is certain, is presently sending the eloquent message of "not a chance in hell".
"If," Irina begins, a degree of royalty in her voice. It's obvious that she, too, understands the import of composure and body language. "If I win, you will listen to everything I have to say. From start to finish, no interruptions."
Sydney weighs her options for a whole of two seconds, and decides that the benefit of this proposal far outweighs the risk. She'll finally get to face her demon, and maybe, just maybe, lose the feeling of helplessness that she's felt ever since she learned what her mother had done. And if she's honest with herself, it has the potential to be a lot of fun. Sometimes revenge really does have its benefits. "Deal."
Irina raises her hands above her head, leaning back in a long, languid stretch. She tilts her head inquisitively. "I expected as much. But tell me, why such a speedy agreement?"
"Because right now, my father is lying in a hospital bed with numerous injuries, all inflicted by you. Apparently, you didn't propose this generous offer to him before choosing your course of action." She throws her bag to the corner of the room and stalks to her personal shadow boxer. "Let's just say I'm taking his turn along with mine."
Posted by Carrie on 12:43 PM