Title: The Liquid Shield

Characters: Tracy

Summary: Tracy’s been sober all day.

Author’s Notes: oh, I guess this is a response to the October-November fic challenge. I’ve been gifted with DebbieB’s amazing beta services.

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This picture stands as a testament to all Tracy will never be. The eyes smile, virtuous and joyful, as the wind blows the young woman’s dark blond hair. A moment has been captured and Laura Spencer will be eternally thought of as this girl, beaming and young.

Tracy groans and drops her head into her hands. It’s too hard not knowing what comes next. The strain is unbearable without something hot and anesthetizing in which to drown her fear. She shivers in her robe and craves a shot of sixteen-year old single malt in a solid glass tumbler with a heavy base. She sighs, somewhat relaxed by the mental image.

She hasn’t had a drink today, her choice. A nasty barb of Skye’s had sent her striding away from the bar and to her own sobriety. She hadn’t thought it would be a hardship--the simple act of not taking a drink when it felt necessary. It turns out, she was wrong.

She feels strung out, while, at the same time, she is absolutely as one with her reality. The edges are sharp and unobscured by the semi-bright caress of alcohol. There is no filter between Tracy and the lethal pinpricks of Laura’s reawakening. Figuratively, she bleeds.

It’s easily been two days since she last set eyes on Luke. He hasn’t so much as picked up a phone to call. He has spent his every waking moment at his former wife’s side, and Lulu is with him. Their family is reunited at last. There is celebrating in the streets of Port Charles. All hail the saintly Laura.

Tracy wishes she had something fragile and mighty to bash against a wall, but she has only herself. She is face to face with her emotions and they are unrelenting and cruel. The disillusionment with her heart has come back, and the disappointment herself is waking from a long, tedious sleep.

She thought sobriety would bring freedom. No, only clarity, and with clarity, comes unquestionable truth. She is beginning to remember why lying is always the safe bet. In the last fifteen hours, she has realized more than she can stomach about her capacity for envy.

She wants to be Luke’s priority. She wants him to come to her, to know her pain and to care. There was a period of time when she believed he did, when they came so close to having a sincere romance--if not a sincere love--that he was never far away. Now, the Grand Canyon could inhabit the space between them, and it would feel identical to this.

It will be her first time saying it, but she misses her husband. He is an obnoxious, inconsiderate, uncouth, meddlesome oaf, but he is her oaf. She has become accustomed to his company--a mistake she regrets. She has made a shameful number of errors in judgment in her intoxication over the years. Often, she has wrongly taken an infatuation for wealth for adoration towards her. It’s been constantly aided by her boundless optimism for true love and acceptance. She has wanted so much to be the love of someone’s life. Oh, how well she’s succeeded.

She decides that this thread of haphazard thinking has to stop now. She’s no longer twenty, thirty, or even forty. She isn’t young enough to be this naïve. She cannot afford to play the wounded party anymore. The cost has become too high.

Tracy stands and quickly leaves Lulu’s room before anyone sees her. In the sanctuary of her own bedroom, she sheds her robe and goes in search of the perfect outfit. She finds it and dresses slowly, dotting perfume behind her ears and rubbing it inside her wrists. She sees herself with the supreme distinction of fresh eyes. There is no soft focus in her sight, only the stark quality of age. She is built to last and has. She will outlast this.

She descends the stairs to a silent house. She goes to the living room and pours herself a drink. Its spicy bouquet wafts into her nose and she is calm. Her tongue burns for a taste, but she perseveres. Though only her conscience will know, she will not give Skye this victory. The weighted base bangs loudly as it meets the steel platter and she hears it without distortion. The metallic racket will echo in her ears for some time after she abandons comfort for her pride.

She is well put together today. She is herself, but more deadly. All her senses are about her and she intends to use them. She picks up her keys and her purse, and takes the Bentley.

She will go to work and function with fingertips of lightning. It will be a red-letter day. Later, she will go to the hospital and she will be a good wife--or as close as she can hope to come. She will be kind, but not too kind. She will fulfill her role as villainess in some capacity, no doubt. Then, she will come to bed and dream of the life that was hers before Laura Spencer opened her eyes. Soon, somehow, she will have it all back. The gears of her mind have already begun to whirl.

Until then, she will close her eyes and envision sixteen-year old single malt in thick tumbler with a heavy base, and she will sigh.

She is stronger for wanting it.