Sable's Experiences

[Toaster]

July 14, 827 A.S.

Olivia sighed heavily as she closed the door to her motel room behind her. She leaned her back against it, weary from an exhausting day. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to relax her muscles, tense from spending hours upon hours strapped into the cockpit. It had been rough, trying to maintain her usual attitude throughout the day as memories of ten years ago rushed through her mind like a torrent of guilt and regret. But she didn't want anyone to worry about her. To guess at her past. At her failings. Especially not Isla. She had enough to deal with on her own, she didn't need Olivia's troubles weighing her down, too.

And here Olivia was now, in her dingy motel room on Manhattan, exhausted. She opened her eyes and exhaled. The room was dimly lit by the old light strips that ran along the corners of the ceiling. All it contained was an old, plastic desk and chair beside the door, a small bed and closet across from it, and a small, grimy kitchen counter in the far corner, a little, round table with two chairs standing beside it. She glanced over at it. Everything was where she had placed it this morning. Three empty glasses, one with an unlit candle inside it, and a bottle of vodka stood on the tabletop.

Sighing, she meandered over, unzipping the top of her flightsuit, letting it slide down around her waist. The sleeveless undershirt beneath revealed the burn scars that crisscrossed her forearms. Absently, she scratched at her right arm, the scars flushing an angry red. Olivia slumped into one of the chairs and took one of the glasses, cupping it in her hands. She stared at it absentmindedly.

Had it really been ten years already? It didn't feel that long. The pain was still so fresh, it seemed like it could have all happened days ago. Olivia glanced up at the bottle of liquor. She reached out and took it, pouring full measures into the two empty glasses before her. Then she produced a lighter from within one of her flightsuit's pockets and lit the candle in the third glass, placing it in the center of the small table. She slid one of the glasses of vodka across the top, to where the other chair stood, empty. For a few moments, she stared at it blankly.

Robert should have been sitting there, across from her, as he always had on his birthdays. The candle flickered.

Around her, the small, grimy room disappeared, a lively bar scene replacing it. Olivia glanced around her. Men and women sat at tables all around her, shouting, laughing, drinking. A young waitress gracefully made her way from booth to booth, table to table, serving drinks and food to the patrons. The strange jazz-like music, so popular in the Taus, blared from speakers mounted to the ceiling. A few couples and groups danced on a small dance floor in the corner. The smell of alcohol permeated the air.

Olivia looked back across her table. A young man sat there, also gazing around the room. His hair was brown, the same shade as her own. A soft smile decorated his face. His head turned and he looked Olivia dead in the eyes. His were kind and caring and his smile widened joyfully. Olivia stared at him, lips quivering. Carefully, she reached a shaking hand out towards him. Still smiling, he took it and squeezed it.

The candle flickered. Olivia was back in her cramped motel room. Her empty hand hovered in midair. She stared at where her brother had been a second ago. A tear rolled down her cheek, dripping into her glass of vodka. She slowly clenched her hand and pulled it back, collecting it in her lap. Holding back a sob, she sniffed and recollected herself. She sat up straight, she reached out with her other hand and grabbed her glass, raising it before her. She looked at the empty chair opposite her. The candle flickered again.

"Happy birthday," she whispered and raised the vodka to her lips.

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Olivia Sable