Chapter 1: November 4th
A/N
So a few weeks ago I was searching through Netflix instant and came across Prison Break. I started watching, and soon fell completely in love with it. It only took like two weeks for me to watch the entire series, and when I got to the end I just about balled my eyes out. I could not believe they killed off everyone's favorite character, and I basically moped around the house for days afterward (I mean, i get why they did it but still! Couldn't Michael and Sara have a happy ending just once?!). Then, I began searching for a fanfic where he didn't die and really couldn't find anything. So, I've decided to write my own! I know Prison Break is an older show so I probably won't be getting a lot of viewers, so if you do happen to come across this story, please review!
Disclaimer: I don't own Prison Break.
Sara
Her chocolate brown eyes sweep over the fading collapsible table, a finger coming to her chin as she contemplates her decision. There are rows upon rows of different assortments layed out in front of her, all with very distinct shapes and meanings, each ranging from different ends of the color spectrum. There is no denying that they are beautiful, but this is very important to her. The flowers she picks out have to be perfect.
Hmm…there are roses. White, red, pink, even a few yellow—all basically meaning the same thing; I love you. No, that isn't right. He knows she loves him. She keeps searching, a hand nonchalantly combing through her long, straight hair. Orchids come next, and again, they don't appear accurate. The pit of her stomach tightens as she begins losing faith that she'll ever find what she's looking for.
The man behind the counter wearing a Hawaiian shirt, the unofficial dress code down here, is very nice about the additional amount of time this is taking her, but Sara knows the delay must irritate him. For god sakes, it's maddening her. She can't show up empty handed, yet none of the ones on the table seem correct. Uncontrollably, her toe begins tapping, as it always does when she's annoyed, and she's about to give up on the pursuit all together when her eyes zero in on an arrangement stationed at the table behind the seller.
"Those, right there," She points to the flowers. "Are they for sale?" Her voice can't help but get high in exhilaration.
The man turns around to see what she is asking about, and he picks up the white bundle with gentle, withered hands. "¿Espléndida belleza?"
A smile breaks out across her face. "Yes, splendid beauty. I had these at my wedding." She thinks back to her wedding all those years ago, seeing the long, flowy dress she's worn on the beach…the quite purr of the crashing waves…the groom. Splendid beauty indeed described that day precisely, except for the part where she was arrested at the reception.
"Beautiful," The man comments in broken English. "Si, I've been waiting for someone special to have them. Someone deserving. They're the last of the shipment."
The exquisite calla lilies almost call to her, whispering soothing words in hushed murmurs, and she knows she has to have them. Not only are they stunning, they feel right. "¿Estoy merezco?"
The corners of his lips turn up. "Si. I think you deserve." He hands her the flowers without another word, a quick shake of the head when she asks for a price. Surprised, she brings the calla lilies closer to her face, although seeing nothing wrong. All have centers of gold, clean white sheets wrapped meticulously around every one. "They're perfect. Are you sure?"
"Por supuesto," He nods his head, ushering her to keep them by extending his fingers toward her. "Of course."
She beams. "Thank you so much," This right here is why she loves living in Panama so much. People just seem to be genuinely nicer down here in the south, and she hasn't seen the wrong end of a gun in years. This place has become a safe haven for her. "Have a nice day."
The market man smiles at her encouragingly, nodding his head. "You too,"
Still astonished by this random act of kindness, Sara puts her wallet back into the white knit bag slung carelessly across her left shoulder. She looks out at the thriving mass of anonymous figures, pulsating with the energy that is carried with a throng of people. Everybody's separate conversations combining into one asymmetrical string of noises, she strides away from the flower display, her attention now only on one thing. Actually, two things. "Come on, guys, we gotta go."
A few feet from the original stand, she finds her son sitting at another booth, the dark sleeve of his shirt rolled up. A grin appears in her features as she kneels down in front of him, examining the image stuck to his skin. "What've you got there?"
"A tattoo!" A shrill voice rings out from behind her. She spins around to find a little girl who stands about three feet tall, her long auburn curls tied neatly into two pigtails. "Michael got a bull and I got a butterfly! See, Mama!"
Gazing into her daughter's sapphire eyes, a pang of familiarity weaves its way into her heart. Both her children had inherited their father's eyes. "Let me see, sweetie." The little girl shoots her arm out, showing her mother the purple insect. Sara brings the tiny hand to her lips, planting a kiss on the soft exterior. "You're so brave, huh?"
Michael jumps off of the stool, coming to stand next to his mother and sister. "Katie cried, but I didn't." He crosses his arm, an angry crease forming between his eyebrows.
Sara lets out a laugh, kissing his arm as well. Kids could be so innocently comical sometimes. "Okay, tough guy." She pays the dark skinned man who gave the fake tattoos, standing back up. The twins both promptly latch their arms around her legs, tugging on her long yellow and white floral dress. Her head drops to look down at their enthusiastic faces. "Do you want to hold the flowers, Katie Kat?"
Katie eagerly takes the bouquet, her mother reaching down to grab her free hand. Sara clutches Michael's as well, and together, the three set out down the uneven pavement, leaving the crowded marketplace. "Come on," She says in the best positive tone she can assemble. "Let's go see your daddy."
Autumn used to be Sara's favorite time of year—the subtle drop in temperature, leaves changing color and elegantly falling to the ground, the distinct crispness of the air…it had always reminded her of the beginning of the end in a sense. Seasons don't change as drastically here as they do in the United States, though, and she has slowly grown to hate the fall. For every November 4th, she has to open herself up to what happened. She has to drop the thick wall of sanity she's built so that life itself is endurable, and pretend that she's come to terms with Michael's death.
It's been four years, and Sara still wonders whether or not she'll ever be able to accept it.
The ache in her heart hurts like nothing she's ever felt before, crippling her from the inside out. She'd take a million more beatings, be tortured by any means possible, give birth to screaming children over and over again if it meant seeing him once more. It was as if a knife had been stabbed into her very core, being twisted and turned by the cruel hands of fate. Her fate had been decided for her the moment the rushed words had left his lips. And behind the excruciating pain she feels, Sara is fuming with survivor's guilt. Not just guilt, she blames herself.
Her thoughts uncontrollably drift to the last moments they'd ever shared, a tear naturally sliding down her cheek in the process.
Law enforcement pounding deafeningly on the pried door, Michael cradled the sides of her head with his soft, loving hands. His eyes were so deep, she felt as if she were looking into two blue, never ending pits of despair. "You don't understand…this is the only way."
Her own eyes filled with confusion, staring fixedly up at him. Yes, he was right. She didn't understand. It's impossible to picture a life without him, what with everything they'd been through already. Don't they deserve a happy ending? "I'm not leaving unless you're coming with me."
His hands fell to her still-flat belly, caressing her womb. The tone Michael next uses is miserable and pleading for her to apprehend, and completely broke her heart. "I am coming with you."
She stared up at him, stunned by what he was suggesting, choking out desperately, "I love you."
He gave her a sad, tragic smile, clasping the sides of her face again and pronouncing, "I love you so much," before leaning down to plant a devoted kiss on her trembling lips. A sense of conclusiveness lingered between them as he spoke his final words to her. "Go." She gaped at him, absolutely sickened. "Go, Sara."
A seagull's piercing cry brings her back to the present, emptiness engulfing her. Her heart splits in half all over again, and the simple waterworks quickly turn to vision blurring volcanoes of tears. Moans inevitably escape her throat, Sara's entire body shuddering in agony. She inaudibly sends a prayer to Lincoln for taking the kids after the memorial. If there is one thing that hurts her more than Michael's demise itself, it's the after effects.
He's buried in a small cemetery located right off the beach. It has a beautiful view of the horizon, and is only about half a mile away from where Sara lives. Every year, Sucre and Mahone fly down for a few days to join her, the twins, and Lincoln at the memorial of his death. Flowers and a paper crane are permanent favors, and afterwards the men take the kids back to Lincoln's house.
She's not quite certain that Michael and Katie understand what's going on. Three and a half years old, and their very bright for their age. Of course they'd ask why they didn't have a father, and she'd have to explain that he loved them so much he'd given his life so they could have one. Still, to them, he's just a slab of concrete they have to visit once a year—and in a way that's the very worst part. Michael was so much more than that, but how do you describe him to preschoolers? They can't possibly grieve the way she does; hence it's just easier to have them go with their uncle so they won't have to see their mother upset.
Plus, Sara in no way minds being alone right now. It's the only time she actually feels close to him any longer.
A cool breeze rolls by, bringing a trail of goose bumps to rise up on her naked arms. She inclines heavily against the back of the tombstone, her eyes closing as she imagines that it's not the grave she leaning on, but Michael himself. "Oh, Michael," Her voice is wounded, groggy from all the undeniable crying. "If I didn't love you so much, I think I'd hate you for all the hurt you've caused."
She's said it many times before, but now it comes out more on routine. Why the hell did he have to be such a selfless man? Why couldn't he have come up with a way that ended with both of them sailing off into the sunset, not her and his brother? Or why couldn't he have waited? Two days, just two days. Forty-eight hours after her escape, Paul Kellerman helped her get exonerated again.
She hasn't been a fugitive in ages. And all Sara is left with are unanswered questions' continuously bobbing around in her head.
The sand beneath her bare feet glitters brightly in the setting sunlight, the sky above now dark and turbulent in comparison to warmer seasons. Gone are the bright specks of umbrellas that dot the seashore during the summertime, the sand castles and buckets and children playing happily additionally absent. Tourists don't often come this time of year, and she's glad. They'd ruin this time she had with him.
The ocean ahead is gray and pitiless, angrily crashing against the sand. She's not a suicidal woman, but she frequently catches herself wondering what would happen if she layed down in the waves, staying under for eternity. Would she be able to see Michael again? Would he be waiting at the pearly gates of heaven, or would she be sent to another place completely? Sara isn't very religious, but life would be unbearable if she didn't at least have confidence she'd see him again one day. Maybe she wouldn't, though. There is no doubt in her mind he'd go to heaven, but for herself she isn't so sure. She was a thief, let eight convicted criminal's escape from prison, and even killed people before. These things don't exactly scream innocent.
Knowing that she'd never truly end her own life for the sake of her children, she stands up, dusting off the particles of sand from her dress. Her feet carry her around to the front of the headstone; her body crouching down in sadness, a hand rising up to stroke the engraved words that will forever me memorized.
Michael J. Scofield
10.8.1974 – 11.4.2005
Husband, Father, Brother, Uncle, Friend
Be the change you want to see in the world
Sara presses her unsteady lips to the icy stone, kissing the last thing left of Michael. "I love you," She whispers, her words barely capable of being heard.
With that, she picks herself back up, grabs her purse from the picnic table in which she earlier left it on, and leaves the small beachside graveyard. It's been hours, and her time has ended. Her cheeks are red and swollen from all the crying, and she hopes that by the time she gets home the kids will be asleep.
This is everyone's unspoken agreement. November 4th is her day to be sad, to be the miserable little widow everyone expects her to be. But after today, for the other 264 days of the year, she has to hide her despondency. It's time to put on a brave face again.
Michael
Beep.
That single, shrill variation of a sound is the first decipherable thing he encounters. It conquers the drum of his ears, lifts the heavy weight of nothingness from the body, starts the dead rhythm of his heart, and shakes Michael Scofield back to the world.
Beep.
He can breathe. Intakes of stinging air fly through his head like a hungry swarm of bees, and he is exasperated by the immediate difference. The vast feeling of having to expel whatever he just brought into his system does not come, and he finds himself bringing it in faster, terrified that the fresh air will soon be taken by smoke. Loads and loads of thick, gray, never-ending smoke.
Beep. Beep.
Breathing rapidly for a time that could be anywhere between sheer moments and lifetimes, he suddenly halts. There is no ration in using all the air up fleetingly. If it were true that he had only seconds of clean air left, why briskly let it go by? He should savor this instant.
Beep.
Casually, Michael's inhales and exhales come to be regular, his pounding heart relaxing little by little. Changing attention from the gulps of sweet oxygen, he realizes that it is not the only thing unusual. The index finger of his left hand quivers slightly.
Beep.
He can move. Curiously, he wiggles all ten of his fingers and toes, the corners of his mouth turning up in a slight smile as he rolls his shoulders. Not only can he now move, he can feel. A peculiar soreness creeps though his build as he stirs, an antique book being open for the first time in years. He can almost touch dust drifting off of him and a firework of satisfaction internally ignites. He is no longer trapped, and once again control of his body. Michael can essentially move his limbs from their locked positions under what feels to be a thin sheet of some sort. Finally. His heart rate picks back up with excitement.
Beep. Beep.
His better judgment is screaming at him to stop. This is the very part of his dreams where all the trickery ends, greed always managing to take possession of him, and he is sent back to the intoxicating fog. Don't do it. Don't do it! Ignoring is inner demands, he pushes his luck. He shoves it far away from him, and takes the final step. In a single fleeting instant of fearlessness, Michael opens his eyes.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He can see. From shades of total darkness and charcoal, the world sprouts color. A light switch goes off in his head; one second nothing, then next, everything. He must be laying down on something solid, probably some kind of bed, looking straight up. The ceiling above is pale. Clean, fresh, and white—a dramatic alteration from the darkness once surrounding him. Black to white. Bad to good. A hell to a heaven.
Beep. Beep.
The feeling of serenity uncontrollably covers him. This is the farthest he's ever gone in his personal purgatory of smoke, and he can't help but feel calm because of it. He's been tricked many times before, but something about now feels different—more real.
Beep.
Slowly, he extends an arm away from his thigh and out a few inches. Testing out his stamina, Michael puts half of his weight on the hand, then all of it when his strength does not lapse. In one action, he rolls over onto his side and then pushes himself up so that he is no longer lying on the bed, but sitting on it with his legs dangling down on one of the sides. Blood rushes to his head and a stiffness begins to set throughout the entire figure.
Beep.
He drops his head down to look at his hands. They rest patiently on his lap; taking refuge above a paper thin gown his body wears. He's surprised to see that their not scarred, and even more amazed when the thought comes to him. Wide awake eyes sweep over the tiny patterns imprinted into the frail material, thinking about the little effort it would take to tear. Curiously, his fingers break the paper in one line, an unexpected hiss coming from it.
"Oh, my god." There is a sharp intake of air, then something dense clattering to the ground.
His head snapping up, startled, Michael realizes that he is no longer alone. A woman with light hair and blue scrubs stares at his from the open doorway of the room, her eyes wide as she bends down to retrieve her clipboard. Feeling his face scrunch up in confusion, the predicament comes to him.
Beep. Beep.
He can hear. His head moving to a monitor next to him, he understands it is what the distinct and almost annoying beep is. It is a sound, just as the woman's words are. The deadly audibility of oblivion is over. Bringing his head back to look at the nurse, Michael tries to recall who this person is. He comes up blank.
His toes straighten slightly, the weight of his body pressing down on them until he is no longer sitting on the bed, but instead his pale feet lay flat on the cold, hard, tile. A chill runs violently through him, making him wish he was wearing more than a robe made of paper, or at the very least, something under it. His arms wrap instinctively around his abdomen, only slight relief coming from the action.
Changing thoughts from the low room temperature, he slowly raises his right foot, lifting its partner to match it once it's securely on the ground again. As Michael's body leans forward to meet them, his left hand stays behind. His eyes dart to a white wire leading to a contraption on his finger and a needle sticking to the inside of his forearm for the first time. Grasping that this is the reason stopping him physically from moving forward, he jerks his arm quickly, the clip snapping off his finger and the sharp piece of metal dislodging itself from the skin.
A stinging sensation immediately takes its place, crimson blood forming over the wound.
The nurse finally seems to register that her patient is conscious because she rushes forward; her cheeks flushed with shock. "Oh, sir, those should be left in." Striding over to Michael, she finds a clean needle and puts the IV back into his other arm, along with the clip. Once she is done and has him safely back in the confines of his bed, the nurse tells him not to move around too much and that the doctor will be in to see him soon before hastily leaving again.
That was strange, he thinks to himself; bringing his arms back up from the covers she had put over him, trying to remember why he was even here. It appears to be some kind of medical facility, what with the neutral colors, heavy antiseptic smell, and the scrub wearing staff members. As he tries to evoke any memory before the numbing fog of his catalepsy, he feels a mental brick wall spring up. A burning feeling faintly sparks in his unmarked hands, but nothing more.
Fear to the unknown builds up in Michael's chest. Where the hell am I? Why am I here? So many inquiries pulse through his head, and as if on cue, the doctor walks in the next instant. A look of wonder fills his facial features as he steps through the entryway, his expression mirroring the one of the orderly behind him. His graying hair seems windblown—like he'd run the moment he'd heard the news. Michael feels the doctor staring at him, and he pulls the blankets closer to him self-consciously.
"Miraculous," He whispers to the nurse who bobs her head in agreement. An animated gleam lights his eyes, and he steps closer to the patient, one hand held out cautiously. "My name is Dr. James Holden."
Michael looks at the hand suspiciously, muddled by the doctor's bizarre behavior. Reluctantly, he decides to shake it, more to comfort the physician than anything else, and sits up from the fluffed pillow behind his back. He remains silent, so the two professionals choose to start filling the awkward peace with medical jibber-jabber that he has trouble understanding. His confused expression must be common, because Dr. Holden gives a sympathetic gesture and sits down in an empty chair facing across from him.
"Sir," He begins with the same introduction that the nurse had given. "You've been in a coma for exactly four years."
His entire body freezes, each muscle tightening up in utter disbelief. The face goes slack; mouth slightly ajar, color draining from his skin. Michael stares wide-eyed at the doctor, even more confused than before, the words 'You've been in a coma for exactly four years' echoing loudly in his head. It doesn't make any sense. Four years…that's a very long time.
The doctor continues to talk; disregarding Michael's shocked manners all together. He must get them a lot. "I was working late when you were dropped off here. It was early November of '05 and you had terrible electrical burns running up and down your arms. You were barely conscious, muttering incoherent things the whole time, and by morning the next day you were completely unresponsive."
He takes in what the doctor is saying. He can't remember any of what the doctor's saying. Finding his voice for the first time in, well, four years, he responds hoarsely. "H-how did I receive the electrical burns?"
"Uh," Dr. Holden looks to the nurse for help, but to no avail. "I'm sorry. We don't know anything about you. You were anonymously dropped off, and have had no visitors since. The burns could have been from wiring, but we're not sure. We were hoping you could tell us."
Michael looks at them, taken aback. Specialists who are asking the patient the questions? Again he desperately tries searching his memory for anything that can make this situation better. Anything. His head falls into his hands when the compact wall keeping him out of his own recollection stays strong. "I'm sorry," He whispers, terrified. "I have no idea who I am."
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