SANCHEZ, Marcellina Lucia

[MARCELLINA LUCIA SANCHEZ]

TAKE WHAT IS LEFT OF ME

AND MAKE IT A BEAUTIFUL MELODY

MARCELLINA LUCIA SANCHEZ
YOU'D BE MY REMEDY

25 ,.,., fordham ,.,., spy ,.,., monica raymund
• - • - • - • - • - • - • - • - • - • - • - • - • - • - •

the contents of marcy's nightstand

a birth certificate, folded and slipped behind a picture in a frame.

The piece of paper is dated June 15, 1987. It is a day that will stay in the minds of three people for the rest of their lives.

The first is a young man who sits in the waiting room at a hospital in New Jersey, his right foot tapping the floor nervously. His name is Rodrigo Sanchez. He is eighteen. He comes from a wealthy family and stands to inherit the wine empire his father began in Spain and expanded to the United States. He is not ready to be a father, but his Catholic parents will not allow him to dodge his duty.

The second is Lucy Clemons, age seventeen. She is regretting the decision to keep the baby. When her boyfriend's parents asked her to keep it, she thought it might be fun to have a kid. It would be a living doll to dress up and carry around on her hip like a fashion accessory. Pregnancy turned out to be pain and nausea and mood swings. Labor is even worse. But then it is over and she has a daughter. Suddenly this is the best thing that ever happened to her. "Marcellina Lucia," she coos to the baby, but decides it sounds better when Rodrigo says it in his sexy accent. For Lucy, Marcy will do just fine.

The third person will not remember this day, even though it is the most important day of her life. Marcellina will not remember how her name sounds when her father says it; she will not remember him at all. Rodrigo stays with them for six months before he decides that it's too hard to go to business school and have a family. He goes to live in his family's home in Spain and cuts off all contact with his ex-girlfriend and daughter. Every month his parents send a check for Marcellina on his behalf. They are embarrassed at their son's actions and think it best to leave Lucy and her daughter alone to start a new life. Besides, Marcellina will be better off with her mother than with a father who doesn't care about her. Or so they think.

*

a picture, in a plain black frame.

"You don't care about me! You've never cared about me!" Marcy holds the phone in her hand. For the past day she's been clutching it close, hoping for some contact with her mother. Now she is threatening to throw it. The electricity shut off this morning and now the house is cloaked in shadows. It is too dark to see her mother, but she can smell the alcohol all the way across the room.

Lucy stumbles toward her. "Marcy," she says feebly.

"Don't call me that!" Marcy shouts. Not because she hates that nickname, but because she loves it. She doesn't want to love her mother right now. "You're a horrible mother," she spits as she turns and runs to her room. Sitting on her bed, sobbing, she reaches under her pillow and pulls out a picture. She can't see it in the dark, but she knows the image by heart. It shows a young man with olive skin with his arms around her mother. They are on a beach, with the sun setting behind them. The timestamp marks the date as nearly a year before Marcy's birth. Marcy would have known it was before her without it because her mother is happy. She can't remember a single time in her life that Lucy has ever looked truly happy.

A tear drops on Marcy's hand and she realizes it still holds the phone. It reminds her of the horrible hours spent waiting for her mother to show up, hoping that she had not been abandoned. The longer she dwells on those moments, the more determination grips her. Taking a shaking breath to calm herself, she dials zero. This is a cold thing to do, but Marcy will not be abandoned.

"Operator." The voice sounds far away.

"Social services, please."

Marcy will not be abandoned. She will leave first.

*

a stone, pushed out of sight behind the picture frame.

Marcy stands in the hall of the group home, her hands wrapped around the handle of a duffle bag. That bag holds all her possessions, including the picture of her parents. It also holds a copy of her birth certificate, which she swiped from her file when the social worker was out of the room. It is both strange and wonderful to have something so important to her identity, to see her parents' names and ages printed in black ink.

A women approaches Marcy and asks her to follow. She doesn't try to take the bag; she has probably been here long enough to know what it means to Marcy. "You'll be in here," she says, ushering Marcy into a room and pointing to a bunk bed. As Marcy deposits her bag, a small girl pops her head into the room.

"Are you the new girl?" she asks.

The women replies first. "This is Marcy, Brooke. Why don't you show her around?"

Brooke responds by running up to Marcy and taking her hand. As soon as they are out of the room, Brooke stops and tugs on Marcy's sleeve. Marcy bends down so the girl can whisper in her ear.

"Can we be best friends?"

"Sure." Marcy can't help but smile.

Brooke smiles too. "Hold out your hand," she orders Marcy as she dig in her pocket. Marcy obeys and Brooke deposits a small, smooth stone in it. It is striped with gold, brown, and amber. Tiger's Eye: not exactly a precious stone, but probably a treasured object for someone so young. "This means we're best friends," Brooke says solemnly, as if she's just signed a contract.

"Best friends," Marcy echoes as she closed her hand around the stone.

Over the weeks Marcy becomes good friends with the younger kids. She decides she likes kids better than adults, better than kids her own age even. She feels lighter around them, happy to be with people who still see the world with wonder even though it has turned its back on them so young. They love unconditionally, making Marcy feel wanted for the first time in her life. It is a feeling she truly enjoys.

*

a silver necklace, which splits it's time between the nightstand and marcy's neck.

The music is too loud and the people are too drunk. But then, that's normal for a high school party as far as Marcy can tell. As far as the home knows, she is at a friend's house. It's partly true; the party's host is her boyfriend. Marcy holds a red paper cup filled with a substance that could be any number of things. The taste of alcohol makes her feel sick, but she drinks whatever people hand her in an effort to fit in. Everything looks hazy and her body feels sluggish.

Her boyfriend appears suddenly and puts his arm around her, clearly drunk. Marcy smiles and presses closer. She feels so lucky to have him. Not only is he two years older, but he's also popular. Dating him took Marcy from weird orphan kid--who wasn't actually an orphan, not that anyone cared--to everyone's new best friend. He drags Marcy to a corner, digging in his pocket for something. He pulls out a silver necklace with a heart-shaped locket. "This is for you," he slurs as he presses it into her hand. "I love you, baby."

The necklace shines in her hand, the most beautiful thing she has ever owned. Fifteen is too young to be in love. Marcy knows because her parents thought they were in love and look how that turned out. Right now, though, she just wants to enjoy the feeling of being wanted. "I love you, too," she says, but the words feel hollow.

That night she sleeps with him. They are both too drunk to remember a condom.

Two months later Marcy stands in front of a dumpster, ready to drop the necklace in to be buried in trash beside her pregnancy test. It is her third test in as many weeks. She kept telling herself that they were faulty, or that it was too early to tell, but she can't stay in denial anymore. She didn't want to tell her boyfriend until she was absolutely sure, but now he will never know. One of the other girls saw him making out with some other girl. Marcy thinks it's safe to assume they are over.

She tells herself to drop the necklace, but her hand will not obey. The necklace is so beautiful, a reminder of what it was like to be loved, she just can't part with it. Instead she takes it inside and puts it at the bottom of a drawer, next to the picture of her parents.

*

a bus ticket, tucked in the bottom left corner of the picture frame.

Marcy stands inside the bus station, too anxious to sit. She clutches her duffle bag with both hands, wondering how often she is going to find herself in this position in her life. Every few seconds one hand goes to her pocket to touch her ticket. New York City. A place where she can disappear and emerge a new person. Brooke and the other kids will be devastated that she left, but Marcy doubts the group home will be sad to see her go. They were going to make her have an abortion. They didn't need or want another kid to take care of if they didn't have to. It certainly would have been the easier choice, but every time Marcy thought about it she pictured Brooke's face. It goes against everything she promised herself as a kid, but Marcy is determined to have this baby. She will do better than her mother. She knows it. She thinks it. She hopes it.

When the bus arrives, Marcy picks a seat away from the other passengers. She slumps low in her seat, hoping the duffle bag in her lap will hide both the tears on her face and her growing stomach. She avoids eye contact and stays stone still except for her right foot, which taps the floor of the bus.

It is only when she arrives that Marcy realizes she has no real plan. She doesn't even have a place to stay. After confirming that all nearby hotels are out of her price range, she sits inside a coffee shop for a few hours, sipping a hot chocolate and picking at a muffin as she considers her options. She ends up wandering the streets until dark, then going into a dilapidated old building to spend the night. She starts looking into every room, hoping to find any material she can use to make a bed.

She opens one door to find herself staring down the barrel of a gun. The woman holding it looks almost as shocked as Marcy, but she quickly recovers. Before Marcy can process what happened, she is forced to sit in the corner of the room while the women confers with the other person inside the room, a man who must be the women's partner. The room is covered in equipment, files, and guns. It looks like something out of an action movie, giving Marcy's imagination plenty of material to run wild with. Finally the woman returns.

"Normally, I would just shoot you. No one misses runaways like you." Marcy keeps her eyes on the gun in the woman's hand, which is still pointing at her. The women notices her staring and lowers the weapon. "You're in luck, girl, because the . . . company I work for is always looking for new recruits." The women looks at man as if she doesn't want to say what comes next, but he urges her to go on with a wave of his hand. "We can offer you a place to live, protection from anyone trying to find you, and," she looks at Marcy's stomach, "we'll pay the medical bills for your baby."

"Why?" Marcy croaks, her voice horse with fear. "What's the catch?"

The women smiles, but there's no warmth in it. "You just need to do a few jobs for us."

Marcy looks at the gun an shivers. She doesn't want to think about what those jobs might be. Still, she accepts. What choice does she have?

*

a bible, sitting separate from the other objects.

Marcy feels like she is split right down the middle. One half of her is cold and manipulative, willing to do anything for the mission to succeed. The other half is warm and caring, willing to do anything to make her little boy smile. Marcy hopes that half is the real her, but she's not so sure.

At twenty, she is the proud mother of a five-year-old boy. She is also a highly dangerous criminal working for a terrorist organization, but she tries not to dwell on that. Caleb is still too young to know what Fordham is, but he is all too comfortable around weapons and gunfire. Marcy knows she needs to get him away from the spy world, but leaving Fordham isn't easy. Even though she has paid off the expenses for Caleb's birth, she can't shake the feeling of debt. At any rate, she knows too much to simply walk away. Fordham can't risk her going to the C.I.A. or becoming a freelancer.

One day she's on a tailing mission. She thinks her target notices her, so Marcy ducks into the closest building. It turns out to be a church.

"Can I help you?" asks the woman behind the desk.

Marcy's trained brain works fast to come up with a lie. A lie in a church, that can't be good. "Yes, I was wondering what times your services are."

The women is elated. "We have Saturday at six, and Sunday at nine and ten-thirty. Are you saved yet?"

"No," Marcy answers. Saved. She thought she was saved when Fordham took her in.

"Please, take this then." The woman hands her a Bible. She has no choice but to take it; her target could be gone by now. She stuffs the Bible into her coat and says a quick thank you as she hurries out the door. Luckily, her target is waiting for the walk sign at the end of the block. Marcy breaths a sigh of relief and becomes focused on the mission again. But for the rest of the day she can't stop herself from reaching into her coat to touch the book inside. She never went to church growing up, but sometimes Lucy would take her to get free groceries when the money ran out before the month did. Marcy remembers how grateful she was for the meals that came from there and decides to try it out. Maybe they can help her leave Fordham. Maybe they can keep her from losing herself.

*

a knife, gathering a thin layer of dust in the center of the nightstand.

Some weekends Marcy goes to church. Some weekends she's too busy stealing government secrets. It's a strange existence, trying to "love thy neighbor" as she beats them up. But God forgives, right? She tries to go to church as much as she can, because it's Caleb's only chance to play with kids that aren't training to be spies and killers. He is ten years old now--only a few years away from becoming a full operative. He's already being taught how to handle a gun and pick locks. Deep down, though, Marcy knows he is too sweet for the spy life. He doesn't have anger, resentment, or bitterness to propel him into the world of Fordham work. He isn't like her.

She should have left years ago. She can't imagine life outside Fordham now. It may not be safe or comfortable, but it's familiar.

It happens on a mission. She is inside the home of a C.I.A. operative, planting bugs. Her intel tells her that the operative is on a mission of her own, so it should be an easy job. Marcy is in the middle of placing a camera when it all takes a turn for the worse. The floor creaks and Marcy whips around to find the operative standing there with a Taser. Marcy makes a mental note to always double check intel.

"If you cooperate, I won't have to use this," the woman tells her.

Marcy resists the urge to roll her eyes and pulls out her gun. "I think you won't use it anyway."

The woman eyes the gun, then does something so stupid that Marcy doesn't expect it: she dives. Marcy is knocked off her feet and the gun goes flying. The operative hesitates, trying to decide if it's worth going for the gun, giving Marcy seconds to react. Falling back on her training, she pulls a knife from her boot. She grabs it just as the woman turns to her, ready to knock her out and drag her in for questioning. Fear drives Marcy as she plunges the knife into the woman's chest.

It takes much longer than a gun would. It is much more personal. Marcy can feel the knife slide through skin, the resistance as it nicks bone, the blood that seeps from the wound. She can feel the woman's heartbeat slow and her skin cool. She can feel the woman die.

Shaking, she erases any evidence of her presence. She can't do much about the body on the floor. She decides to leave it, hoping it will be viewed as a robbery gone wrong. Fordham can send a team over to plant evidence. Marcy leaves quickly, trying not to look at the body. She keeps it together all the way back to Fordham, through her a report, until she gets back to her apartment and checks on Caleb. He looks so innocent in his sleep that Marcy bursts into tears. She spends the night crying, ashamed and disgusted by what she has done. She could have wrestled the Taser away and stunned the woman, use any number of spy tricks to knock her out, but Marcy didn't think and now she's a murderer. Murderer. It makes Marcy think about how many people she's killed indirectly over the years, how many lives she has ruined. She places the knife on her nightstand as a reminder of what her life has become, to remind her what must be done.

She has to get out of here.

If only she could find the courage to go.

• - • - • - • - • - • - • - • - • - • - • - • - • - • - •
minerva ,.,., 17 ,.,. adminedit ,.,., felicity hayes

lyrics from sing it out; switchfoot
this little thing was made by
dragonwick over on caution,
or rach ?! on little white lie.
don't steal! keep the credit on.

[CALLEN MICHAEL O'CONNOR]

ACCEPTED

welcome to little white lie! please remember to post in the face claims, and happy rp'ing!