Current location:	London, England
Current mood:	nostalgic
Entry tags:	[comm] on_thecouch, [plot] missing, [plot] new beginnings

on_thecouch | 25.2. Faces from the past
25.2. Who from your past would you like to see again?

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The sharp burn of the liquor as it reaches the back of the throat on the first sip was always the best part when the substance was being used to drown out a wash of thoughts lapping in the mind. Whiskey was always a good choice; the colour strong and confident like the effect it had on the drinker and the ice made a unique, soft sound as it danced against the edge of the glass. The sip was followed by a wetting of the lips to lap up the excess drops and the glass was returned to the laminated tabletop to rest beside an array of items spread out around it.

* * * * *

Earlier in the day…

“Are you sure this is an ample sized deposit box, Mr Michaels?” the bank manager asked with a subservient cut to his tone honed by years of kissing arse of the rich and famous who lodged no doubt multi-billions of worth into these metallic boxes that lined the wall of a room in the bowels of the bank. Three security guards stood in a row by the large doors behind them, one offering nothing more than a stoic clear of his throat to remind them of his presence.


A tight, polite smile was returned at the offer. “More than amply, Mr Martinez,” a clipped British accent replied. The box’s keyed was curled pointedly between the man’s fingers and he gave a nod of thanks. He made no move to step towards the box though, his chocolate brown eyes watching the bank manager with an expression clearly indicating he was waiting to be given some privacy. “I assure you, I am no match for three security guards, sir,” he added with a hint of a smirk. Blatant lie, but it felt good to utter.

Mr Martinez cleared his throat with a small laugh. “Yes, of course, Mr Michaels.” A nod and then his over-polished shoes clicked on the marble floor of the vault as he exited, leaving the customer to make the deposit in the box in privacy.

A glance over his shoulder, and the brown eyes swept over the guards. “Nice day, lads,” he stated and went to the box to unlock it, his back to the men clearly full of their own self-importance. The key and the security code were tapped in and the box opened with a click. It was empty, only just acquired in fact, and likely wouldn’t be opened again after it was secured for a very long time. A slim envelope was slipped from the breast pocket of his expensive and tailored suit, personally made on a recent trip to Milan. The guards couldn’t see what he was placing in the box beyond it being a handful of papers. Mr ‘Michaels’ took a moment to pause and fan through the sheaths of paper slowly.

Photographs, and nothing more.

Tears welled in his dark eyes as he took in all the images and he bit down on his lip so no sound would emphasise the emotion. He was on a clock here. Too much hesitation would raise suspicion. He began to place each photo into the box one at a time. First it was a young blonde couple with two young blond boys sitting at their feet grinning. Next it was two teenage blonde men with each other in headlocks and flipping the bird to the photographer. A photograph of one of the same men, now with red-haired man, embraced in a passionate kiss, then another of the same two men waving at the camera. The next was the older blonde man with a younger woman sitting in his lap and kissing his head, then one of the woman on her own pretending she was about to flash her breasts at the camera. In the next photo, another beautiful woman appeared with the first; long dark hairs swept up in a ponytail as they both pointed to something off the screen. Then the attractive brunette was alone, blowing a kiss at the camera, closely followed by the second last photo of the brunette and the younger blonde man, arms wrapped around each other and laughing happily.

The man coughed and had to look away from the image. He dropped the last photo into the box with nothing more than a glance; an unlabelled ultrasound photo of an unborn baby at six months gestation. The only outward hint of emotion was a brief rub of the back of his neck before the heavy lid of the safety deposit box was slammed closed and locked succinctly with the key.

Mum and Dad. Mark. David. Ali. Izzy. His unborn niece or nephew.

The only remnants of his old life locked away…

… but to never be forgotten.

* * * * *


He let the tears come now he was alone, grieving for his own life that he knew and loved, now past. He swallowed down the last of the single whiskey he allowed himself to indulge in and then lifted his shirt to administer an injection of insulin in his stomach. Some things couldn’t ever be locked away in a box forever. The remnants of the medication were sealed into a contaminated waste container and then he picked up the last thing left.

James Campbell’s drivers licence.

His thumb brushed over the photograph and the name and he made no attempt to wipe away the wet streaks from his cheeks as he did. He let out a slow breath as a nervous swirl turned in his gut. “Goodbye, James Campbell… hello, Marcus Fraser,” he murmured and tossed the drivers licence into the open fire beside him, watching only for a moment as the plastic melted against the burning logs before he swept his fingers across his cheeks and left the room.


- isabelowens & agentsullivan referenced with permission


Word Count | 958