Stranded

-Disclaimer. I don't own Dinah Lance, Oliver Queen or Roy Harper or anyone affiliated with them. And man does it suck!-


Sometimes, after the waves of orgasm took me, and dragged me away from Seattle and it's bleak and dreary drizzle, sometimes I find myself washed up on an unknown shore. Deserted and alone, and covered with sticky wet sand.

Sometimes, I found him beached beside me, basking in the sun in all his golden-god glory; as satisfied and as exhausted as I; smiling at me with those intense green eyes and boyish grin I had found so charming at one point. And he would brush my dark hair from my eyes, pull me close and let the cool waves splash over us, until the heat of the sun was long forgotten in our lover's embrace.

Sometimes, I relished the thought of being so far away from him. A million miles removed from everything that was the reality of life. Bills, Blood, Tears, Fights that left us both seething and totally enamored past the point of caring what the fight was about. Fights that left us all too eager to push aside any doubts and clothing for just a brief moment of unabashed pleasure; even if the anger would return after we were spent, surrounding me on my own island- where I belonged to no one but myself, and even though stranded- I was finally free.

Sometimes, more often than not, I simply felt alone. I'd washed up on this shore only to be deserted. Left for dead, with no hope of rescue, no hope of any human contact after. No hope for anything. He would leave me here, and let my tears mix with the salt sea, and let me thirst, and starve for his touch, his hardened looks, his tempting voice. Let me die here, emaciated and parched; drowning and smothered in my own loneliness.

Sometimes, there was a person waiting for me on the beach. Redheaded and young, smiling because someone had finally found him- finally found a way to reach him.

Sometimes I think of Roy. I wonder if he felt this way with Cheshire, with Donna, with anyone, with everyone. I know at some point he's been on this beach. His footsteps are as bright as the sun beaming down at me. I know at some point he's been alone. Been hopeless and lost, and never even bothered to dream of a rescue.

Sometimes, I like to think that I rescued him. That I alone managed to fight the currents and the tide, my own exhaustion and join him on the beach. Holding him when he was too sick to hold himself. Crying with him when he was too far gone to be proud, recovering with him when he finally found himself again- when he and I managed to find that lost little boy alone in the jungle of the island, and bring him back to where he belonged- the inner child Roy had lost so long ago.

Sometimes, I know that's not how it happened. I didn't rescue Roy. I couldn't save him, the same way I can't save anyone. I drowned trying to reach him. I passed out on the shore. I was too sick myself to hold him. Crying too hard to comfort him, too lost to be found. He had somehow managed it on his own. I'll never know how he did it- but I know I'll always admire it.

Sometimes, I wonder how he's been doing with Lian. Better than I am, I'd imagine- I'd hope at least. Finally, he's got someone to care for. A reason to walk away from this island. To cut down these god-damned trees and build a raft and steer it back to safety and his daughter.

Sometimes I wonder if things would have been the same for me, if I'd accepted Ollie's proposal. His want and need for children.

Sometimes I think I know the answer.

Sometimes I don't know anything.

Sometimes this beach is too vast and all-encompassing for me to ever find a way out. To ever find a shelter from the sun where I can simply rest.

Sometimes all I want to do is fall asleep and never wake up.

Everytime I do.

Everytime I wake up.

Everytime I'm alone, even if I'm in someone's arms- even if they're Ollie's.

Everytime the phone rings and I'm pulled out of my state of self-pity to save the world.

Sometimes I think it might be better off if it was never saved in the first place. If we all said to hell with it- and let humanity die for the suffering it brings upon itself.

Sometimes I think we do a necessary service. Like garbage men, or plumbers. We're needed, but not appreciated. Wanted, but not liked. "Liked, but not well liked."

Sometimes I start quoting Arthur Miller.

Sometimes I curl up tight on my island, and let the sun beat down and warm me while the waves tickle around my legs, sucking that same warmth up and away. The sand drains the water from my body- and i know the end is in sight.

Sometimes though Roy is there, and he gives me fresh water to drink. And lets me hold him, and holds me.

Sometimes though Ollie is there, and replaces the sun when he whispers, "I love you pretty bird."

Sometimes though, I'm alone.

And Sometimes, that's fine by me.