Dear Readers, I'm sorry for taking so long for an update. Truth be told, I no longer watch GH and am no longer a fan of JaSam. I had given up on writing all my fan fictions but every time I was on my computer, I felt a little sad at not finishing a story that I originally considered great. Even though I'm no longer a GH fan, I decided to finish this story. I want to be able to complete it and show you, the readers, the ending of this story that many of you took the time to read. I'm following my original outline, not rushing through it, as I want to make this fic as great as it was intended to be. However, I haven't written in months, and writing is a skill that comes and goes. Since I haven't written anything in a while, I'm afraid my writing skills have gone down. You may feel like this chapter is rushed (even I feel like it's rushed) even though it took me many hours to write it. I guess I'm a little out of practice right now. My eyes hurt right now from staring at the computer screen and typing for so long and even though I proofread this chapter, it's possible I over looked many mistakes, so please ignore the spelling errors if you notice any. I'll go back and fix it later, I want to share this chapter now. So please, enjoy this chapter and sorry if it's not as great (quality wise) as the previous chapters. I need to brush up on my writing skills. But don't worry, the next chapter will be better, and then better, and before you know it, it will be great. Besides, this is where the story starts to really pick up! Enjoy it:)
"So you never slept with him?" Brenda said in a tone of surprise. "I for sure assumed you had."
"You never slept with him either," Sam answered in defense.
"Yes, but what we had was scam marriage, you two have a real relationship."
Sam sat down in the chair in the waiting room and Brenda sat next to her. For hospital chairs, they were very comfortable. The maroon color added richness to it while the pale grey walls soothed and depressed altogether. She leaned against the back of the chair and breathed slowly while watching the nurses at the doctors station. "Our relationship is too new and too fresh for us to be getting physical."
Brenda also leaned back against her chair but her eyes darted to the ceiling. "You wanna know something funny? I haven't been in Port Charles in years, and this hospital hasn't changed much. It's like the same exact place as it was many years ago."
"I bet it is the same place," Sam said.
"Yeah, but some places change. They add a new layer of paint, change a light fixture. A plant dies and they get another. But there are no changes here. It makes me feel like life is standing still."
"It's a soothing feeling, isn't it?" Sam asked but her eyes were still on the nurses station. She looked at Emily Quartermain running around gossiping with another medical professional. A woman with short brown hair and a small petite frame.
"It is soothing."
"People don't like change," Sam evaluated. "They like what they are secure of." Then Sam finally looked at Brenda and smiled. "You know that tomorrow we will really find out if we are really related. Strange how when we were both born, there was no such thing as a DNA test, and now its one of the most popular identification analysis procedures."
"They sure do," Sam said and glanced back at the nurses station only to watch the young nurse who was talking to Emily Quartermain approaching them. In approaching closeness, Sam read the name on the woman's shirt and realized this lady was Nurse E. Spencer.
After a brief introduction to Miss Elizabeth Spencer, they were both lead into a room where an older black doctor met them. The lady looked more like a literature teacher then a doctor with her navy blue skirt and a light blue 1940's shirt peeked from the folds of her doctor's robe. Her hair was cut short and curled, and her glasses were perched low on her nose as she read a life.
The nice doctor took both of their blood for a DNA test and within minutes they were both released to go out of the room.
"That was quick," Brenda mentioned as she started to walk away from the door but seeing Sam frozen in her tracks slowed Brenda down. "What's wrong?"
Sam stood frozen as she watched Doctor Allen Quartermain as he looked at a needle in a way that an insane person would look at something that is actually crazier then that insane person. He looked at the needle like it was what it was, a device that could save a life, or end it.
Molly should have been a little scared as she knocked on the door and waited for an answer, but she wasn't. She wasn't invited to the Corrinthos house as a path toward her execution, but instead as a friend of a person as troubled as herself.
She knew that the Corrinthos were too rich to answer their own door, but she expected a maid or a butler to answer. The man with the suit and a gun in his hand only reminded her of whose house she was a guest at and she felt a quiver of intimidation run through her spine as she stepped out of the cold and into the entrance room of the grand estate.
The man extended his hand in a formal handshake as he said "I'm Milo and you must be Molly."
But Molly ignored his hand while physically taking a step back as she nodded. Truth was, dangerous looking men scared her and for the first time since being invited to Michael's home, she realized that she wasn't in the safest of surroundings. She wondered how Michael managed to cope with his home being a possible attack zone, or living with a father who killed people and had his own hired hitmen.
Milo was a tall, Italian looking guy with strong features and a relaxed exterior that she was sure was fake. No way can a man of his lifestyle be honestly relaxed.
As Milo moved aside, Molly took a shaky step through the threshold of the door and entered the gloomy foyer. The decor was dark wood all around, making the place look terribly depressive. As she had grown up in a place with light all around her, she wondered if Michael's depression problems were in any way associated with the surroundings he was in. Psychologically, it would be difficult to grow up in this type of dead.
Above her head, Molly heard a door close and a horse running wildly. Or so it sounded like a horse.
"Michael! Stop running!" came a woman's yell from another room and the horse slowed as Michael reached the stars and took two at a time to jog down.
"You came," he said breathlessly with no modesty. He was young, with his first encounter of a woman he lusted after. He didn't possess the calm tricks of seduction older men had learned to master. He was eager to express his emotions which to his young mind were stronger then anything he'd imagined.
"I was invited," she said with no emotion whatsoever but then cracked a shy smile and approached him.
"Come on, lets go up to my room." He took a hold of her arm and dragged her up. "It's much more fun up there then down here with these old guys." And with that, he shot Milo a look.
"Who're you calling old?" Milo shot back but Michael was already out of sight.
In his room, Michael showed Molly some of his video games and DVD's, and for the first time in a long time they both felt normal. Odd how most people didn't want to be normal, but the feeling of normality was soothing and sweet, even if it was fragile like glass.
Ever since her innocence was stolen, Molly felt like a kid again, like someone of her own age. For once, she didn't feel like she had to worry about everything, and she didn't have to fear.
For once, in a long time, the subtle emotions of her fluttering heart were silenced and relaxed while she sat next to the boy that made her pulse race.
But her fragile happiness shattered with a knock on the door.
"Come in," Michael said without noticing her sudden intake of breath or her sudden stillness as nerves raced along her back.
The door opened and a man came in. Dark, sexy, with dimples. And he was short! Closing her eyes, Molly notices the shadow of the man in the park, the man who pushed her to the ground. He was the same height! Though she couldn't see his face, she was sure he was the same height!
"Michael," the man said, oblivious to Molly's presence in the room. "I have to talk to you for a minute."
Michael stood and only glanced at Molly as he said "It will only take a minute" and walked out of the room with his father. He didn't see the panic racing in her eyes.
Alone, in a house of horrors, Molly shut her eyes as her breathing wheezed fearfully. Her palms grew damp, and cold sweat shot out of her body. Tears slid through her closed eyelids. Could it be, could it be that the man she was in allure with was raised by the monster that stole her youth?
Sam sat in the diner waiting for her food to be prepared as she sipped her coffee restlessly and gazed around the room. The door opened and a woman walked in, a woman Sam recognized on instant.
"Hello," Glenda said as she walked to the counter. "Nice to see you again," and after her greeting with Sam, she turned to the man at the counter and placed an order to go.
"How's it going?" Sam asked politely.
"Okay, I guess, though I'm very worried about Molly."
Sam didn't see any disturbing behavior in Molly, but then again, Molly started coming in to her office for very short periods of time since the incident. She claimed she wanted to spend her time at home, and Sam decided not to be paranoid and question the decision. Now her curiosity was peeked. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know if you've noticed," Glenda said worriedly. "Molly's afraid. She doesn't like to go out and when she does, she starts to have those panic attacks. She's always calm at home, but one step out and she's overtaken by fear. I'm worried." She shook her head. "It all started that. . ." She paused mournfully.
"I know," Sam said softly, reassuringly.
"I think it's a neighbor. You know, the man who. . ." she let the sentence trail.
"What makes you assume it's the neighbor who destroyed her?" Sam chose the term 'destroyed' as a substitute for the term her mother didn't dare to speak.
"He lived in the building, next door to us actually. Ever since the incident. . . He's disappeared."
"Disappeared how?" The man at the counter handed Sam her plate of food which she ignored as she listened to Glenda.
"He just. . . Vanished, I guess."
"You mean he moved out that quickly?"
Glenda shook her head. "I don't think he lived in that apartment. I think it was a place that his wife wouldn't know about. He used to come to it for a few hours, usually with some woman, and after a couple of hours he would leave. Ever since the incident he has left the apartment. I talked to the landlord and according to him the man is still paying for the place, just not visiting it."
"Do you know his name?" Sam asked.
Glenda nodded. I just found out today. I was actually considering should I or shouldn't I go to the police with this. I have no evidence that this man did it, but Molly doesn't even realize he was your neighbor. It's like she blocked his memory out, just as she did with the face of her . . ."
"Yes, destroyer." Glenda inhaled deeply as her food was brought up to her all in boxes and bags. "I'm so worried I couldn't even cook tonight. Molly should be coming home from her friend's soon, she'll need dinner." She explained the food, leaving the unspoken explanation of only buying dinner for one. She was obviously too worried and torn up to eat.
Sam wanted to put the conversation back on track. "You mean she blocked him out just like she did her attacker?"
"Yes. But there's more. Every time we pass through his apartment door, she becomes all pale and starts to wheeze. I don't know how else to explain her panic attacks."
"I could explain the panic attacks," Sam said softly. "She has agoraphobia."
"What's that? Is it fatal? Is there medication for it?" Questions came pouring like water.
Sam smiled. "The good thing about agoraphobia is that it looks scarier then it is. It's not fatal, it's relatively easy to overcome, and it only looks scary." Reluctantly, she took a look at her food, glad that she ordered a salad. It wouldn't get cold. "Chances are, when she figures the identity of her attacker and accepts what happened, her agoraphobia will just disappear."
"But it's not fatal?"
"No, it's not fatal." Sam let that hang and sink in for a minute. "Now, can you tell me the name of the man you suspect?"
She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. "He's famous here in town. . . It's Sonny Corrinthos."
He walked the cold streets. Normally, he waited until dark, but the need for a body to rub against his was too strong to wait. He lied to his family, telling them he went out for business relations. He went searching for release.
Anger spilled inside him as the streets were void of women. He walked through alleyways, searching for prostitutes. Where were they when he needed one?
He felt his dick stiffen with the need and he wanted to slip his hands inside his pants and get the job done, but a woman's mouth or ass, or anything else would be more appropriate. He had no respect for the women on the streets, and that's why he never went to his wife for things like this. No, his wife was for making love, the sluts were for pure sex. He wanted dangerous, dirty sex.
A prostitute appeared and he nearly fainted as he felt his goal approaching. He ran toward her and she put up a stopping hand.
Her hair was artificially blonde, her boobs plastic, and her face bruised. She looked hard, and her face had a no-nonsense expression.
"I'm not working tonight."
Frustration rose inside him along with rage. "What do you take? Fifty? A hundred? A thousand? I'm willing to pay."
She only considered it for a second. "I said I'm not working tonight. Or ever. I've retired."
He dropped his hands and his eyes were almost in tears. "Please."
"I said no," the woman spoke sternly.
He placed his hands on her arms and pushed her backwards, shaking her. "Please, I need you," he cried out.
"Take your hands off me!" the woman yelled.
She raised her arms and scratched at his face. He slapped her, hearing her skin tear open on the impact. Her lip split and blood poured over.
She clawed at him, bit him on the arm and fought like a wild cat as he countered her moves. The woman pulled out a gun and in the distance, he heard a police siren blaring, getting closer.
He looked at his hands, spilled over with blood, his and hers.
"Yeah bastard, you wanted to fuck! You wanted to fight! You didn't even care why I fucking didn't want to sell! Now enjoy the AIDS that I gave you!" The woman shouted and walked away as the man watched in horror.
The sound of sirens approached. His own repulsion at himself grew. As he looked at his hands, the danger he was capable off, the extent he would go to just for a fuck that meant nothing to him, he realized his addiction. He realized his mistake. He realized that his worst enemy was himself. Slumping against a wall, he cried like a little child as he realized his sex drive was an illness, and he needed help. He needed serious help. He had never though him capable of hitting a woman out of anger, but he did. Sonny Corrinthos realized he needed help. But he didn't even begin to grasp the trouble he was really in.