Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: mild Michael/Sara
Warnings: Drug use, sexual undercurrents
Disclaimer: I borrow them sometimes, but my mom says I have to put them back the way they were.
Description: 50 sentences meme - Sara in 50 UNRELATED mini-paragraphs.
You don't need a broken heart,
To know a heart can be broken.
You just need to open your eyes, yeah.
We don't need to be deceived,
To know a lie can be spoken.
We don't have to learn everything twice.
Some people find comfort in ratty sweats; Sara likes a standard grey tee shirt that smells faintly of soap, sweat, and something distinctly Michael. She thinks it's either sentimental or creepy; she leans towards creepy.
Sara's first kiss was sloppy and hurried; a brief afterthought by one of her father's brown-nosers. Michael kisses like he has all the time in the world, even with a guard outside the door and a camera on the wall.
She doesn't associate soft with prison or tattoos; that's why she gets a jolt each time her hands brush the skin of Michael's arm.
Morphine counteracts pain; that's its job, its purpose. She wonders if it's faulty.
Potatoes are starchy, occasionally gritty, and her microwave never seems to cook them thoroughly. She eats them because they are easy and fast; this seems to be a pattern in her life.
The grey of the afternoon turns to rain that hits her windshield as she drives home. She had a long day; the drive is cathartic, and the rain matches her mood.
Sara likes the idea that life is like chocolate; not the fake, overly sweetened milky stuff they sell with the bright wrappers, but real, dark chocolate that tastes almost bitter to the inexperienced tongue.
If Sara searches through her memories long enough, she can find moments of true happiness: swinging with her mother at the park once, a "good job" from her dad. She figures happiness in life is overrated anyways.
After the escape, Sara unplugged her phone; she lasted five minutes before plugging it back in. She hated herself for hoping he'd phone when she knew he wouldn't.
Sara tells the inmates she'll lend them an ear if they need it. No one admits it, but it makes them feel more human to have the pretty doc offer help, but no one asks for it either.
Most days, Sara would give her right arm for a different last name. The daughter of Frontier Justice Frank wishes she was just plain Sara.
Somewhere along the way, she thinks she lost appreciation for the sensuality of life. Maybe the morphine dulled her senses; maybe that's what she really wanted. And as much as she hates herself for it, her mind is reconciling the fact that Michael is making her aware again.
After particularly difficult days, Sara knows what to expect at night: her mind gets stuck on repeat, and all she sees is a bike and a car and a boy and death.
The inmates reek of sex some days; she isn't sure if she hurts for them or if she hates them for it. She knows as well as anyone that rape comes with jail.
Michael doesn't fit the pattern: some inmates crave her touch, others abhor it. He does neither, and she can't figure him out. She tells herself that's why she jumps when he touches her.
Her empathy is her weakness, she knows - it keeps her awake with their problems, and it won't let her ignore Michael's plea for help. Somehow she thinks it will cause her death someday.
Grown women hide their tears behind smiles and laughter; Sara sits in her car and chokes on her sobs as they stream down her face.
Time plays tricks on her; speeding up and slowing down without consulting her. Why can't it make up its mind when she's with Michael?
Sara's favourite childhood memory involves a swing set and sunshine; the wind in her hair as she pumped her legs. Some days, she visits the park and rocks back and forth on the swing, remembering.
Freedom is the ability to fall down and still stand back up. Dear old Dad doesn't understand that.
Her life is a broken record, and some days she worries she will never escape the monotony. She takes twenty minutes to roll up his sleeve because he is different, and she wants what he has. The fact that he is in jail is the icing on the cake.
Caution isn't jealousy. Sara isn't a jealous woman; she tells Michael this. She wonders why she thought he'd believe her; she doesn't even believe herself.
He holds out his hand, waiting for the prick. If he notices her fingers linger, he doesn't say anything. If she sees his hands twitch as her fingers brush his arm, she doesn't say anything. It's an unspoken agreement, and neither dares break it.
The first time Sara wondered what he'd taste like, she sat in her car and stared at the bar across the street for an hour before going home. Her imagination has nothing on the real thing, and Sara wonders if she's going to hell for this.
When Sara saw Michael and Lincoln together, before the execution, she saw true devotion. She jutted her jaw out to stop tears from falling down her cheek.
Sara doesn't believe people when they tell her forever; forever usually means until she disappoints them, and Sara practically has a degree in disappointing people.
It's her job to handle the messes they make of each other. It still surprises her, though, how red his blood is, and she wonders why he stands out.
After her first day at the hospital, Sara cried herself to sleep. She still can't shake the pain she felt in a place of so much sickness.
If her life is a song, the melody could use some work. Sara hopes the composer isn't dead yet, because she needs him to keep going.
Sara clings to him – they cling to each other – long after they've finished; long after they've yelled and talked and explored each other, until the last star fades from the sky and he tells her he has to go.
Despite thinking it's cliché, Sara really wants to believe that home is where the heart is. Of course, following that to the only person she's currently remotely interested in, home is in a maximum security prison.
The riot was all confusion, chaos, fear, and a tattooed arm reaching down - a voice promising safety.
Sara remembers the taste of fear on her tongue, heavy and metallic, like blood. She also remembers relief; and a hint of something she couldn't recognize.
If she compares Michael to anything, it's lightening: intense, bright, beautiful, powerful, but dangerous. Like a moth to a flame, she can't stay away, and she wonders when she's going to get burned.
Sara sees inmates restrained every day; she watches them get cuffed and led away. Secretly, she doesn't believe their bonds do anything except psychologically weaken them, but she knows it's suicide in a place like this to go spreading that idea around.
Every other weekend, Sara visits the farmers market a few blocks away. She knows the vendors by name, and buys an apple each time, sinking her teeth into the flesh as she ponders Eve's downfall. Michael is her serpent, she thinks.
People say technology has made the world a better place. Sara thinks they're insane – it's thanks to technology that the one thing she sees everywhere is the one thing she wants to forget. She can't help thinking Michael's mug shot doesn't do him justice, and then she laughs at her word choice.
She can count the birthday gifts she's actually liked on one hand. A red origami flower tops the list – the day they escaped she put it in her purse; she keeps it with her.
He never actually smiles. Smirks, grins, lifts the corners of his mouth in amusement, but actually smile? She is convinced his smile will make her knees go weak, and as part of her thanks God that he doesn't, the other part wishes he would.
Sara doesn't remember what life was like Before – back when she was all innocence and excitement and plans. All she knows is Now, and she doesn't know if it's good or bad.
Her life is missing something; lunches with Katie and busy afternoons stitching up inmates can't hide that. She ignores the feeling of completion she gets around Michael.
Either her moods mirror the sky, or the sky mirrors her moods. Sara thinks maybe that's why clouds and rain are the forecast for today.
The vast expanse of the sky seems to mock her some days; taunts her about the smallness of her existence. Other days it comforts her, reminds her there is more to life than the smallness of her existence.
Sara used to believe in heaven – used to chase after it however she could, with morphine and boys. Sara doesn't know if she can believe in heaven anymore.
The storage closet of the hospital became her own personal hell; the place where she had to choose between brief moments of ecstasy or the harsh reality of healing the sick. She wonders what kind of person chooses to study medicine and then doesn't want to practice it.
The first time she sees him outside of Fox River, the sun is shining. He looks at her with those eyes, and she wants to yell, wants to be angry, but all she feels is relief and a warped love.
It's such a cliché, and Sara knows that, but she still can't help but think its romantic – them, the moon, the beach, and then his lips on hers and oh.
The ocean is massive, this watery entity she can't begin to predict, with its waves and salt and foam. Despite its size, the moon controls its tides. Maybe that's how it's supposed to be; maybe that's what life is like. Something always alters you, no matter how big you are.
He likes it when her hair is down, likes to run his hand through it, playing with it. They spend a lot of time outside, in parks and on streets – he says the sun turns her hair fiery red. She thinks poetry suits him better than jail.
Sara likes knowing things. Facts are solid – they don't change, and they can't lie. Sara knows what a supernova is, but that doesn't mean she understands what a supernova is. She thinks it's like that with Michael.