***Spoilers for Victoria's Secret***
I wrote this story after hearing Sarah Mclachlan's song 'A Song for a
Winter's Night' (the saddest, most heartfelt song I have ever heard)
so if you have it you might want to listen to it as you read this. If
you don't have it you can get a clip of it from her Nettwerk page on
the net (but that's only if you want to).
Disclaimer!!!
These charactors do not belong to me and I do not wish to be sued for
using them. please forgive me.
*ALL* comments are welcome!!!!
Jane
trebor2@airmail.net

A Box Full Of Memories

by Jane Aldred

Ben stared at the letter in disbelief praying there was another Victoria
Metcalf who knew another Benton Fraser and that *his* Victoria was not
dead. Along with the letter was a mid-sized box of her belongings. An
old friend in the RCMP, someone that knew of their relationship and all
its twists and turns, had sent the startling news and the box that had
arrived that morning. He sat there for a moment in numb shock, feeling
angry at himself for not really feeling anything. He knew he should feel
terribly upset but instead there was nothing but sensation of unreality.
Finally he reached over and picked up the box, emptying its contents
onto his bed. A flurry of memories, somethings long forgotten, came
rushing
back with painful clarity.

The coat. The wonderful warm, heavy , black coat she had worn when she
came to his apartment that first time and the night at the trainstation.
He picked it up, felling the coarseness of the wool, and raised the lapel
to his nose. The scent of her hair and perfume were still heavily in
the fabric and for a moment she was in the room with him, once again
in his arms. He quickly put it down as if it had burned him. His heart
turned over painfully and the scar from the bullet in his back began
to ache dully. 

Beside the coat was the shoulder bag she had always carried with her.
Inside were some personal effects; a hairbrush, toothbrush, a couple
dollars in change and a small piece of plastic covered paper lying face
down on the bed. Ben picked it up and found himself staring right back.
A much *younger* self taken years ago, probably when she was still in
prison for the robbery. The picture was from a newspaper article that
had listed a commendation he had received for bringing in a murderer.

Suddenly he felt very old and very tiered and sitting up was just too
much effort. He laid back on the coat that was sprawled across the bed
inhaling her scent and wishing that it was her body that he was lying
on. It had been 3 years since the last time he'd seen her, the nightmarish
night at the trainstation, but every night since then he had seen her
in his dreams. A loving vision of long hair and warm hands that tormented
his sleep. 

And now she was dead, gone forever. She was killed in a plane crash.
The irony of the way she had died burned like acid in his stomach. The
single-engine plane had crashed up in the northern territories during
a snowstorm and everyone had died on impact. He would never be free from
her memory and when it came down to it, he would never want to be.

He knew the tears would eventually come and a deep sadness would drag
him into a quiet depression and he would slowly overcome it. One day
when death caught up with him they would be together again and their
past could not interfere with their love. He clung to that hope as he
drifted of into a fitful sleep.

One day...

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