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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Disclaimer is in part one. . .which is posted at www.the-pretender.de . . . .it's been awhile . . .real life. . . .copyrighted 11/3/00
Memories Of Long Ago
part 10
by Trish
I do not like this place, Blue Cove. It's aptly named, and its desolation seems to creep into one's soul. Some, I know, would call the Centre bleak-and surely they are right, for when its doors closed all those years ago, parents used it as a horror tale to make naughty children behave. I feel the horrible emptiness of the Centre deep in my soul. I considered myself a solitary person, but it seemed I have become enmeshed in a web of massive intrigue that should take more than plain steel to cut. Memories. Ghosts. I hiked my shoulders, feeling none too easy in the presence of these ghosts. I thought and as I did, sensed faint and distant laughter, appreciative, and looked about to catch brief glimpses of flickering shadows. I thought I dreamed.
That musky scent was in my nostrils and I felt hands on me. I could hear her voice, urging me to wake. I pushed the sheets aside and opened my arms.
"Mama." I opened my eyes and she was standing over me. I smiled and reached for her.
"Finish the journey," her voice soft, "It's nearing the end." My head ached come the dawn, and I quit the house to find fresh air. It was a bright morning, winter hanging on spring's cusp, the sky a fine, clear blue straddled with windblown billows of white cloud. The air was scented with the crisp cleaness of spring and wood burning, and for a nostalgic moment I thought I was little again, and at home on the moor with mother. Then I remembered, and sank my aching skull against the rope swing.
"Caitrin," the voice was that of my father, I turned and fixed my eyes forward.
"I'm scared, Daddy," I whispered.
"I'm here." His spirit hand slipped over mine. Slowly, I made my way back to the house. Refreshed. Renewed. Ready to finish this journey and bring it home.
My fingertips feel as though they have been dipped in ice water as I settle down to watch those images that I left, once, I saw the date on the disk. And yet, everything I learn seems to foreshadow something else. For the last few weeks, I have watched the life of my parents play out before me in black and white. I press my fingers into my palms to warm them, before moving them toward the play button.
The room is dark, hazy and there is limited lighting; yet the camera caught the shadow of someone. Someone that isn't suppose to be there, in that room that became home to my father, so that mother and I could be free.
Suddenly the lights in the room come to life and the figure that had been hiding in the shadows is revealed. My father has come to the sim lab only to find Lyle, and the way he looked at my father, a shiver of danger shot though me. I look into those eyes. They give me no answers. Lyle smiled. A calculated smile. I closed my eyes, willing this nightmare to stop, but it didn't. Suddenly, my father spoke.
"What do you want, Lyle?"
"I came to say good-bye."
"Really? Cox sending you to hell."
"Hell is just a sauna, Jarod."
"So true, and it doesn't matter how you get there. Hope you enjoy it. I can't say that I'll miss you, I won't."
Lyle smiled, and it wasn't a nice one.
"Good-bye, Pretender. I have important business to attend to," he walked past my father, then turned to look at him with cold eyes.
My uncle. A man without an identity, a soul or even a conscience.
As I stare into his cold eyes, I hate the fact that his was the last face my father ever saw.
I have developed a ritual here at my mother's house. For the last two weeks, I slip into the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee that was timed to begin dripping at exactly half past six. I enter the studio, shut the door and sit at the window seat looking at a stain glass square of colors that form my mother's picture. I've almost finished this journey that she started me on when she placed that journal into my hands.
Time to talk to Sydney and Broots.
feedback is appreciated . . . . Ractrish@aol.com
part 10
by Trish
I do not like this place, Blue Cove. It's aptly named, and its desolation seems to creep into one's soul. Some, I know, would call the Centre bleak-and surely they are right, for when its doors closed all those years ago, parents used it as a horror tale to make naughty children behave. I feel the horrible emptiness of the Centre deep in my soul. I considered myself a solitary person, but it seemed I have become enmeshed in a web of massive intrigue that should take more than plain steel to cut. Memories. Ghosts. I hiked my shoulders, feeling none too easy in the presence of these ghosts. I thought and as I did, sensed faint and distant laughter, appreciative, and looked about to catch brief glimpses of flickering shadows. I thought I dreamed.
That musky scent was in my nostrils and I felt hands on me. I could hear her voice, urging me to wake. I pushed the sheets aside and opened my arms.
"Mama." I opened my eyes and she was standing over me. I smiled and reached for her.
"Finish the journey," her voice soft, "It's nearing the end." My head ached come the dawn, and I quit the house to find fresh air. It was a bright morning, winter hanging on spring's cusp, the sky a fine, clear blue straddled with windblown billows of white cloud. The air was scented with the crisp cleaness of spring and wood burning, and for a nostalgic moment I thought I was little again, and at home on the moor with mother. Then I remembered, and sank my aching skull against the rope swing.
"Caitrin," the voice was that of my father, I turned and fixed my eyes forward.
"I'm scared, Daddy," I whispered.
"I'm here." His spirit hand slipped over mine. Slowly, I made my way back to the house. Refreshed. Renewed. Ready to finish this journey and bring it home.
My fingertips feel as though they have been dipped in ice water as I settle down to watch those images that I left, once, I saw the date on the disk. And yet, everything I learn seems to foreshadow something else. For the last few weeks, I have watched the life of my parents play out before me in black and white. I press my fingers into my palms to warm them, before moving them toward the play button.
The room is dark, hazy and there is limited lighting; yet the camera caught the shadow of someone. Someone that isn't suppose to be there, in that room that became home to my father, so that mother and I could be free.
Suddenly the lights in the room come to life and the figure that had been hiding in the shadows is revealed. My father has come to the sim lab only to find Lyle, and the way he looked at my father, a shiver of danger shot though me. I look into those eyes. They give me no answers. Lyle smiled. A calculated smile. I closed my eyes, willing this nightmare to stop, but it didn't. Suddenly, my father spoke.
"What do you want, Lyle?"
"I came to say good-bye."
"Really? Cox sending you to hell."
"Hell is just a sauna, Jarod."
"So true, and it doesn't matter how you get there. Hope you enjoy it. I can't say that I'll miss you, I won't."
Lyle smiled, and it wasn't a nice one.
"Good-bye, Pretender. I have important business to attend to," he walked past my father, then turned to look at him with cold eyes.
My uncle. A man without an identity, a soul or even a conscience.
As I stare into his cold eyes, I hate the fact that his was the last face my father ever saw.
I have developed a ritual here at my mother's house. For the last two weeks, I slip into the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee that was timed to begin dripping at exactly half past six. I enter the studio, shut the door and sit at the window seat looking at a stain glass square of colors that form my mother's picture. I've almost finished this journey that she started me on when she placed that journal into my hands.
Time to talk to Sydney and Broots.
feedback is appreciated . . . . Ractrish@aol.com
