Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Disclaimer is that I don't own them other than Caitrin Parker, she is mine and mine alone, this started as an excerise to clear cobwebs out of my head to work on my other stories and here's what evolved. . . . there are character deaths and some spoilers in this part twisted to fit my personal taste . . . . . I have to thank Niceole
Memories Of Long Ago
part 3
by Trish
I returned to my mother's cottage, and walked up the porch, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, seeking out that lone pine tree. Broots, who is ahead of me, has the key in the lock. I enter to find the house cleaned and livable, thanks to dear Broots. I notice that he even stocked the liquor cabinet, now I, maybe my mother's daughter but somethings only run true to a certain degree. Drinking was not one of them. I point out to Broots that mother didn't drink after I was born and when Debbie started living with us. She saved it for special occasions only- I distinctly remember Lyle's death being one of them. Syd and her toasted the old bastard a restful slumber in hell. Not that I understood why then, I was a child of three. Now I think a peaceful slumber is to good for him. I ready myself for bed and promise to call Broots the moment I wake in the morning to meet him for breakfast. Settling upon the sofa in front of the fireplace, I pick up the journal that started this fact finding mission.
Turning to the last entry in father's journal, a detailed account of the argument they had had. He told her that he would turn himself in, and she would walk away, no looking back. They had called upon Sydney, Broots and Sam for help but didn't reveal all of the plan. They knew that something had transpired between my parents, after all each had lost loved ones because of Centre interference. Mother lost Thomas and father lost Zoe. That they sought solace in each other, made some sense. Grief does the strangest things to people. A woman that father met long ago taught him that. Yet each carried deep scars. Emotional baggage. Mother was not one to let go of things easily, that is until she had a reason. Father made her see that reason was me, or what would eventually be me. That was when the roles reversed. Mother's creedo of "God forgives. I don't," became my father's.
There was one thing Sam had been right about though. My sleep that night was again distrubed by strange dreams of ghosts. I wonder if mother dreamt of these ghosts, she must have. I recall waking up to find her in my bed with me when I was young. So when I woke in a cold sweat several times that night, I was anxious to continue this mission. It was then that I realized that I would have to visit the building that was located on the outskirts of town. A place where my welcome would be received coldly, but I wasn't quite ready to enter that hostile place.
I decided to visit Angelo, the childhood friend of both my parents. The man-child that lived in a world of others feelings, thanks to a man known as William Raines. He lived with Broots and I knew that talking to him would prove difficult. According to my father's journal, Angelo communicated with minimal words but that in his mind, he knew exactly what was going on. An empathic genius. Three children thrown together. Father kidnapped for his genius, Timmy for his potential, and mother, what secret did she carry.
The morning was rainy, cold and dark just like the night had been for me, so I hurriedly dressed, and then drove to Broots's home. He was surprised to see me so early, but I didn't apologize for it either. Not my nature, too. The person that I came to see was standing in the shadows, waiting.
"Mother's daugher," he said, emerging from the shadows," Friend's legacy."
"Yes, Angelo, it's my father I want to talk to you about," I was cautious and yet the excitement was building again.
"Couldn't protect Jarod," he said loudly, that even Broots was startled by this outspoken statement.
"That's not true, Angelo. You protected him from Bartlett, when he needed protection," I reached out toward the aged man, his clear blue eyes fixed on mine.
"Protect from Barlett, but not from self," he whispered, " Wouldn't listen. Warned him no go lab. Danger."
His agitation was beginning to worry me and so I motioned for him to sit on the stairs with me. I sat and watched him, attempting neither to touch nor speak. He sat slumped next to me and he was trembling, finally his hand reached over and touched mine. I smiled at his touch and took his hand in mine.
"Loved you much," he said, not looking at anything in particular," Both."
" I know, Angelo. We both knew."
"Be back," he muttered and scrambled up the stairs, just as Broots returned with a hot cup of tea for me. He took a position across from me, leaning back against the couch.
"Where did Angelo go?" he asked as he brought his own mug to his lips.
"He told me that my father loved me and my mother and then scrambled up the stairs. He said he'd be back." I looked at my reflection in the silver tea cup, when I caught sight of the man-child lumbering down the stairs, a box in his hands. A box that he thrust at me with some urgency.
"For daughter, saved it."
"That must be rather important. He's never let anyone touch that box." Broots said.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that it was a rectangular metal box that he thrust into my shaking hand. Broots stared from the box to Angelo to me and repeated how the box must be important to my quest, for its been with Angelo since he left the confines of the Centre.
"Angelo?" I quiered.
"Jarod's," he whispered and then turned and starts to lumber away, up the stairs, slowly. I set the tea cup down on the wooden stair and place my other hand on top of it. My knees start to quiver as my fingers start to unwork the lock. Angelo stops in his tracks and turns back to face me. Getting down on his haunches, his feet percariously balanced on the stair, he looks at Broots then back to me.
"Not here. Home!" he whispers and my hands wrap around the box tightly as he continues to speak," Go see hell."
"Angelo!" Broots snapped forcefully, a look of horror mixed with fear crossing his features, as well.
"Angelo? " I wanted to get up from my spot on the stair, and walk, no run, back to the car that's parked in the driveway and go home to my mother's cottage with this find. Instead, my parent's childhood friend is telling me that it is time to go . . .
"Time has come. Go to hell," he repeats.
Understanding dawning on me, Angelo is telling me that it's time, time that I face the greatest demon of all. The Centre. His eyes say it all. Yes, it's time, that I am strong enough to conquer whatever it is that's locked away in that cold hostile place. I watch, as Angelo slides off his perch and comes back down toward me, his hand reaching out to touch my cheek.
"Go," and with that one word, my mother's voice echoed in my head that it would be all right. Mother who always claimed that I had my father's inner strength and serenity instead of her wilfulness and petulance.
So it was with trepidation, with a lifetime of memories, not mine, that I climbed the stairs to the glass doors of the Centre. To a place my father returned, freely, so that my mother could escape its evil grasp. Broots had wanted to accompany me to this bleak, desolute and empty world but I persuaded him that I was indeed strong enough to go alone. As I moved through the hallways, I perceived how unfriendly this place is, was. There is no warmth here, just dark coldness that penetrates the soul and turns it into something grotesque and twisted. The place is so deathly quiet, that the only noise is the echo from the heels of my black leather boots as they make contact on the tile floor. I felt that I had intruded on unfriendly ghosts that were better left undistrubed, yet I continued my explorations and found myself in front of a rather precariously hung door. Pushing it open, its groans reverberate down the hallway, the interior revealing itself to me. My eyes taking it in.
Half the ceiling is missing and the i-beams and wires beneath exposed, and in my imagination, which is heightened by the eerieness of this place, they resemble the bones of a skeleton, and the broken glass windows the sightless hollows of its eyes. Time stood still and I realized that this was were my father had died. I could feel it. My father's death was no accident, the blast had been contained to this area of the Centre. Slowly I sank to the debris-covered floor and stare at the devastation. How long I sat there, I have no idea, but when I left the building, the rain from the morning had turned to snow and the blackness of night only illuminated the tiny swirling flakes.
Feedback please : Ractrish@aol.com
part 3
by Trish
I returned to my mother's cottage, and walked up the porch, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, seeking out that lone pine tree. Broots, who is ahead of me, has the key in the lock. I enter to find the house cleaned and livable, thanks to dear Broots. I notice that he even stocked the liquor cabinet, now I, maybe my mother's daughter but somethings only run true to a certain degree. Drinking was not one of them. I point out to Broots that mother didn't drink after I was born and when Debbie started living with us. She saved it for special occasions only- I distinctly remember Lyle's death being one of them. Syd and her toasted the old bastard a restful slumber in hell. Not that I understood why then, I was a child of three. Now I think a peaceful slumber is to good for him. I ready myself for bed and promise to call Broots the moment I wake in the morning to meet him for breakfast. Settling upon the sofa in front of the fireplace, I pick up the journal that started this fact finding mission.
Turning to the last entry in father's journal, a detailed account of the argument they had had. He told her that he would turn himself in, and she would walk away, no looking back. They had called upon Sydney, Broots and Sam for help but didn't reveal all of the plan. They knew that something had transpired between my parents, after all each had lost loved ones because of Centre interference. Mother lost Thomas and father lost Zoe. That they sought solace in each other, made some sense. Grief does the strangest things to people. A woman that father met long ago taught him that. Yet each carried deep scars. Emotional baggage. Mother was not one to let go of things easily, that is until she had a reason. Father made her see that reason was me, or what would eventually be me. That was when the roles reversed. Mother's creedo of "God forgives. I don't," became my father's.
There was one thing Sam had been right about though. My sleep that night was again distrubed by strange dreams of ghosts. I wonder if mother dreamt of these ghosts, she must have. I recall waking up to find her in my bed with me when I was young. So when I woke in a cold sweat several times that night, I was anxious to continue this mission. It was then that I realized that I would have to visit the building that was located on the outskirts of town. A place where my welcome would be received coldly, but I wasn't quite ready to enter that hostile place.
I decided to visit Angelo, the childhood friend of both my parents. The man-child that lived in a world of others feelings, thanks to a man known as William Raines. He lived with Broots and I knew that talking to him would prove difficult. According to my father's journal, Angelo communicated with minimal words but that in his mind, he knew exactly what was going on. An empathic genius. Three children thrown together. Father kidnapped for his genius, Timmy for his potential, and mother, what secret did she carry.
The morning was rainy, cold and dark just like the night had been for me, so I hurriedly dressed, and then drove to Broots's home. He was surprised to see me so early, but I didn't apologize for it either. Not my nature, too. The person that I came to see was standing in the shadows, waiting.
"Mother's daugher," he said, emerging from the shadows," Friend's legacy."
"Yes, Angelo, it's my father I want to talk to you about," I was cautious and yet the excitement was building again.
"Couldn't protect Jarod," he said loudly, that even Broots was startled by this outspoken statement.
"That's not true, Angelo. You protected him from Bartlett, when he needed protection," I reached out toward the aged man, his clear blue eyes fixed on mine.
"Protect from Barlett, but not from self," he whispered, " Wouldn't listen. Warned him no go lab. Danger."
His agitation was beginning to worry me and so I motioned for him to sit on the stairs with me. I sat and watched him, attempting neither to touch nor speak. He sat slumped next to me and he was trembling, finally his hand reached over and touched mine. I smiled at his touch and took his hand in mine.
"Loved you much," he said, not looking at anything in particular," Both."
" I know, Angelo. We both knew."
"Be back," he muttered and scrambled up the stairs, just as Broots returned with a hot cup of tea for me. He took a position across from me, leaning back against the couch.
"Where did Angelo go?" he asked as he brought his own mug to his lips.
"He told me that my father loved me and my mother and then scrambled up the stairs. He said he'd be back." I looked at my reflection in the silver tea cup, when I caught sight of the man-child lumbering down the stairs, a box in his hands. A box that he thrust at me with some urgency.
"For daughter, saved it."
"That must be rather important. He's never let anyone touch that box." Broots said.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that it was a rectangular metal box that he thrust into my shaking hand. Broots stared from the box to Angelo to me and repeated how the box must be important to my quest, for its been with Angelo since he left the confines of the Centre.
"Angelo?" I quiered.
"Jarod's," he whispered and then turned and starts to lumber away, up the stairs, slowly. I set the tea cup down on the wooden stair and place my other hand on top of it. My knees start to quiver as my fingers start to unwork the lock. Angelo stops in his tracks and turns back to face me. Getting down on his haunches, his feet percariously balanced on the stair, he looks at Broots then back to me.
"Not here. Home!" he whispers and my hands wrap around the box tightly as he continues to speak," Go see hell."
"Angelo!" Broots snapped forcefully, a look of horror mixed with fear crossing his features, as well.
"Angelo? " I wanted to get up from my spot on the stair, and walk, no run, back to the car that's parked in the driveway and go home to my mother's cottage with this find. Instead, my parent's childhood friend is telling me that it is time to go . . .
"Time has come. Go to hell," he repeats.
Understanding dawning on me, Angelo is telling me that it's time, time that I face the greatest demon of all. The Centre. His eyes say it all. Yes, it's time, that I am strong enough to conquer whatever it is that's locked away in that cold hostile place. I watch, as Angelo slides off his perch and comes back down toward me, his hand reaching out to touch my cheek.
"Go," and with that one word, my mother's voice echoed in my head that it would be all right. Mother who always claimed that I had my father's inner strength and serenity instead of her wilfulness and petulance.
So it was with trepidation, with a lifetime of memories, not mine, that I climbed the stairs to the glass doors of the Centre. To a place my father returned, freely, so that my mother could escape its evil grasp. Broots had wanted to accompany me to this bleak, desolute and empty world but I persuaded him that I was indeed strong enough to go alone. As I moved through the hallways, I perceived how unfriendly this place is, was. There is no warmth here, just dark coldness that penetrates the soul and turns it into something grotesque and twisted. The place is so deathly quiet, that the only noise is the echo from the heels of my black leather boots as they make contact on the tile floor. I felt that I had intruded on unfriendly ghosts that were better left undistrubed, yet I continued my explorations and found myself in front of a rather precariously hung door. Pushing it open, its groans reverberate down the hallway, the interior revealing itself to me. My eyes taking it in.
Half the ceiling is missing and the i-beams and wires beneath exposed, and in my imagination, which is heightened by the eerieness of this place, they resemble the bones of a skeleton, and the broken glass windows the sightless hollows of its eyes. Time stood still and I realized that this was were my father had died. I could feel it. My father's death was no accident, the blast had been contained to this area of the Centre. Slowly I sank to the debris-covered floor and stare at the devastation. How long I sat there, I have no idea, but when I left the building, the rain from the morning had turned to snow and the blackness of night only illuminated the tiny swirling flakes.
Feedback please : Ractrish@aol.com
