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Chapter or Story
Disclaimer is that I don't own them other t han 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. PG-13 I never rated it in the first three parts.
Memories Of Long Ago
part 5
by Trish
As I removed the journal from the hidden compartment, a photograph fluttered to the floor, landing face down at my feet. Knowing what I did, my heart filled with a sense of foreboding as I reached for the picture. Across the top of it, scrawled in my mother's loopy handwriting--Caitrin Faith, age 6 months. Below it, in father's block lettering, the word, "Soon".
Turning it over, the shock of what I saw passed quickly, and since learning that Mother had wanted father with us, it did not surprise me. It was of Mother and I.
I knew she was beautiful but here she was stunning, motherhood radiated within her. Her dark hair haloed her face, blue eyes blazed with such intense joy. She knew this would've fueled his desire to be with us. It was this photograph that must have made him realize what mother meant to him. Why else would he write that which he did on the back. He must have thought about us, her-- constantly.
Did his arms ache to hold her? Did his blood burn inside him? This photo tugged, gripped at the heart and held tight and fast. She used visual blackmail.
With a heavy heart and the journal in my hands, I headed for the bedroom. A room that I was beginning to love. Crawling between the sheets, I pulled the comforter over my head and clutched the book tight to my chest. Sleep eluded me for what seemed hours. Then sleep came; I dreamed. I dreamed that I was somewhere cold and dark. I was afraid. In the distance, a flash of bright light. Urgency made me walk toward the light, and I stumbled over unseen objects in my path. A high-pitched noise filled the air like a scream, yet no one could scream that loud without catching their breath. Danger, yet I felt compelled to find the light. It flashed, no closer than before, the source unknown, unnatural.
A voice spoke in my head. It was impossible.
"Soon," it said," Soon."
The light turned into flames, and I screamed.
I woke and stared wildly about the room trying to get my bearings, my heart thundering in my chest as the visions of the nightmare faded. There was a clammy feeling of apprehension that passed rapidly, but the feelings of uneasiness persisted. I could feel the perspiration on my neck. I lay back, thinking about the vision.
The ringing of the telephone is what roused me from my fugue state, reaching a hand out toward the table, I brought the receiver to my ear.
"What?"
"So like your mother, Cait," the voice on the other end said softly.
"Sydney, how are you?" I struggled to sit up in the bed, wrestling with the bed covers, noticing the purple clouds that dotted the sky outside the windows.
"Older but none the wiser," he said," You?"
"Tired."
"Up for a visit with someone from your parents past?"
"You! I'm not allowed to talk to you until I have completed my quest, Syd. You, of all people know of mother's wishes," I chuckled softly, a small smile forming.
"Not me, but Cox," he said in a low voice.
"He's alive!"
This was a surprising start to a surprising day.
***
Sydney confirmed it when he showed up at the house with Broots. I smiled at them as they entered the house. He reminded me of a tortoise. This is not to suggest that there is anything foolish about him, for tortoises are dignified and self-sufficient, its just that Sydney had not set foot in this house in a very long time. His entrance was slow and yet one got the impression that his thoughts were not nearly as slow. He was almost ninety-five and full of opinions on everything.
Our bond had been forged at my birth and wouldn't change. He said it was d
estiny, and I didn't doubt it.
"All this time and you never said a word," Broots said, dramatically yet hurt echoed in his words.
I said nothing. I sighed and took a seat on the sofa, as Sydney took up a position in front of the fireplace. He spoke of mother, father and of treachery and deception on part of the Centre. For the first time I began to understand what my parents had been fighting against with more than blind loyalty. Mother never discussed this part of her life with me, yet it dwelled in the recesses of her mind. She didn't need to discuss it, for father had written about it with such clarity and committed it to paper with such care. As I thought my silent thoughts I noticed that the room had grown startlingly silent.
It was my voice that broke the silence.
"Where is the devil incarnate lodged, Sydney?" I asked coldly.
"Salisbury Asylum," Sydney said as he looked in to the flames.
"Is he . . . .?" Broots stammered.
"Insane, no, but he did suffer a stroke that left him paralzyed. He can't move, and his speech is slurred, somewhat."
Broots pulled the car up to the gate and waited for the guard to unlock it, and then relock it behind us. I'm not sure why they bothered ---surely the remoteness of the place was an effective way of keeping others out. Or was it to keep those housed within from obtaining freedom. I tried to see the building but ornately clipped trees obscured the view. Someone had gone to great lengths to keep Salisbury hidden.
"Salisbury," Sydney said looking out the window. His voice was low as if the sight of the sombre building quelled him as much as it did me.
It was a massive construction and outwardly more like a series of buildings than one single mansion. It was constructed of grey stone blocks streaked with flecks of blacker stone. It had no grace and in some places it was two and three stories high, with barred windows. It was immense and made me wonder how many lost souls dwelled in its rooms. There was something unnerving about the place, its ugliness churning my stomach.
It was a grim, gray place and suddenly a sense of gladness seemed to wash over me when I realized that Cox was locked away in a place that offered as much hope as the Centre had to its occupants.
Feedback please : Ractrish@aol.com
part 5
by Trish
As I removed the journal from the hidden compartment, a photograph fluttered to the floor, landing face down at my feet. Knowing what I did, my heart filled with a sense of foreboding as I reached for the picture. Across the top of it, scrawled in my mother's loopy handwriting--Caitrin Faith, age 6 months. Below it, in father's block lettering, the word, "Soon".
Turning it over, the shock of what I saw passed quickly, and since learning that Mother had wanted father with us, it did not surprise me. It was of Mother and I.
I knew she was beautiful but here she was stunning, motherhood radiated within her. Her dark hair haloed her face, blue eyes blazed with such intense joy. She knew this would've fueled his desire to be with us. It was this photograph that must have made him realize what mother meant to him. Why else would he write that which he did on the back. He must have thought about us, her-- constantly.
Did his arms ache to hold her? Did his blood burn inside him? This photo tugged, gripped at the heart and held tight and fast. She used visual blackmail.
With a heavy heart and the journal in my hands, I headed for the bedroom. A room that I was beginning to love. Crawling between the sheets, I pulled the comforter over my head and clutched the book tight to my chest. Sleep eluded me for what seemed hours. Then sleep came; I dreamed. I dreamed that I was somewhere cold and dark. I was afraid. In the distance, a flash of bright light. Urgency made me walk toward the light, and I stumbled over unseen objects in my path. A high-pitched noise filled the air like a scream, yet no one could scream that loud without catching their breath. Danger, yet I felt compelled to find the light. It flashed, no closer than before, the source unknown, unnatural.
A voice spoke in my head. It was impossible.
"Soon," it said," Soon."
The light turned into flames, and I screamed.
I woke and stared wildly about the room trying to get my bearings, my heart thundering in my chest as the visions of the nightmare faded. There was a clammy feeling of apprehension that passed rapidly, but the feelings of uneasiness persisted. I could feel the perspiration on my neck. I lay back, thinking about the vision.
The ringing of the telephone is what roused me from my fugue state, reaching a hand out toward the table, I brought the receiver to my ear.
"What?"
"So like your mother, Cait," the voice on the other end said softly.
"Sydney, how are you?" I struggled to sit up in the bed, wrestling with the bed covers, noticing the purple clouds that dotted the sky outside the windows.
"Older but none the wiser," he said," You?"
"Tired."
"Up for a visit with someone from your parents past?"
"You! I'm not allowed to talk to you until I have completed my quest, Syd. You, of all people know of mother's wishes," I chuckled softly, a small smile forming.
"Not me, but Cox," he said in a low voice.
"He's alive!"
This was a surprising start to a surprising day.
***
Sydney confirmed it when he showed up at the house with Broots. I smiled at them as they entered the house. He reminded me of a tortoise. This is not to suggest that there is anything foolish about him, for tortoises are dignified and self-sufficient, its just that Sydney had not set foot in this house in a very long time. His entrance was slow and yet one got the impression that his thoughts were not nearly as slow. He was almost ninety-five and full of opinions on everything.
Our bond had been forged at my birth and wouldn't change. He said it was d
estiny, and I didn't doubt it.
"All this time and you never said a word," Broots said, dramatically yet hurt echoed in his words.
I said nothing. I sighed and took a seat on the sofa, as Sydney took up a position in front of the fireplace. He spoke of mother, father and of treachery and deception on part of the Centre. For the first time I began to understand what my parents had been fighting against with more than blind loyalty. Mother never discussed this part of her life with me, yet it dwelled in the recesses of her mind. She didn't need to discuss it, for father had written about it with such clarity and committed it to paper with such care. As I thought my silent thoughts I noticed that the room had grown startlingly silent.
It was my voice that broke the silence.
"Where is the devil incarnate lodged, Sydney?" I asked coldly.
"Salisbury Asylum," Sydney said as he looked in to the flames.
"Is he . . . .?" Broots stammered.
"Insane, no, but he did suffer a stroke that left him paralzyed. He can't move, and his speech is slurred, somewhat."
Broots pulled the car up to the gate and waited for the guard to unlock it, and then relock it behind us. I'm not sure why they bothered ---surely the remoteness of the place was an effective way of keeping others out. Or was it to keep those housed within from obtaining freedom. I tried to see the building but ornately clipped trees obscured the view. Someone had gone to great lengths to keep Salisbury hidden.
"Salisbury," Sydney said looking out the window. His voice was low as if the sight of the sombre building quelled him as much as it did me.
It was a massive construction and outwardly more like a series of buildings than one single mansion. It was constructed of grey stone blocks streaked with flecks of blacker stone. It had no grace and in some places it was two and three stories high, with barred windows. It was immense and made me wonder how many lost souls dwelled in its rooms. There was something unnerving about the place, its ugliness churning my stomach.
It was a grim, gray place and suddenly a sense of gladness seemed to wash over me when I realized that Cox was locked away in a place that offered as much hope as the Centre had to its occupants.
Feedback please : Ractrish@aol.com
