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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 . . . . .its amazing what a long weekend allows one to concentrate on . . . .
Enjoy. . . . .
Memories Of Long Ago
part 8
by Trish
I randomly take a letter from the stack and again listen to the crackle of old paper as I slowly open it. The same salutation in the heading, but this letter is different from the rest, rising from my perch, I walk to the small table upon which lay the letters that my mother wrote to my father. I search for the one that corresponds to the one in my right hand. Finding it, I re-read mother's words:
"Do you remember when I told you? How the stick turned blue, as blue as my eyes. It silenced me. And I waited for someone, something to tell me what to do. That inner voice that had always been a part of me, was suddenly quiet. Too quiet. Still I waited. Then I told you, and you made an appointment with a doctor, one you trusted. The first picture of our child, the only time you got to see her, 8 weeks old. Tiny, so tiny. Feet, hands and the heart the size of a pea, that pulsed steadily away. So sweetly.
We sat stunned in silence.
Finally, it was you, with your hand on my abdomen, who broke the silence and quoted the ending from Bertolucci's film the "The Sheltering Sky" to me, in that deep, sonorous voice of your's:
Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don't know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It's that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don't know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.
It was at that moment that I realized that our lives would never be safe, or sane or easy, but that this was a gift. This tiny life, a gift and that's all that mattered. So I conceded, I gave in. I regret that now, Jarod. Enough is enough. Those walls are not strong enough, tall enough or secure enough to hold you. Break free from the darkness. Leave."
There it was, her plea for him to leave. Yet, she didn't stop there, oh no, mother knew that more was needed and she provided him with it:
"She said it, Jarod, with her chubby hand on the silk of my robe, I asked," Who's Momma?" and she gave me a big toothless grin and a pat right on the chest, right through the robe where my heart is and said Momma."
The candles that I lit earlier, glow golden, chasing away the hollow darkness, but not the chilled cold. I am tired, exhausted really, yet I have no time for sleep. It's more than that. I'm afraid to stir. Afraid to move, so I stand and read his response:
"Do you wonder why we return to each other, I do, and the only reason I can come up with is that we are flawed and that no one else wants us, because combined, our flaws make us whole. You are more than a friend, Parker, more than a lover, you are my equal and soul mate. Therefore I love you all the more for it and I sim my escape with each passing day. Soon!"
I needed no further consolation. I sank down upon the couch and drifted into a long profound sleep, or at least it seemed that way when I awoke. The blanket that covered me was wet and the thought of breakfast turned my stomach. My eyes sought out the watch on my wrist. It was such a vivid dream, and at the moment I could not recall a single detail of it, yet I know I dreamed. There was a knock at the front door. Vivienne.
Opening the door, I was blinded momentarily by the bright morning light that filled the room, the wooden floor reflecting the sun like a mirror.
"Good morning, Miss Parker," she said apathetically.
"Come in," I said as I pulled the blue terry-cloth robe around me, tightening the tieat my waist, running my fingers through my tousled hair, "What happened last night?"
"He was highly agitated and after asking that I retrieve his belongs from storage to give to you, he suffered another stroke," she pursed her lips angrily, her eyes stormy.
"You make it sound as though it's all my fault," I lowered my voice, the tone caustic, "I hope that you are not blaming me for that?"
"Blame you! What did you think would happen when you showed up?" she bit back, then turned away vehemently.
"Honestly, I didn't think about it. What difference would it make, anyway? Why do you care?"
She was silent; a haunted look came into her eyes.
"I don't know. Now that he's dead, I'm free," her voice was low and shaky," His belongings are in the car."
"Do you need any help? If so, I'll go and get dressed, it will only take a moment."
"No, that's all right, there's not much, really. Don't trouble yourself."
She excused herself and returned momentarily with a silver case similiar in size to a briefcase, yet wider and a small black case large enough to hold compact discs. She placed them on the desk. It was all over and done with rather quickly.
"He said something about it coming full circle. He asked me to give you this as well," her hand reached out and turned palm up, her fingers opening slowly to reveal a silver ring. I took it, gingerly, then I watched as she turned around and walked out the front door, never looking back.
I walked over to the front door and locked it. I found myself in front of the desk, and with a single motion, unlatched the case and unzipped the other. In that moment, I shivered and felt the cold invade my body . There was no turning back. I was terrified and fear gripped me.
Feedback please : Ractrish@aol.com
Enjoy. . . . .
part 8
by Trish
I randomly take a letter from the stack and again listen to the crackle of old paper as I slowly open it. The same salutation in the heading, but this letter is different from the rest, rising from my perch, I walk to the small table upon which lay the letters that my mother wrote to my father. I search for the one that corresponds to the one in my right hand. Finding it, I re-read mother's words:
"Do you remember when I told you? How the stick turned blue, as blue as my eyes. It silenced me. And I waited for someone, something to tell me what to do. That inner voice that had always been a part of me, was suddenly quiet. Too quiet. Still I waited. Then I told you, and you made an appointment with a doctor, one you trusted. The first picture of our child, the only time you got to see her, 8 weeks old. Tiny, so tiny. Feet, hands and the heart the size of a pea, that pulsed steadily away. So sweetly.
We sat stunned in silence.
Finally, it was you, with your hand on my abdomen, who broke the silence and quoted the ending from Bertolucci's film the "The Sheltering Sky" to me, in that deep, sonorous voice of your's:
Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don't know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It's that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don't know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.
It was at that moment that I realized that our lives would never be safe, or sane or easy, but that this was a gift. This tiny life, a gift and that's all that mattered. So I conceded, I gave in. I regret that now, Jarod. Enough is enough. Those walls are not strong enough, tall enough or secure enough to hold you. Break free from the darkness. Leave."
There it was, her plea for him to leave. Yet, she didn't stop there, oh no, mother knew that more was needed and she provided him with it:
"She said it, Jarod, with her chubby hand on the silk of my robe, I asked," Who's Momma?" and she gave me a big toothless grin and a pat right on the chest, right through the robe where my heart is and said Momma."
The candles that I lit earlier, glow golden, chasing away the hollow darkness, but not the chilled cold. I am tired, exhausted really, yet I have no time for sleep. It's more than that. I'm afraid to stir. Afraid to move, so I stand and read his response:
"Do you wonder why we return to each other, I do, and the only reason I can come up with is that we are flawed and that no one else wants us, because combined, our flaws make us whole. You are more than a friend, Parker, more than a lover, you are my equal and soul mate. Therefore I love you all the more for it and I sim my escape with each passing day. Soon!"
I needed no further consolation. I sank down upon the couch and drifted into a long profound sleep, or at least it seemed that way when I awoke. The blanket that covered me was wet and the thought of breakfast turned my stomach. My eyes sought out the watch on my wrist. It was such a vivid dream, and at the moment I could not recall a single detail of it, yet I know I dreamed. There was a knock at the front door. Vivienne.
Opening the door, I was blinded momentarily by the bright morning light that filled the room, the wooden floor reflecting the sun like a mirror.
"Good morning, Miss Parker," she said apathetically.
"Come in," I said as I pulled the blue terry-cloth robe around me, tightening the tieat my waist, running my fingers through my tousled hair, "What happened last night?"
"He was highly agitated and after asking that I retrieve his belongs from storage to give to you, he suffered another stroke," she pursed her lips angrily, her eyes stormy.
"You make it sound as though it's all my fault," I lowered my voice, the tone caustic, "I hope that you are not blaming me for that?"
"Blame you! What did you think would happen when you showed up?" she bit back, then turned away vehemently.
"Honestly, I didn't think about it. What difference would it make, anyway? Why do you care?"
She was silent; a haunted look came into her eyes.
"I don't know. Now that he's dead, I'm free," her voice was low and shaky," His belongings are in the car."
"Do you need any help? If so, I'll go and get dressed, it will only take a moment."
"No, that's all right, there's not much, really. Don't trouble yourself."
She excused herself and returned momentarily with a silver case similiar in size to a briefcase, yet wider and a small black case large enough to hold compact discs. She placed them on the desk. It was all over and done with rather quickly.
"He said something about it coming full circle. He asked me to give you this as well," her hand reached out and turned palm up, her fingers opening slowly to reveal a silver ring. I took it, gingerly, then I watched as she turned around and walked out the front door, never looking back.
I walked over to the front door and locked it. I found myself in front of the desk, and with a single motion, unlatched the case and unzipped the other. In that moment, I shivered and felt the cold invade my body . There was no turning back. I was terrified and fear gripped me.
Feedback please : Ractrish@aol.com
