| Subject: Chapter 308 - Part 2 (end of chapter 308) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Wednesday, October 24, 07:02:52am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Chapter 307 - Part 1 (16 and above)" on Monday, October 22, 07:10:11am
It was this, terrible thought which worried her, as she began to read. It wasn't helped by the fact that the letter had definitely been censored, certain words or sentences deleted. Still, it was a delight to see whatever she could of his thoughts again. They read:
My dearest, most lovely, most perfect Nikita,
There--I've officially given you one of the longest openings yet, and I still haven't begun to tell you what you mean to me. All I suspect of myself is simple sappiness. I apologize wholeheartedly for letting you down.
I do love you, though; I can't stop thinking about you, no matter where we are. Last night, we finally made it to our destination: (Here, several words were cut out). I don't know what to say about it. It's a base, like any other. In fact, it reminds me a little of the studio. So many square, dull, functional buildings intended to house well-regulated activities without much question. The only real difference is the presence of the barracks--but I suspect that's only because Madeline and Wolfe haven't yet realized that they could keep us there permanently. Please don't ever let them know.
Sorry. I'm trying to make jokes, but my heart isn't in it. In fact, it's in very little these days. All I can think about is you, and the terrible distance I suffer from you. That's the only thing which seems real to me at all.
It's another day now. I suspect that this letter is going to be a bit choppy--or, at least, choppier than usual--since there isn't that much time in the day. So far, our routines are taken up with the usual activities, (again, several words were forcibly deleted). Someday soon, we may begin our real jobs, but I suppose I'm not meant to tell you too much about that.
I only got through that last paragraph yesterday, my love. Ridiculous. Still, there's only a small amount of free time available here. As much as I'd love to be able to devote all my time to you, I think I'll have to just jot down what I can of my adoration a little bit at a time.
I won't even bother to mention the different days here anymore. I've realized I'm wasting precious time that way. Suffice to say that there are many of them. I'm here and missing you. In fact, the longer I'm in this country, the stranger it all seems. As often as I tell myself that I'm an ocean away, I don't want to believe it. Sometimes, being in a different room seems too much distance. To be this far away is torture.
You're all I can think about, my love. Rest assured, I do everything I'm supposed to, but you're still the only meaning I can find. Somehow, it's wholly different from training. Even if I didn't know at first that I would soon get a chance to see you again, I did hope it might be true. Now, I'm losing hope. What on earth was I born for except to be with you?
How are you and our little one? Are you doing well, as you get closer to your time? I still remember all too well that one train trip, how ill you were. I'm terrified that might have returned. If it has, selfish as this is to say, I'm almost glad I'm not there to see it. I don't think I could stand the guilt of knowing I had put you in so much misery.
Still, I so desperately want to be with you, want to hold you in my arms. All I ever wanted, from the time I met you, was to be with you. Why am I being denied the pleasure of being near you, as our child grows inside your precious body? Being anywhere but with you makes no sense to me at all.
Did you get the letter I sent you, before I left? I hope some of it was legible. The conditions I wrote it in weren't exactly ideal--but I do hope that a little of my love conveys itself to you, nonetheless.
I hope you got the telegram, too. (Again, a sentence or two was missing) He said he would send it as soon as he could. I just hate the thought of you worrying about me.
I haven't received a letter from you yet. I know I shouldn't expect it. You're so far away from me; it seems so impossible to communicate at all. But still I pray. Even the smallest word from you means so much.
I sometimes feel like I'm slipping away here, Nikita. I don't feel wholly sane anymore. I just miss you so much. What is the point of anything on earth, if I'm not with you?
We were allowed out of the base tonight, went to a pub in (deleted). It was a strange experience. The men all glared at me--not a first, here--while the women flocked around like I was some new sort of animal who needs to be checked out thoroughly. I think I managed to smile; I'm not certain. All I know was that I felt the need to get away as soon as possible. None of them were as beautiful as you--but, then again, no other woman on earth can begin to be your equal.
I've been missing you so much, my love. I can't even begin to put the feelings into words. All I can think about is having this war be over and being back home, with you in my arms. Nothing else matters. You are still the only thing in existence.
I dreamed about you last night, which isn't unusual at all. Still, this time, I dreamed that you were crying, that you were fading away without me near you. I can't even stand the thought. I know that my whole life began with your love, but it leaves me achingly empty to think of you so sad. Please try to be happy, or as close to it as you can be. I can be miserable enough for two.
Last night, I got your letter. I can't tell you what it meant to me to finally see your thoughts again.
Still, I don't want you to feel any sort of guilt over me. I am here of my own free will. All that matters to me is that you're safe and happy. I'm just sorry that I haven't done a better job of giving you that.
If you're to apologize for upsetting me, my love, then I must apologize in return. As you can see, I've been utterly candid in my thoughts, depressed as they were. I've spared you nothing. Please don't ever feel that you have to spare me yours. I don't know how I would begin to survive such silence.
I *am* worried, of course, about the new letters you've been getting, but I'm going to hope that you're right. Hopefully, he's just complaining about what he can't change. If that's true, then it will be alright. Anything else, we can deal with when I return.
I *will* return, my one. Never fear it. No matter what may come, no matter how great the obstacles, I won't allow myself to be taken from you permanently. I love and need you too much to only be a memory.
I'm sorry this letter is so inadequate, my love--as yours, I must tell you, was not; it was beautiful, buoyed me up, when I felt I might drown. Still, I should be telling you of my love, not my sorrow. Know that you always have my devotion. No one else on earth truly exists before you.
Your eternally, absolutely devoted husband,
Michael
Oh, Lord. She couldn't help crying--couldn't help fearing, as much as he had tried to warn her against it at the end. Even as she read, the dreams had haunted her; her hand rubbed over her over-ample belly. She could only hope that this wouldn't be the very last piece of him she would ever know.
She had to put down the sweet letter, covering her eyes, keeping her weeping as quiet as possible. If she was too loud, she would attract Annie and Carl's attention--and then she would have to put back up the front of being strong once more.
It was this trait, more than any other, that she felt she had lost now, the distance from her Michael destructive. Perhaps the dreams last night had only been symbolic of what their separation was doing to them both; perhaps he was only being as saddened as was she by their distance--but she still feared that it was more. Time and time again during her childhood, she had heard stories of war widows--or the mothers of the dead--having premonitions of their men's loss. Every time, it seemed to be true; one sob was louder than the rest. She could only hope that those who had only imagined such misfortune didn't bother to pass on the tales.
She was utterly lacking in such comfort now, had no idea how to go on. Even with her beloved's letter in her hand, she still felt so empty, so fearful. Perhaps if it were a telegram from him, she could feel some sort of assurance that he was still alive. But, then again, telegrams during wartime were never good news.
It was in this weepy, desperate state that her assistants found her, Annie shaking her head, as she put her arms around her shoulders. "Stop it, Nikita. He's alright."
The actress wanted to believe, truly wanted to take the comfort she was being so freely offered; especially from Annie, such a physical expression of sympathy was special, touch a quality the woman usually avoided. Still, the sorrowful woman was too aware that her companion's words were what was expected, were the kind lie one was supposed to tell. "What if he's not?" she wept.
Annie shook her head against her slightly, holding her tighter. "He is."
It was difficult to believe this after those terrible dreams, but Nikita did try--needing the comfort now, even if it proved to be a terrible sort of lie. She let Annie move her, then, let her lead her toward the bedroom, the woman's voice so soothing. "Lie down now. I'll get you a damp cloth for your eyes." From a woman who could strip and clean any handgun, who avoided physical touch as though it would kill her, it was a terribly sweet gesture--and Nikita appreciated it as much as she could think about anything but her fears for her beloved.
It took a few minutes to get the actress settled, lying down on her bed in the dark to try to calm down. Still, when Annie emerged, met her husband's worried look, she simply shook her head. Neither of them had to say a word. If their employer was taking on like this, it was hard to say where it might lead, her pregnancy so close to its conclusion. All they could do was look after her--and hope the best they could that they didn't have to comfort her through a truly intense grief.
[End of Part 308]
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