| Subject: Chapter 282 - Part 1 |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Monday, April 09, 07:08:58am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark continued (273>)" on Monday, March 05, 07:03:06am
Dreams in the Dark (282/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
Too much time had passed, too many days since his last word from her; it was maddening. When he had agreed to be exiled, he had expected a little better than this; his gaze was burning. There was only so much of this neglect he could take.
This was the situation Michael had been in for some time, his last missive to his wife sent off almost two weeks ago. He had been counting the days until he could expect a response, some sort of word. But this was one of the longest gaps he had had to endure yet.
His impatience did him little good, only making every second of the wait that much worse. As it was, he had nearly written to her a dozen times--begging for a response--by the time his suffering was ended; it was only his desire not to upset her with his greed which had made him stop. And it was still several days after his viewing of Hedda's column that the poor man was able to get another letter from his beloved. By that time, he was almost crazy. Too much time without any communication from her had definitely done its damage.
He was well-aware that part of the reason for the delay was simply the necessary wait for the post--but such awareness did him little good. When he returned to his barracks that day to discover the missive, he nearly pushed two of his comrades out of the way to force his way back to his bed, before tearing into the envelope greedily; it took every ounce of his will not to make quite so desperate a display. Still, he was utterly unaware of anyone around him for the next few minutes, at least. Nothing on earth, not even the companions he needed to continue to flatter, could ever distract him from this.
The letter read:
My dearest Michael,
I don't really know where to begin. So much has happened lately--so much you need to know about. I suppose I better just plunge in and try to tell you what I can.
First, let me apologize for taking so long in responding to your last, lovely letter. I've reread it at least a dozen times. The love you show so clearly there has been my major reason for going on.
I don't know whether you've read Hedda's recent column about me, so I've included a copy of it here. Fortunately, it's not too bad. Apparently (as I know you'll want the details), there had been some suspicions about me and Shears which had been relayed to the woman; I'm sure you can guess by whom. You know how ridiculous such a notion is--and even Hedda, with her constant lust for news, had to admit that, as well. She was here for several hours, apparently waiting for Shears to show up (not that he's ever been to our house--does he even know where it is?). I had to give her a tour of the almost-finished nursery. I hope you'll approve of the latter, when you finally see it. I was fortunate enough to have Kate's help in its design. I'm afraid that one of my many failings seems to be a total lack of skill as a decorator--especially when it comes to a room for our child. It's just something--as you well know--that I've had little experience with before.
Anyway, back to the original topic, Hedda seemed to be basically satisfied with what she saw--and didn't see. That was the last such whisper I've heard about Andrew and myself, thankfully. It's frustrating to have to endure such lies. Still, I do wish you could come home, if just for awhile. Putting pointless rumors to rest is only the least of my reasons for wanting to see you again.
I want to linger more on this desire, but I have other events to tell you about now. There have been a few disturbances at the studio. Along with all of the usual, I've, again, had a few near-accidents lately. Two days ago, there was a sandbag which nearly landed on my head. Yesterday, a heavy set of lights crashed down on the floor within an inch of me. Before you worry more than necessary, I am fine--a little shaken, but fine. You have Andrew to thank for that. It was his quick thinking which kept me away from harm yesterday. He's even gone a little further than such immediate aid--but I'll tell you about that in a minute.
Let me first assure you again that I'm all right. I received a few, small cuts from the lights yesterday, but none of them were severe. Despite the fall I took, too, our child is unharmed. He's even been doing his best to show me this by a series of acrobatics he's recently taken to performing. If we're not careful, we'll have to put him in the circus to channel this energy. Still, I assure you that we're both quite all right.
About Andrew, he had a small fit on the set yesterday and declared that he wouldn't be back--and wouldn't allow any other actor to walk onto the set--until it was quite safe again. He even threatened to take the story of how Premier is falling apart--of how there are no professionals left working there--to Hedda. Madeline made quite a few threats in response, but he didn't listen to any of them. It probably helped that yesterday was supposed to be our last day of filming, so it's more than a little too late to replace him. He was really quite impressive--and it did seem to be in my defense.
I know that last paragraph has probably put a thousand different thoughts in your mind. Let me tell you the upshot of all of this first. While we were supposed to be through with the film, Wolfe (or possibly just Madeline--who knows?) decided that three of my costumes were all wrong, showing far too much of my expanding body. He's gotten Rene to do several redesigns which will see me squeezed into some ridiculous shape or another. Fortunately, your old friend is quite skilled at doing this without making me feel particularly uncomfortable, so don't worry on my behalf. I'll look far more discomfited than I am.
Anyway, what this means is that there will be at least a few weeks of retakes. After yesterday, though, Andrew (and, I suspect, Adrian) have made it clear that even one more, small accident will result in the sort of stories which Premier *doesn't* want to see published. Mr. Fredericks plans to start checking out the set beforehand, as well--so you see that I'm being well looked after there.
I know there's probably another worry for you here, but you don't need to agonize over it. Although I sustained those various cuts yesterday, I didn't end up anywhere near the infirmary. It turned out that Adrian had a doctor at the studio looking after her that day; he tended to me. Madeline was clearly livid, but there wasn't much she could say or infer. I wasn't denying medical attention, and I wasn't walking off the set. And I *am* fine. Please don't worry too much on my behalf.
I realize, looking back over this plea, that it's probably all for naught. If you were to tell me about some near-catastrophe you'd endured, I'd be frantic with worry. Still, I try to quell the nightmares I have with you so far away from me, so please do the same on my behalf. I love you, and I and our child are fine. Please know that I'm going to do absolutely everything I can to be well and waiting for your return.
I know you probably worry about me at the studio, but I am being well looked after there. Andrew has especially been attentive this last week or so. Still, I admit that being so protected has only made me yearn for you more. Shears--to put it mildly--is a poor substitute. All I truly wished, as he demanded that these accidents end yesterday, was that it was you beside me, defending me. I felt a positive ache looking at him and wishing to God that he were you. But he isn't--not even close. He's a little boy, and you are the one man I adore. I just can't tell you how much I want you back.
I'm sorry. I promised myself that I wouldn't sound too whiny and that I wouldn't make you feel guilty for circumstances which are in no way your fault. But I suppose I'm failing in this promise yet again. I miss you. I miss your strength and professionalism beside me on the lot, and I miss your comfort and absolute love surrounding me at home. I miss your eyes--the way they flare in love and desire and even anger on my behalf. I miss the touch of your hands and the soothing comfort of your lips. I miss the tenderness of your love which you show me at all times. And I especially miss the smile I know exists only for me. As much as I wish that I could give you the kind of pleasure which makes you smile in wonder and happiness at everything on earth, I'm greedy. There are so many parts of you I want only to myself. And I do, desperately, wish to have you back.
I'm sorry that I sound so whimpering and weak. I'm not, really, not to the world outside, at least. Still, I truly doubt that having a wife who whines and pleads like a two-year-old is in any way going to make you want to return to me. But I can't help this empty ache I have inside of me, this desperate need which can never be filled except by you. That's undoubtedly not a temptation--please return to your fat, whiny wife so that she can cling to you like a lichen--but they're my feelings all the same. Dear God, I miss you. There won't be any end to my emptiness, until you finally return to me.
I'm sorry that this is such an inadequate--and long-delayed--letter. It took awhile for your last letter to reach me, and then all these other events kept getting in the way. Now, once you finally receive it, it will be full of bad news and juvenile pleas. I'm sorry. But nothing in my life seems so bad so long as I have you by my side.
Okay, I should stop, before I tempt you any more to run away and never return. I love you so much. I miss you as though there were parts of me which had been stolen in your absence. I think there are. My heart won't really return to me, until I have you by my side once more.
I'm sorry. I'm getting all desperate again. I'll stop here. I do love you.
Your whiny, desperate wife,
Nikita
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