| Subject: Chapter 258 - Part 1 |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Monday, October 23, 07:12:14am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark (258>?) continued" on Monday, October 23, 07:10:30am
Dreams in the Dark (258/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
She was vacillating; she knew it. While her grandmother was pushing her to accept some new "protector," she was secretly praying that she wouldn't need him. After all, she had been through this before--and there was no part of her which would ever wish for a repeat of the past.
Nikita was sighing, as she settled herself into the chair at a desk in one of Adrian's many sitting rooms, readying herself to read her husband's new letter. While she was thrilled to have it, she felt almost guilty, knowing what hadn't been said, all the terrible knowledge she had spared him. Still, her dear husband would worry enough over what he already knew. To tell him about everything . . .
She tried not to feel this way, to fight off the lingering guilt--but it tended to overwhelm her, nonetheless. Even if it might have been difficult to adequately explain such fears in a letter which could be perused by outsiders, to write it in some way which wouldn't make them suspicious, that hadn't been the real reason for her omission. She simply hadn't wanted to worry him further. But it was this silence which was her greatest crime now.
She knew this, so deeply, understanding too well the way she and Michael worked. For so long, they had only hurt each other with what went unspoken, with all those details and feelings they couldn't relate. They had promised more than once not to repeat the error, to open themselves completely; her heart clenched. And now, here she was, committing the same crime all over again.
She hated this fact, almost hated herself for it--the week and a half which had passed since she had last written him increasingly difficult. Due to Madeline's constant demands, the public appearances the studio commanded her into even on Sunday, her ankle had not had the time or opportunity to heal. She was limping around, often carried back to the car or into the house by Geoffrey--who was probably going to develop a hernia, considering the weight little Adrian was causing her to gain. But none of this looked likely to solve itself anytime soon.
These truths didn't encourage her, the weight gain alone causing even more problems. Already poor Rene was having to readjust her costumes, looked as though he might have to many more times, before the end. At just four? five?--the doctors thought it to be the former, but she still wasn't sure--months along, her whole body was starting to change. What had, a few weeks ago, been a small secret was quickly becoming a topic for open comment and debate. And none of this was making her life at the studio--or in her grandmother's home--any easier now.
She didn't know if it were this particular change which was causing her the most distress lately or whether it were merely an aggravating factor; she suspected the latter. She had never been particularly vain about her weight--her body a bit *too* slender, her curves never eye-catching enough to merit anything like pride. But, then again, she had never before had to watch her pounds very closely. True, the studio had caused her to slim down just a bit--the camera's distortions making any actor need to be a good deal smaller than they wished to appear on screen--but it had never really been an issue. Now, when all her food had to be so closely watched for other reasons, Madeline's attempts against her always varied, she was facing real hunger; there was a sigh. But it was the first time she had been forced to deal with such self-conceptions in her life.
The lack of food, at least, wasn't entirely alien to Nikita, her time in her mother's house rarely a well-nourished one. That she was in as robust health as ever spoke solely to having incredibly strong genes--most children who were malnourished feeling its lifetime effects, whatever food they might find as adults. Still, she had been used to scrounging when she was little; it had started as a game and then become a simple routine. To find that, no matter what happened, she was always so incredibly hungry now . . .
She didn't really understand this, as much as she knew that it was probably normal for any woman in her condition. The morning sickness might come and go--never even half so serious as it had been for those few days on the train--but the hunger remained. Even had she had enough food during the day--rather than the measly portions Geoffrey was managing to keep safe for her--she suspected that the problem wouldn't wane by much. She just never seemed to have half enough to eat. And yet her weight . . .
Both sides of this conundrum were becoming a real problem for her now--Madeline always looking for an opening. That her body was changing gave the woman an excuse to probe, to try to control her; certainly, it always meant that she was free to insult. That all of this was caused by the life of Nikita's child growing within her meant nothing to the tutor. It was this which she was most anxious to extinguish, after all.
Nikita's hand rubbed over her belly, her letter from her husband still unopened--too many anxieties pressing in. She almost feared his response, knew he would be upset at what had happened--what little she had told him--knew he might blame her. But no. She shook her head, eyes closed--bringing herself back. He wouldn't blame her at all. Her look returned blankly to the wall. But maybe it was time he started to.
Her gaze fell upon the letter once more, hating all of these thoughts, every part of her life tormenting. Part of her even wondered whether she should feel like a failure over her new weight--which wasn't yet a particularly serious addition of pounds but would certainly appear so on film, without constant vigilance--wondering whether her husband were better off not being here. He had married a somewhat glamorous--at least with the studio's help--and slim young woman. When he returned, she feared that he would find a fat, frumpy matron waiting in her place. She felt the tears welling, wondering what was wrong with her. But even worse was the fear that he would come to seriously regret the bargain he had made.
She felt even guiltier for this possibility, wondering whether she had somehow trapped him into this life. He was a man of the world, could have anyone. And she was . . .
She felt the tears getting ready to fall, had to wipe them away irritably, wondering when she had grown so weak. Maybe it was just her condition--all of these fears possibly inevitable; she sniffed slightly. But that didn't really make her situation any better now.
She began to rip open the envelope, barely looking at it, not understanding herself at all--too lost in the side effects of her hunger to be able to. The last time she had lived in such a state she had thought it normal, had known nothing else. Now that she was older, had experienced what it was like not to be constantly hungry, with no hope of satiation, it was harder to cope. She had yet to realize that a thorough lack of nutrition had not only the expected physical side effects but definite emotional ones, as well.
The half-despair she currently lived in was certainly only aided by the details of her life--so many of them painful in their fear. Still, had she simply been allowed to eat what she needed, when she needed it--had there not been the concerns both about the spiking of her food or the gaining of weight, which was somewhat inevitable when carrying a second life within her--she would have been able to look through her terrors more clearly. It was only her body's hunger which made it so impossible to calmly examine her feelings now.
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