| Subject: Chapter 243 - Part 2 (end of chapter 243) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Monday, July 03, 03:40:35pm
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark" on Monday, May 01, 06:55:47am
His eyes were on the floor, as he tried to further his thoughts--the absolute horror of last night making any introductions, or new knowledge about these potential friends, seem utterly unimportant; images of the poor girl's body lingered, making him feel ill. They had already told him who she was--at least, as much as was known of her--as well as about the pauper's grave she would undoubtedly end up in. The police, it seemed, were more than willing to play along--which was the eternal danger of the meeting of authority and money. But to think of the girl being left, nameless and friendless, alone in a field of the forgotten--all because of the loathsome appetites and cold calculations of those who had never cared that she even lived--was far too terrible to consider for long.
He picked up on this idea, hoping there was something he could do--that Volker could do--furthering his unanswered question. "A gravestone, maybe?" They could at least give her her name in death, even if everything else had already been stolen; his eyes met the banker's--certain already of the type of man his host was. Besides, from the undercurrents between the banker and Michael, he more than suspected that he was many a person's benefactor. One more, then . . .?
Jesus. Helmut's head dropped, his hands clenched in front of him, wishing to God that there *were* something he could do. He felt Rene almost glare at the newcomer for upsetting his partner but looked to him gently, stopping him, both of them knowing the truth. However much Shears had seen, he was still an innocent to this environment; the banker's slightly red-rimmed eyes raised at last. It was only with experience that you realized how truly wide-reaching one evil act could be.
This particular evil was especially broad, as well, the very thought punishing. "I'm sorry." Shears seemed about to interrupt, forcing his host on. "If I stepped forward, paid for anything--even if I created some bogus charity to do so--the rumors would fly. How do I know her name? Why just her and not everyone else in the graveyard? Why not . . .?" The sigh was long, his eyes closing, as he stopped himself, his head falling forward once more; the fight against tears was won somewhere in the back of his throat. Once his gaze landed back blankly on the carpet, the torture in it was clear. "It's exactly the sort of opportunity Madeline's looking for."
This was clear, to everyone who knew the woman--her daughter especially, the pain of it searing, all the truths unbearable. For the first time since she had been the smallest baby, she had cried last night, had wept in her partner's arms for hours. The battle to appear normal now was still hard-fought, the anger undeniable. She was the daughter of a cold psychotic and a single-mindedly ruthless businessman; her eyes closed. And neither of them gave a damn about the good of anyone's life but their own.
She nearly broke down again at this thought--not out of self-pity but out of sheer, impotent hate. For so long, she had cultivated a distance from everyone and everything, had learned to love nothing. But now, with the affection and example of her lawful husband and the quiet devotion of her truer partner, she had opened back up to the world. And the world, yet again, had proven that it was full of nothing but aimless evil.
She had no idea where to turn through this, barely felt her lover's touch soothing over her back--the move reflected, unnoticed, in the pair across the room; it wasn't the only thing she and Helmut had in common now. Last night was almost impossible to think about, but it had brought about another unexpected, frightening truth. Had she and Helmut been left alone together, had they not had their truer partners to turn to, they might well have acted out a consummation of their marriage in a way they had never thought of doing before--just to feel alive, to have someone there who understood; they were both lucky it hadn't happened. Still, the nearness of it, the one both of them had sensed, had made her realize one thing. As well as her growing friendship with her husband, there was an absolute similarity of soul. As long as she had denied it--as little as Helmut generally acknowledged it publicly--both of them were capable of living and dying with the fates of those around them. And, for her, that self-truth might well be the scariest fact to have emerged from the night.
This idea seemed impossible to accept, goading her desolate mood on further. She hated everything for last night, hated the world for allowing--even nurturing--the ugly truths it had shown, as well as her mother and father for their absolute intentions to aid such evil in its every goal. But, most of all, she was sick with sorrow--at all the truths her husband also knew so well. In particular was the fact that this evil had no end, its repercussions lingering. It had destroyed a simple, naive child--in a far more brutal manner than any of them wished to consider. It was serving as an example of all that might happen to a loving couple who were facing a potentially-permanent separation, once again. It had deepened the already-unfathomable trauma of a woman who had barely survived an attack by two killers--one her own brother--a woman, worse yet, who was with child, another life at stake. It had used as easy publicity a gruesome murder. And, worst of all, its central victim was left not only dead as a result of all the violence done to her, but raped of even her own identity, doomed to be forgotten. It was unbearable--but it was an atrocity which simply never seemed to end.
They were all silent in the face of it, having nowhere to run. Last night, all but two of them had been forced to see the remains of the poor girl used for public entertainment--Michael, especially, forced to be an integral part of the show. It was no surprise that none of them were feeling particularly sane at the moment--the sight alone enough. But to know all of the thousand ramifications the hideous act brought with it . . .
It was almost impossible not to think into these, Kate shaking her head, as though the movement itself could rid her of the thoughts; her gaze turned to Michael, looking for distraction--knowing there was no good outcome to find in Shears' concerns. "How's Nikita doing?" She certainly hoped it was better than last night. While she had done her best to look after the woman, maternal concern wasn't her strongest suit. She had at least made certain that the actress continued to be presentable, that extra rumors didn't fly about her. Other than that, all she could really do was watch her worriedly. The actress's own husband, certainly, was the best guardian of her health.
Still, this particular guardian just shrugged now, not certain himself--and he didn't want to go into much of it with Shears in the room. While he trusted him slightly more now, any answer would have involved a discussion of the couple's earlier perils--and that was knowledge which was marginally safer, the fewer people who had it.
There were other reasons for his silence as well, the truth of the answer difficult to find, Nikita's situation perilous. All the nightmares which had mostly abandoned the poor woman had flooded her to the point of near-madness last night, leaving her a weeping wreck on her husband's shoulder. Worse yet, she had felt guilty, as though there had been something she should--something she *could*--have done to protect the girl; all his arguments had meant little. The fact that there was nothing short of physically drugging the girl before dragging her back home across the country--and even then Sondra would have had to be convinced to stay--had fallen on deaf ears. His poor wife had only known the pain of only standing by.
This was a torture he felt as well, but the true brand to his heart was his inability to look after his wife. If yesterday had taught him anything, it was that Madeline was even bolder than he had ever imagined. The weight of the studio system behind her, she was well aware that she could manipulate facts to her advantage, whatever the truth might be. The death of Nikita--or her child--would mean nothing in the face of such reckless ambition.
It was this truth which terrified him, his own nightmares intense. Over and over, in just this one first night since the incident, he had seen not poor Sondra on the ground but Nikita, had relived all the terrors he had felt in the days before the attack. Now, too, with his coming departure, their enemies' way was clear; his fists clenched. If her husband was in another country, or potentially on another continent, then his wife would be . . .
He refused to finish this thought, gaze suddenly sinking into those around him--the look fierce. "I need a promise from all of you." When their eyes met his, he could see their shock at his intensity, but he didn't back down. "No matter what, take care of Nikita. Madeline will try to kill our child, and I know you'll do your best to stop her." They were nodding, as he closed his eyes--bracing himself for the rest. "But, if worst comes to worst . . ." His look was blazing by the time it returned to them, his voice lower--as though he feared she would hear. "Make certain *she* lives."
The message he gave them was barely coded--their reactions just as apparent. While both Rene and Helmut nodded, knowing the dependency of this man's soul on the woman's existence--as well as Nikita's on his--Terry and Kate both paused, staring into each other. Still, a moment later, they nodded as well. As pained as Nikita might be to lose her child, she *could* survive. It was quite clear, from the look in his eyes, that Michael had every intention of coming back to her alive--and that was the one fact the woman most needed in order to go on.
What he might have to do to ensure his return none of them wished to think about, the silence continuing; Shears was the only one left surprised and uncertain. While he didn't doubt that Michael wished for his child's safety, it was difficult for him to imagine a father who wouldn't be absolutely focused on his child. True, a good man--as he suspected of Samuelle--might need both his wife and child, not seeing the mother as simply the vessel which brought him such a product; his confused look lingered. But he couldn't imagine any man who wouldn't put the child, at least somewhat, first.
It wasn't that Andrew was uncaring, wasn't that he saw women as breeders for the men who chose them; his concern was more based on his knowledge of his own mother. To Daisy Shears, her child was everything, was the *reason* for everything. Knowing Kitty as he did--or as he at least imagined he did--he was convinced that she would always put her child before herself, was convinced that any decent woman should. It just didn't occur to him that any woman he might like would ever see her own life as taking even momentary precedence.
The whole party was looking at him, waiting for his assent--which he eventually gave--but it was rather hard-won and, in truth, rather different from his peers. What he had just silently promised was that he would do his best to see to her welfare--and, thereby, the welfare of her child; it was what both Michael and Kitty wanted most, anyway. Should a choice ever need to be made . . . well, hopefully he wouldn't be there to make it, because it wouldn't be the same one as those around him; his mind spun at their logic, utterly unclear. How could any man ever forgive himself or his wife for choosing her life over their child's?
Michael's gaze moved into him deeply, watching the struggle, before he sighed--seeing that this was the best he would get. And, once again, he was happy that he alone had won Nikita's love--knowing the woman she was. Once their child was born--should they all be fortunate enough to reach that point together--he knew how they would act. For neither of them would the child be wholly first; instead, their son--if his wife were right about that fact--would be *equally* as important as their own happiness and souls.
He focused here now, calmed by the possibilities--hopeful for the future. Perhaps, they were selfish; perhaps, they were sane. He didn't have the right answer. But he did know one thing. For as long as it was possible, he would see to his wife's contentment--and then he, and whatever children they were lucky enough to have, would live off its bounty for the rest of their lives.
[End of Part 243]
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