| Subject: Chapter 244 - Part 1 |
Author:
KatherineG.
|
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
Date Posted: Wednesday, July 05, 06:50:05am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark" on Monday, May 01, 06:55:47am
Dreams in the Dark (244/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
The world was spinning, events keeping up a hideous kaleidoscopic motion around her--every new one just adding to the unpleasant rushing sensation. Even lying down didn't help. If it weren't for the presence of little Adrian inside her, she might truly wonder about her health of late; her hand went to her abdomen, stroking over it gently--calming her unborn child. But she knew better than to worry too much, on that account. The presence of new life always caused at least its equal amount of worry and pain.
This didn't seem to be a very fair notion to Nikita just now, but she couldn't deny the idea's truth; despite the usual propaganda, few women's pregnancies were pleasant and easy. While her morning sickness had, happily, dwindled since the terrible train rides a week or so ago, it was coming back to her today with a vengeance; an unpleasant shudder moved down along her spine. But that was only to be expected after the soul-chilling sight of the night before.
Her arm moved over her eyes, where she lay on Helmut and Rene's large, comfortable bed, almost wishing she could block out the memory as easily. But she knew that couldn't happen. Until the day she died, she would be haunted by the sight of three dead people--the murder of one of them happening just in front of her. And, while they might not all have been innocent, they were visions she would find difficult to forget, even in her sleep.
This wasn't a very cheerful fact, just now. Especially with the departure of her dear husband so close at hand, every day which passed was simply another click of the secondhand, counting down toward their emotional execution. Still, she did have one thing to hold onto with his leaving, one reminder to get her through; her fingers rubbed more steadily over the place where her infant waited for his debut, a sudden determination lighting within her. *No one* was going to take him away from her without a very pitched fight.
Her eyes were burning at this intention, the sensation moving like a fire through her soul, as both hands rubbed over her abdomen. She almost thought that she understood how her poor mother must have felt, the desperation which must have seized her, when she realized that her child was trapped between the unholy affections of its demented excuse for a grandfather and the refined killer who had helped bring her life. Her running away from this place, from all it represented, made *so much* sense; Nikita's sigh went deep. If only she could will Michael and herself through these next few . . . however long it might be . . . she was almost determined to get them as far away from this town as possible, as well.
She sighed a moment later at this lovely dream, a fantasy which she would hold close to her on many a long, cold night to come--but its reality was far less assured. All questions of survival aside--as they had to be, if she had any hope of retaining her sanity--there were still no guarantees on what would await them, after his return. Even assuming all three of them were well, there was no telling what their status in Hollywood, or the country, might be--quiet retirement potentially either an immediate necessity or an utter impossibility. And what if each of them faced the opposite end of such public expectations? She shuddered through, trying not to think about it. Well, that was just another disaster which they would have to survive long enough to face.
These thoughts were unsettling, would have worked her far more roughly, had she not had bigger concerns on her mind. Even leaving aside the issue of what her demented father might do with them, were Michael to return home safe and sound, there were much more immediate issues they were facing--but none of them were likely to put her mind at anything like ease.
The shudder this time seemed to move down to her soul, her conscious will--or perhaps conscious fantasy of such an idea's easy and negative influence--working hard to stop it short of her child. Even worse, the murder, the mutilation--she had to choke back the urge to be sick at the memories--of her poor stand-in was only a sideline to her other concerns, thoughts of the other night bruising her soul. As much as she wished that she could have done something--although God only knew *what*--to help Sondra, it had been clear from the moment the girl had gotten involved with that wretch Bauer that she would have no good end. It had been terrible to see, even before its horrible conclusion. But, worst of all was the fact that some of the girl's fate could probably be blamed on her own self-delusions; the shiver started again. But those were the hardest kind of threats from which to find salvation.
It was this fact which sidetracked her, derailing for a moment her more personal fears. After last night's gruesome sight, it wasn't surprising. Still, constant reflection on the poor girl's fate had led her to one, new thought. As much as she wished that she could have saved her, Michael was right; there had been nothing she could do. Her heart ached at the truth. But there was no way she could settle herself so easily about Sondra's fate.
She couldn't stop thinking about it, certainly hadn't since last night's hideous revelation. Still, the girl had clearly arrived in the city in the throes of utter delusion, bore all the symptoms of being thoroughly star-struck. Believing all the hype, all the lies, which Hollywood so freely offered, she actually thought that the streets here were paved with gold, that every girl like her who arrived, wide-eyed and willing, would be treated fairly, that the lucky ones--and the ones who believed this sort of drivel always thought *they* would be the lucky ones--would be given a contract with ease, that she would be wearing furs and dating the town's gentlemanly stars within a few weeks, at most. Nikita snorted, despite herself. Well, they were always wrong. And it had only been to the poor girl's fatal detriment that she had been forced to find out just how deep her delusions went.
Nikita couldn't stop thinking through this now, such fantasies almost unimaginable for her. None of the town's stars were gentlemen, every one--at least--more than willing to take advantage of what the city so freely offered; her own, beloved husband had been no exception, before he had met either she or the ill-fated Simone, even if he undoubtedly hadn't been quite as ruthless in his affections as some. While Michael would never have offered a girl a dream and then have substituted a bed--or the infamous casting couch--that didn't mean the majority of the men here wouldn't; the snort nearly returned. That was, all those who were willing to date women would. But the rest were a very different sort of story.
Her grim outlook on the men this town held wasn't surprising, as fond of--as desperately in love with--some of them as she was. And it was certainly well-founded. While she imagined her own Michael as being more open about what he offered and wanted from the newcomers, she didn't imagine that he would have had any moral qualms about taking advantage of what was freely and knowingly given to him; the shudder came back. But the rest of them . . .
Her hand rubbed over her eyes, trying to pull herself through these images, as difficult as that was, not wanting to finish the thought--even as the graphic visions of Hell last night had offered flooded through her brain; she could barely help the groan, hating the entire system. It really seemed like this town *thrived* on the flood of innocent--or, in some cases, simply naive--young girls who came seeking the fulfillment of all the lies Hollywood spread; the many prostitutes the city was renowned to hold was certainly testament to that. Sondra was only one example. In fact, when Nikita had first tried to warn her about this place--the almost-forgotten memory made the woman's hand drop, opening her eyes--the girl had clearly believed that the actress was just trying to hurt her, to keep her away from the riches which were supposedly freely handed out at every studio gate. Even once it appeared that Sondra had seen just a little of the evil which the place routinely dished out, it had still seemed impossible to convince her to turn away; Nikita sighed, wondering if anything could have been done. In some ways, she supposed not--the delusions, once instilled, *very* difficult to destroy; her head shook. But she did so wish that there had been some possibility of salvation now.
It hurt to think through such memories, the actress's mind suddenly veering away, to the question of why she herself hadn't been as unfortunate; it took a while to ponder it--but she finally realized her own situation had been very different, her grandmother the key to it all. While Nikita had decided to take the contract she had been offered, she wouldn't have ever pursued one, had fate not thrown such a temptation in her way; she had only enjoyed watching the activities of studio life--and the glamour of that interest would have faded soon enough. The only reason she had even come to the city had been because of her family, not out of dreams or hopes; she hadn't even been certain that she should believe a good ending was possible for her, then. And she had never truly dreamed of dating the stars, of pursuing the gorgeous men the town held--had always understood the difference between fantasy and real life; her head shook, as the thoughts veered. In fact, when she had first arrived, she had simply been happy enough to *not* be the focus of any man. Oh, no. The endangered life she had led in her mother's house had taught her all-too-well about that.
Her own situation had been very different from Sondra's, therefore--but it was still difficult not to feel horribly sorry for the poor, star-struck girl. It hadn't been her own, original idea that sweet young girls were easily transformed into stars but Hollywood's; Nikita's heart sank. It was only sad that there had been little she could do to help her out.
There hadn't been, of course--Sondra's fate probably sealed from the moment she had met the hideous Bauer. Escape from such an evil required not only will--which every part of society did its damnedest to crush out of every woman--but powerful and significant help. In a city, in a country, in a world, which saw women as commodities--patronized on one hand and beaten on the other--it was almost impossible to find any way out. Nikita herself had been *damn* lucky. Finding a husband, a male protector, who actually saw a woman as a human being, one who was capable of real respect, was about the only chance. And that was such a very rare find that it was almost mythical.
Nikita sighed at this truth, both hands on her belly, wondering where any of this left any of them. In some ways, she could see how fortunate she had been--saw a terrible trend she knew no way out of. Every woman she knew who retained even a particle of her soul was in the same situation as she was, if in many, various forms. Terry and Kate had Helmut; Adrian, the dreadful Mr. Murrin; Susan, her brother; and Angie, her employer, then her boyfriend. The sigh went deeper. They were different situations but all the same case. In every one, the women lived, sometimes even thrived, because a decent or powerful man looked over her, made certain she remained unharmed. But as to the girls who landed in the hands of someone such as Bauer . . . no. A girl such as Sondra was doomed from the start.
This truth hurt, settling her very little; nothing on earth could resign her to anything like such a torturous fate, for any woman. Even the murderous Madeline didn't deserve it--no one did; the long sigh returned. But in a world such as this one, every woman was only ever one step away from such a painful and degraded end.
These realizations did little to encourage her, the sight of Sondra's body--the truths it held--impossible to overcome. But they did settle her on one point, as disgusting as it was. She couldn't have helped the girl. No matter how much she might have tried, the situation had been far beyond her ability to control.
She didn't like this fact, wasn't calmed by it. It was impossible to be. But the sickness which had resulted, this time, in the girl's death was only a symptom of one of the diseases the world seemed to suffer from. She could rail against it, in whatever ways life allowed, but she could never entirely see its end.
The pain of this truth hurt her, her hands rubbing over her abdomen, almost happy that her child--she was sure--would be a boy. In a world such as this one, the deck was stacked--every girl only a hair's breadth away from disaster. Only boys had some sort of a chance at life.
This thought made her shake her head, the sadness deepening--her hope that her husband managed to make it back from his military service quite deep. He would need to, after all, if their child were to have some sort of a chance at conscience and morality--would need his example to follow. This world was so stacked against a woman raising a child--especially a boy--alone, was so intense in the vitriol it spewed, even when it was feigning concern, that true decency would be almost impossible for him, otherwise.
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
| |
Feedback: 
