| Subject: Chapter 254 - Part 1 |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Wednesday, October 04, 07:26:55am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark" on Monday, May 01, 06:55:47am
Dreams in the Dark (254/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
She had been checking the mailbox every day, waited constantly by the phone. Although she knew that her husband had made it to his destination safely, had heard nothing to indicate that he was hurt, her vigilance never wavered. More than anything, she just wanted to hear from him. The sound of his voice was a gift she missed more than she could have previously imagined possible.
Nikita was sighing, as she came back to her little house, the one which seemed so very empty with her husband gone. Never before his departure had she been left alone there for any amount of time. She could only remember one other incident, in fact--and that was one she would rather have forgotten for good.
Her feelings of abandonment, of vulnerability, during her attack by Hillinger and her brother were almost nothing to her current emotions. Every day, she made her way to the studio by herself, did her best to keep an eye out for any of Madeline's games, while isolating herself from nearly everyone. Even when her friends or allies were close to her, she felt no real sense of companionship or comradery. All she could think about was Michael. Her life was so startlingly empty without him.
Of course, this fact had always been inevitable. From the day of her grandmother's news of his forthcoming recruitment to the moment when he had boarded that plane--the whirr of the propellers, as they started up, making it ever-more difficult to see his beautiful face through the window--she had known that she would be alone. It might not be the first time in her life that it had happened--her entire childhood empty of friends and love in any deeper fact, if not always on its surface--but it was undoubtedly the most painful. No matter how much she tried, there was just no sense of peace outside of him anymore.
She had made her way out of the car by now, was wandering toward the mailbox near the front door--was bracing herself for the disappointment. Every day since he had left, she had nearly run home, tossing open the small box to demand of it some small message from him; it hadn't happened yet. And, if she had already had to live for two weeks without a word from him, her chances for gaining such a bounty today were every bit as small.
She found herself just standing there, staring at the box, not wanting to open it--not wanting to face the inevitable sadness. Each day without some small note from him had made her sorrow grow, the sensation now making a real attempt to overcome her soul. She wasn't certain that she could withstand the pain of nothing again; she took a deep breath, opening its top to reach inside--while looking the other way. Maybe if she just didn't see its contents, for now, she would be alright.
She told herself this, tried to believe; it was far easier than the truth. Then, with this plan firmly--if temporarily--in her soul, she clutched the letters in one hand, opening the door with the other, before moving inside. She would need to work up her strength for the inescapable disappointment today.
She sat down on the couch, door locked behind her, and stared out into the living room--the one which had seen so many changes between them. Here, there had been love and passion and misunderstanding and rage; here, they had made some small part of every large decision of their lives as one. The letters sat on her purse unnoticed, her gaze firmly elsewhere. Perhaps this place would survive being witness to her sadness once more. It was certainly the predominant theme of her time left alone.
She didn't want to think into this now, couldn't think about her current life without a sense of sorrow almost too overwhelming to bear. It wasn't that Nikita was, generally, a submissive or a dependent person; she had survived 19 years of, sometimes quite intense, poverty, nursemaiding her drunken and syphilitic mother, while fighting off that woman's various boyfriends--rarely a kind word spoken to her that she could remember. She had faced down her own, criminal father with a gun to demand the safety of the man she loved--had survived near-rape not only at Fanning's hands, and in Hillinger's brutal eyes, but from dozens of men in her mother's house. She had never been a shrinking violet, had usually been accused of just the opposite by the boys and men in her youth--such strength always a high crime against femininity. But the loneliness of being without her husband was a pain unlike any other she had known.
She couldn't get past it, couldn't force herself to forget; she took a deep breath, trying to move on--but her thoughts didn't roam far. While she didn't blame her husband for his silence, didn't think him in any way responsible for it--knew that he was undoubtedly suffering at least as much, and probably infinitely more, than she was--his silence, however enforced it might be, was a burden. For almost every day for over a year and a half--for almost the entire time she had been back in this country--he had been there. On set, on ordered dates, then, slowly, in their free time together--until every night and day belonged only to each other, wherever both of them might actually have been--they had been close. Now, for the first real time, there was separation; her eyes closed. And it was a parting which she was discovering no ability to withstand.
This truth shuddered through her on an emotional level, even if the reality of her day-to-day interactions were quite different. To the world around her, she was much the same as she had always been--friendly, dedicated to her work, willing to do what was necessary to make the basic processes of studio life move on. There seemed little difference in her to the casual observer. It was only those who knew her well who saw how broken she truly was.
It was the fragmenting of her soul without her partner near which was almost impossible to get past. Today was Sunday, and she had been over at her grandmother's house in hopes of gaining some sort of hint of Michael's current life--Adrian her only real link to the man so far. Everything she knew of him, as the moment, she knew from the older actress: the basics of where he was, the job he was training for, the men who commanded him. While none of this news might have been entirely encouraging, it was still news, still told her *something* of her beloved. For now, that was all she could hope to gain.
There was little more she had gained today, however, her sigh going deep, as her head fell tiredly onto the back on the couch. Her grandmother had mentioned that newsreel cameras might be filming him soon, using him as a shill to drag in other men to the cause; the thought wasn't entirely encouraging. While such a report might allow her to actually see him, to have more of a feeling for his life--which she desperately craved--she couldn't wholly support the recruit of other men. Not if it left their partners feeling as utterly bereft as she did now.
The sigh came once more, as she stared at the ceiling, wondering yet again how she would survive his absence. While she understood that life could be worse--*far* worse, her father deciding to kill her husband, or to allow herself to be given to Hillinger, or others just as despicable--it was so difficult to go on without Michael beside her. Yes, the cause he fought for seemed as just as any; the way that Peter shuddered when reading the latest on the war in the newspapers, before hiding the reports from his sister, would have told her that on its own. The ones he would help retrieve information on were not good, would willingly destroy all of those she cared about; her hand went to her abdomen, running soothingly over the child she carried. But blood on top of blood never seemed a sane way to solve anything.
There was probably no other answer at the moment, of course--their enemies making that obvious, as their conquests grew. Already Poland was theirs; she didn't doubt, as did some, that other countries would follow, that the world's problems might one day come far closer to home. But none of this could make her feel quite sane or sanguine about it all, her husband caught up in battles that he--that no one--should have to fight. He especially was needed elsewhere; her hand spanned her belly. He was needed right here with her.
Her eyes closed again, her head rising, as she shook it at her own selfishness, knowing how self-serving her need for him was. Apparently, it was alright with her if a thousand other women lost their husbands to the war--and they would; her eyes opened. It just wasn't okay, if it was hers.
There was a deep sigh, her insights at least a little selfish--but she did see deeper than these. No. It wasn't that she wished for the deaths of *anyone*, wanted more than anything to simply have the world's madness disappear. No matter how hard she thought about it, war didn't make sense to her. She had heard far too many stories of the destruction and madness of the Great War. No matter what the professed cause, she had no desire for her Michael--or anyone else--to die in a dirty, frozen trench in a barb wire-strewn, rat-infested battlefield ever again.
The shudder which caught her, as she pondered such an image was too great; she had to rub her hand more fully over her belly to apologize to her child, pulling herself together. She couldn't think like this, couldn't allow it; the facts of the current conflict were only part of her reasoning. Michael, when his time to serve came, would be in an airplane, not on the ground; he wouldn't even--according to Adrian--be actively engaged in fighting. But these reassurances meant little, her husband still in grave danger. In the Great War, flyers had had limited lifespans, at best; the shudder rose once more. More than anything, she wanted to see him alive and well at home again, very soon.
She knew her thoughts were partly selfish, her need for her husband the root of most of them--but she wasn't entirely blind. Perhaps the world's madness had grown too far; perhaps it would soon overtake them all. Perhaps it did need to be stopped. But none of these facts made the slaughter to come justifiable--nothing could. There was just no set of enemies, no matter how great, who could make that acceptable to her now.
There were many reasons for these feelings, was a lot of history behind them. Still, perhaps the greatest one, at the moment, lay beneath her hand; she stared down at her abdomen, eyes almost tearing. More than anything, she didn't wish her son to be born into a world where he was taught how to kill; she had to swallow back the fears heavily, praying for his safety. She only wanted him to understand comfort and humanity now.
These emotions went deep, were not the work of a moment. Her dislike of such violence was all-encompassing--existing in both her view of the wider world and in her own surroundings. Even when her life--her husband's life--had been threatened by Hillinger and the others, she had still been entirely uncertain whether she could pull the trigger, the moral questions undeniable; that she had been caught in a stand-off had been the least of her fears. Did her own safety really outweigh another person's life--no matter how despicable that person might be? Could she--could anyone--ever have the *right* to kill? Her head shook, eyes determined. No--they couldn't; the sigh lingered. It had only been her husband's safety, the thoughts of what these men might do to both of them, which had made her think otherwise, for awhile.
It wasn't that Nikita was suicidal, her own life meaningless to her, certainly hadn't been that she had wanted to die--although that would undoubtedly have been the preferable option to the life which enslavement to Hillinger would have brought. No--it was more this belief that the world seemed to worship--that the deaths of others could somehow bring peace or hope or prosperity--which she simply could not accept; it made no logical sense. No matter what the causes, there was a madness to the idea which would always destroy her soul.
This truth only made her current situation that much worse--her husband's part in whatever destruction might be coming making all her fears grow. While she needed him to stay safe, to stay alive, she kept praying that he could manage this without taking another person's life. She remembered his emotions only too clearly during the days before the attack--the closing in, as he prepared to kill to save her; her head shook. She didn't want that, didn't want to be the one who forced him to give up his soul--didn't want it to be given up. The sigh lingered. She just wanted him to be back and safe--and for everyone to come to their senses once more.
She closed her eyes again, knowing how utterly impossible such a hope was, understanding well that it was only a fantasy. Her fingers moved over to stroke along her mail, instead--as though she would actually gain some word of her beloved one there. Probably, she thought with a smile, she was simply fondling some bill; there was almost a laugh. But the illusion of a connection--of having some sense of his compassion near to soothe her--would help to get her through, for now.
The smile lingered, wondrously, as her mind moved on, leaving the world's problems to someone else. But her sanity didn't linger long, the smile fading, as she felt the echoing hollowness of her life take hold once more; her eyes closed for a moment, head turning to look through her mail. Maybe she really should face the inevitable now.
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