| Subject: Chapter 254 - Part 2 (end of chapter 254) |
Author:
KatherineG.
|
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
Date Posted: Wednesday, October 04, 07:28:35am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark" on Monday, May 01, 06:55:47am
She flipped through the first few letters, trying not to think--but it didn't get her very far, her need for Michael growing even stronger in silence; she hadn't thought that possible before. When the first few letters proved to be nothing of importance, she sighed, her heart sinking--bracing herself for the exact same outcome as each of the last 13 days. But then she saw it, one corner raised slightly askew from the rest, showing her just a fraction of an address--and a name; her heart nearly stopped beating, before she tore the envelope open almost frantically. That someone, evidently, had--more efficiently--looked into it before didn't stop her. Finally, he was hers again.
She felt no sense of shock at this intrusion into their private correspondence, had expected it, having been told that it was normal during wartime--when "How's the kids?" or "I love you" were suddenly microscopically examined for traces of treason. She had given herself a rather vicious paper cut in her desperation to get to his message, but she really didn't care; he had finally written. Her heart sighed, finger in her mouth to stop the unnoticed bleeding. Now, she would have some small piece of him at last.
It took her a second, before she started reading, her eyes simply gazing in love at his handwriting. No, it was wasn't perfect or polished--only his signature worked on to create the proper flourish--but it was beautiful to her, all the same. She could nearly feel her heart seize, as she braced herself to read it, wondering what his message would contain. Given how desperate she was for more of him, she knew that she was probably bound to be disappointed.
Her timidity didn't last long, however, her need for him far too strong. And, once she began reading, she couldn't devour his words fast enough. They only covered the front and back of one page, which didn't seem enough to her, right now. But she was so very happy for anything of him she could have.
It occurred to her--somewhere in the back of her mind--as she read, that her desperation for him must mirror fairly closely what his various fans felt. What would it be like never to have known him, only to see the pictures, to have to sit in the dark with dozens or hundreds of others to moon over his character's face and actions there? What would it be like to never hear his voice in person, to never have it whisper your name? How could any woman stand the pain of only--at best--having an autographed photo, and, even then, probably one which some studio underling had signed? No. Her head shook. That was impossible. No sane woman could ever survive without him for long.
She was proving this herself lately--or so she felt--as she raced through and reexamined every line of his note. As she did, three thoughts came to her most of all--but none of them made her feel any further away from madness.
The first of these was the obvious truth that his primary focus, whatever was happening to him, was for her and her life; her heart swelled, her throat having to work to swallow back the sudden tears, not wanting to mar his precious letter with them. As hungry as she was for news of him and his life, she loved him for his devotion, his ever-patient concern. That he could go through the Hell he undoubtedly was living in and still worry over her touched her deeply; her sigh lingered. She would have to quiet these fears of his soon.
This wasn't her only impression of his messages to her, however--the second important one existing more in what wasn't said. Had his time there been significantly better than he had expected, he would have said so, would have let her know more--even if he couldn't have told her the exact details without fear of censorship. That he barely touched on his situation worried her--even his few hints of its emptiness and lack of privacy twisting her soul. Ohh, she wanted him back; she had to blink to keep away the tears. It just wasn't fair that he wasn't with her all the time.
She couldn't ponder this detail just now, couldn't allow it, her mind wandering on to the most obvious of her realizations. Despite his apologies for the letter's brevity, this one lay in just how much he said, how open he was here. It wasn't that this was significantly different from the Michael she knew when they were alone together--her lover always so open to her--but to see so many of his words together on one sheet made her think. Usually, in their conversations, at least half of what was said was spoken without words--in looks, or touches, or simple silences. To have him so far away, even when he was trying to be less explicit in his concerns, forced him to reveal more of himself in words at one time than she had ever known in their life together. Her smile lingered. She only wondered whether she would be able to do without such professions again, once he came home.
The smile warmed her, as she looked over the letter for the third or fourth time--knowing the answer well. Yes, she would survive, would thrive in his very presence; she always had, her real life beginning once they had met--as she was well aware part of his had, as well. Words between them, when they were together, were only, generally, confirmations of facts they already knew; the warmth lingered. But they would have many of those, once he was home once more.
She was still smiling, as she ran off to find some stationery, needing to respond right now. Perhaps their correspondence wouldn't be as voluminous as either of them needed, but it alone would get them through; she had no doubts, for now. Whatever might happen, Michael *would* come home to her. And then they and their child could be happy once more.
Extra note: I know I have a mail service on Sunday in this part, which is a pretty ridiculous concept nowadays. Still, I've heard that it wasn't many years ago. In fact, in the unpleasant, and rather small, town I grew up in, there were still two mail deliveries a day Monday-Saturday and one on Sundays in the 1970s. I'm making an assumption, therefore. Forgive me, if I'm wrong.
[End of Part 254]
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
| |
Feedback: 
