| Subject: Chapter 256 - Part 1 |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Monday, October 16, 07:14:46am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark" on Monday, May 01, 06:55:47am
Dreams in the Dark (256/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
The time waiting was always the worst--every moment dragging by, begging for reprieve. Since she had last written Michael, 10 long days had passed, days during which many things had started to happen at the studio--things she feared. But, even with her new anxieties, there was only one focus. She just wanted to hear from him again.
Nikita was sighing, but, this time, it was with at least a little pleasure. It was a rare sound for her these days, one little at Premier ever caused. For only the second time since his departure, she had a new letter from Michael; her smile widened. And having this long missive in her hands today of all days made it even better than the first.
She couldn't stop the warm feeling of joy which ran through her, despite recent events--this tender emotion which had started the moment she had opened her mailbox. She had no idea how they had done it, the postmark on the envelope just four days before, but her lovely mailman--and all those who worked with him--had brought this message to her almost immediately; she settled herself at a large writing desk, and finally began to enjoy his message. It felt so wonderful just to hear from him again. It read:
My beautiful Nikita,
Receiving your letter made me both unbelievably happy and sad. Just seeing your writing on the page made me love you more. Knowing that you're well gives me hope. Yet you constantly berate yourself for loving me, for wanting me back. Why can't you realize how much your need for me makes my love grow?
I can't bear it, when you deride yourself. I can't stand to see how little you appreciate your own beauty and strength. I know your days without me are difficult--I know, because my own without you are endless--but please realize how happy it makes me to know that you miss me. You were so young, when we fell in love. I suppose part of me always fears that you'll someday come to your senses.
I know you're being strong without me. I know you're surviving every small and large insult with all your usual dignity and courage. I only wish that I could be there to show you how much I love you for enduring all of it for me.
So, please, my love. Don't say such terrible things about yourself. If a man were to suggest them about you within my hearing, he'd soon find himself with a black eye--as little as you would appreciate such violence on your behalf. When you do it, it makes my soul ache to hold you, until you realize the truth. I love you; you are beautiful, and there's no one else on earth I'll ever treasure more.
Now that I hope you've stopped such untruthful pastimes, I want to know more. You mention the "hints" the studio has given. What are they? What do you know of their plans? Even if it seems minor, even if you don't wish to pass along information which might lead nowhere in particular, I need to hear it. I worry far more just imagining. Please let me know the truth.
You ask about my life here. I'm not certain how much I'm allowed to tell you. Let me just say that our days are long--many times longer than at the studio. Still, don't worry for me. Your husband is made of sterner stuff, however old he may be. All those lovely moments with you have given me back my youth.
There are many others here in the same training with me; all of them are younger. They come from many different places and backgrounds, and some of us mesh much more easily than others. Still, you know the types of people we meet. Given some of our acquaintances, I'm encountering nothing I'm not entirely capable of handling.
I will say, though, that the arrival of your last letter made quite an impression on my fellow recruits; you're quite popular here. I'm afraid that your real name is now known to all. I couldn't have them thinking that I had two different wives.
Still, I'll do my best to keep all details you send me to myself. I'm too greedy for them to let them become public knowledge.
I suppose the only other thing to tell you is that we'll soon be visited by the newsreel people. I'm certain, once that happens, that you'll be able to see me somehow. Maybe that can convince you that I'm safe.
The only real concern I have is for you--and our child. If I know my Nikita is well, everything else is unimportant. Please tell me about everything which happens.
I want to know what's happening with our little Adrian, too. Has the morning sickness returned? Has he given any more hints to the world that he's here? (I'll defer to your judgment that our child is a son. As much as I'd love to hold a small version of you, you're undoubtedly far wiser than I am.) How are you handling the days at the studio? Is the exhaustion or pressure too much for you? I need as much information as you can bear to give.
I miss you, my one. I miss hearing your voice. I miss holding you close. Nothing outside of you can give me any real joy. Please remember that and keep yourself safe for me.
Your adoring husband,
Michael
The letter, even its gentle rebukes, brought tears to her eyes--her memories constant, her love for him so deep. Most of his words were so tender and loving, told her so much. The only real time her husband ever berated her was either when he was terrified for her safety or broken at her self-doubts. It seemed to destroy something within him that he couldn't make her view herself the way that he did; her sigh was loving. Even his lack of gentleness could make her smile.
She was worried about some of his information, however--or, at least, about the hints he had given. As expected, he seemed to be having some real trouble with his fellow recruits; it wasn't surprising, given that he was back in the country which had made his youth such hell. Still, she hadn't expected that they would also dislike him for his connection to her--for his star status, perhaps, but not for this. It made her mind reel a bit, made her place as one of Hollywood's many attractions more real. She had never before really taken in that she had fans.
This was a new, and almost disturbing, idea for her. While she had always acknowledged the crowds outside premieres or the live audiences of the radio shows she had done, she had never seen them as really being there for *her*. If anything, she saw them as either a Premier stunt or as some of those many who clamored for even a moment's view of her husband; that made sense to her. But to think that some of those who came to her films were actually coming for her . . .
This was a difficult thought to take in, the revelation stunning; she couldn't quite process it. Why would any sane person come to see her on screen? True, she always looked the part--Rene's skills, along with their hairdressers and makeup artists, making certain of that; she could even see a bit of the glamour this talented crew had given. Still, she had never been beautiful, was incapable of taking a man's breath away. All of those early men in her mother's house aside--what they had wanted from her hadn't been based on any real desire for sex, only violence and control--she had never been particularly capable of engendering lust, either. Why, then, would any man take notice?
Only one possible answer came through to her here, a surprising one, whenever she thought about it: Michael had. She shook her head, bemused. But that was only caused by the most amazing sort of luck.
She couldn't begin to understand such hints, wasn't certain why any man would bother. Yes, once or twice, she had heard it suggested that she got a fair amount of fan mail, but she assumed that was normal. Probably any face they trotted out in front of a camera, with the right amount of hair and makeup help and the proper, glamorous clothes--especially if the fan magazines worked hard enough--would have someone sending in a letter to "ooo" over her; they were probably even being sent back signed photos of some sort. But to think that any of them might actually be focused on *her* . . .
She let this possibility go with a shake of her head, deciding that her husband's barrack mates must just be impressed that he was married to a Hollywood star. They probably hadn't bargained for that, when they had first signed up. That was undoubtedly all there was to it.
She put away these concerns a second later, incapable of understanding them--not at all listening to her husband's pleas; her reasons were simple. Life at the studio could be unbelievably insular, especially to someone both as originally unwary of Hollywood as Nikita and from whom her superiors had every intention of hiding her immense popularity. That she had already met a serious fan in Adam didn't faze her. She only assumed that he had taken notice, because she was his real father's wife.
None of the deeper truths here broke through to her, then. Instead, she focused back on the letter, feeling both warmer and more afraid, as she did. As much love was in it, there were terrible hints there, too. If his new barrack mates were as bad as some of the people they knew . . .
She shuddered slightly, not wanting to think into this--refusing to, just yet. Besides, there were other fears. She had some less-than-pleasant details to pass on to her husband. But she didn't want to make his days in training any worse than they undoubtedly were.
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