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May. 1st, 2005 05:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
krazykitkatI'm nothing if not a completist.
This story was never put out there, my supposed betaer never got back to me and I was too green to realise I didn't have to wait on her, that I could've gone elsewhere.
So it probably sucks completely, and there's definite structural (the paragraphs that ate Paris) and grammar problems. I apologise.
Reflections
by Kat
"So much anger so deeply ingrained
Seemed a burden that was hers alone
She didn't think that there was anything wrong
With wanting a life that she could call her own
How could I explain? You would not want to hear
You wouldn't listen if I talked anyway
For you were too weighed down by your own fears"
"Home" - Sarah McLachlan
They say I look exactly like her. And yes, the resemblance is there in the mirror. Her nose, her mouth, her chin, her cheeks, her face. But there is one crucial difference and it's there for all to see. I see it every day. It's in the eyes.
It's there every time my mind conjures up the memory of her, every time I look at her photos. Her eyes are, were, so full of life and love, of what can only be termed as pure goodness. Of dreams, of hopes and wishes, of the future, of her little girl.
There is an old adage that the eyes are the windows to the soul. And her soul sparkled, shimmering like the brilliant sunlight reflected off the sea, radiant, warm, comforting.
My eyes? My soul? Dark, troubled, stormy and oh so cold. Jarod and Sydney insist that my mother is still within me, that her light still burns. Maybe they're right, but if she is, she's so deeply buried under the permafrost only a permanent thaw could release her. And I don't know whether I'm willing to allow the warmth and light required to achieve this into my world. The ice age is more comforting to me than global warming. It's what I know, where I feel safe, where I have some measure of control.
Control...who am I kidding? What control do I have? Daddy owns me; I was born the property of the Centre. My body, my soul, my conscience. Do I even have a conscience? They dictate my every move, script my every emotion, I dance to their tune. Jump Angel. How high, Daddy? Do I win first prize? Do I now possess your love, Daddy? Do you respect me? Do you approve of me, Daddy?
Isn't a father's love supposed to be unconditional? Fathers are supposed to protect and love their little girls. Did he skip over that chapter in the instruction manual? Or did he have a waiver inserted when he signed the parenting contract? That would be just like him, cover all bases. "I am contractually obligated to provide the aforementioned daughter with all material needs. However, pursuant to Clause 1, Section 1, the provision of love, trust, respect and other emotional needs, I reserve the legal right to decide if and when these provisions should be ratified. Said ratification of these provisions will be dependent on the said daughter's performance."
Why in hell can't I let go of this need for his approval? I'm nearly forty years old for chrissakes. If I haven't got it by now, chances are next to nothing that I will achieve it before the end of his life. But I keep trying, hoping, praying, waiting to be thrown a bone. Maybe when I bring Jarod back, Daddy will smile at me, thank me, love me. And then I'll be out of that place and can start a life of my own.
How different would my life have been if mom was still alive? From the age of ten I have had no maternal figure in my life. Only an indifferent father, who took a sweet little girl and sculpted her in his image. Filled her mind with lies of her mother's death, convinced her that her mother was weak, that she needed to be strong, forceful, like him. A father who suffocated the humanity so carefully nurtured by her mother, who tried to erase every last sign of a mother and wife.
How ironic that I grew up to be her spitting image. What does he see when he looks at me? A ghost who will haunt him to his grave? Is that why he keeps me at arm's length, providing me with everything except what I need most, emotional fulfilment. Does he think that by making me more like him he can protect me, save me from mom's fate? I want to be able to believe that this is the reason, because... I can't let myself consider the alternative.
Why, Daddy, why? Why do you do this to me? Can't you see how much you hurt me? Every careless word, every snub, every broken dinner invitation, every dismissive wave of your hand; each eat away at my heart. You are killing me.
And yet I keep on coming back for more. I must be a masochist. I don't know how to let go of the need for your love and approval. I just don't know how. Over the years you told me that I was strong like you, not like mom who was weak. But the truth is that mom was the strong one, the brave one. She was willing to put everything on the line for what she believed was right. And she paid the ultimate price. Did you even care?
When I found out about the 'rescued' children I was so proud of her. But when I saw the DSA of her talking to Fennigor about needing to rescue Timmy and Jarod the day before she died, my feelings changed. I was angry with Jarod because he was the reason she put herself in danger. And I was jealous because she had cared more about these children than me. I was angry with her. She should have been acting as my mother; she shouldn't have let herself be killed. When Jarod gave me her letters, the letters that you kept from me, Daddy, I finally felt as an adult how much she loved me. Mom was going to rescue me too; she was going to rescue herself. Mom was going to show me the world. But the child's world disintegrated around her, as insubstantial as a house of cards.
I've relived that moment countless times, the memory imprinted on my brain. The living horror film that replays anytime, anywhere; every sensation preserved for posterity. The sharp crack of the gun explodes in my ears; the acrid smell of gunpowder burns in my nostrils and down my throat. A scream that radiates from my chest into every nerve ending. I run towards her, she's lying so still, splashes of crimson decorating her and the floor, an abstract painting gone mad. Momma! Uncaring arms grabbing at me, tearing me away, her carefully wrapped present shoved into my hands. I'm kicking and screaming, please Momma, get up, Momma, get up. I feel a familiar presence nearby and I turn briefly to see Jarod. I can see my horror reflected in his eyes. The unmistakable organic smell of her lifeblood draining away leaches into my skin, turning my stomach inside out. It took days to cleanse myself of the stench of death and even today, nearly thirty years later, the remnant odour still clings to me, haunts me.
Oh God, I wish I had died with her that day. A large part of me did, it's buried six foot under with her. And you, Daddy, slowly and methodically smothered what remained. But you couldn't destroy her completely. Jarod is right, the little girl who kissed him so tenderly is still here. On dark, lonely nights she comes out to play, lighting up this house, filling it with her laughter and innocence. She makes me feel alive, she keeps me alive. She is only a shadow of her former self, but she grows stronger with every piece of the puzzle of my life I've given back. The question is, as she is reconstructed, what will happen to me? Can we coexist in the one body, the one mind? Or will one of us be overthrown?
I'm sure Syd would love to hear all this, he'd attach some deep and meaningful psychobabble to it. Sorry, Sydney, I don't mean it like that. I've never been able to tell you how much you mean to me, how much I rely on you. You are always there for me, guiding me, loving me, even though I push you away. You were the only one there after Mom died. At the funeral you held my hand and let me know that you were there for me, that I was safe. I wish... I wish you were my father. In many ways you've been more of a father to me than he's ever been. Even now, the way you hold me, the way you put me back in my place, the way you care. I can't tell you, Sydney, not out loud, but Sydney... I love you.
One day I might be able to show you, to tell you. But that day isn't today. Until I can I'll go on protecting you, going to bat for you; it's the only way I know how to express my feelings for you. And you just go on guiding me, loving me, protecting me from myself. As much as I hate to admit it, you and Broots are the stabilising influences in this so called life of mine.
I know you're always on my back about the way I treat Broots. But the truth is, Syd, I do respect him. Hell, he's more of a brother to me than Lyle will ever be. He's a sweet man and I just don't know how to react to sweet men. I'm so used to men using me--my father, Raines, Lyle, using me for their own purposes. Or the others who use me for my body, for a quick screw. Don't get me wrong, I use them as much as they use me. I use my body as a weapon and deadly it is. Sex is an area where I have power, where I can be on top. And the rougher and more physical, the better. Intimacy is not required or desired. That would mean emotions and emotions are a commodity I cannot supply, I won't supply. What emotions remain are locked in a vault deep within the remnants of my soul, the key thrown away a lifetime ago. It is safer this way. If someone were to find that key and unlock the floodgates, the tide of emotions would drown me. It is easier not to feel. Because feeling would mean having to confront myself.
Yet that vault isn't airtight. A trickle of emotions still manages to undermine my control. My father still hurts me. Syd still makes me feel loved and of worth. My mother still haunts me. Broots exasperates and yet at the same time amazes me. And Debbie...Debbie slipped under my guard and infiltrated my heart. I still find it hard to believe how easily she did it. Maybe it is as Syd says, we see in each other ourselves. But she has something I don't, a father who loves her, who will do anything and everything for her. And that gives me hope that she will take a different path from mine. Because there is no way I'd wish my existence on her. Broots said that Debbie wants to be like me when she grows up. I'm going to make certain that your future is nothing like mine, Debbie. You deserve so much better than this. Your father and I will make sure that you get it. You will have the life you deserve, the life I should have had. And if anyone gets in the way of that life I will deal with them myself. It's amusing to think of myself as a guardian angel, maybe a guardian rottweiler is a better analogy. I'll be there for you, I'll watch over you. I just hope you won't treat me the way I treat my guardian angel.
His name is Jarod. He is my guiding light, my conscience, my friend, the other half of my soul. He is the boy I kissed, who tried to save my mother, the man who tries to open my eyes to the truth, who teases me, annoys me...loves me. He knows all my secrets, where to strike to bring the desired result, how to get under my skin. He knows me better than I know myself. And I hate him for it.
Frankenboy, Wonderboy, Ratboy...I have a list of cruel names for him. Syd hates it when I use them. But I have to, it's the only way I can do my job, keep myself detached. I need to make him a non-person, a non-entity. To make him human would only remind me that Jarod was my friend, is my friend. And then where would I be?
He is my passport to freedom, to life. I bring him back and then I can leave. His life for mine, a simple enough exchange. What's so wrong about that? I deserve a life of my own. That's what mom wanted for me, that's what she was going to give me. Until Jarod took her away from me. Even now he possesses a part of her that should be mine. He's the one who's carrying on her work, the one who's helping people. He is more my mother's child than I am. And I'm jealous. She must be so proud of him...and so bitterly disappointed in me.
So disappointed by the way I use my, her image, our face, our body. The way I flaunt it, abuse it, she must think me no better than a hooker. And yes, I have prostituted myself in so many ways. I've sold myself to the Centre, to Daddy. Even some of the men I've picked up have offered to pay me, they obviously considered me to be a professional screwer. Maybe that is all I am. A high-class call girl, going to the top bidder, but I'm not sure who's paying the highest price. Maybe it's all I deserve to be. Maybe in some perverse way I am punishing Mom for leaving me by destroying the most potent reminder of her...me.
Sometimes...I just don't know who I am. I feel like I'm being pulled apart. All I see is two separate paths lying in front of me--my father's daughter and my mother's daughter. My father's daughter is who I've been for most of my life. It's who the Centre and Daddy have taught me to be. The heartless bitch who will do anything and everything asked of her, even to the point of killing. Who will destroy lives, whose only loyalty is to Satan himself.
The path of my mother's daughter was so clear for the first ten years of my life. After she died Daddy started planting it with weeds until it became so overgrown I couldn't follow it anymore. Since Jarod escaped he has been sending me the implements, the weed-wacker, the herbicide, to clear her path. Each little piece of her he gives back to me, each truth, kills another weed and plants a forget-me-not in its place. He is restoring her to me. And encouraging me to break free. But I don't understand why he's doing it.
I don't understand my feelings towards him, for him. When I was first ordered to bring him back I had no qualms. He was a problem that needed to be dealt with. And dealing with problems was something I was good at. But when he sent me that DSA, showing me the truth about her, that's when everything stopped being so black and white. Grey is so much harder to understand and deal with. It didn't stop with the clues about Mom. The bunny, the romance novel, the valentine, gifts from a lover. The phone calls, his voice calms me against my will. His request for trust, his certainty that I will figure it out, his belief in me frightens me. And the way my body and emotions respond when I'm near him. When we were held hostage in that bank, I couldn't ignore the brush of his body against me. It felt so natural, so right. He kept leaping in to protect me. Normally I would have jumped down his throat at that, but I didn't, I just accepted it. We worked so well together, we complemented each other. My feelings of happiness that he had escaped were so unexpected.
We don't see each other in the flesh very often, but every time we do, something inside me stirs. I want to be nearer to him, to feel him against me. My brain fights me, tells me that this is betrayal. When I look into his eyes I see the same battle within him. A strong underlying urge from deep within me, that wants to protect and be with him, is waging a war against the conditioning that tells me that he is the enemy. The conditioning tends to win out, but as I've rediscovered my mother's path, it is having a harder time. In fact it very nearly failed at that cabin with Angelo and the boy. Maybe it was the shock at finding out that either Angelo or Lyle was my twin...or dare I say it...relief that Jarod wasn't. It could have been Angelo's use of my mother's memory to change my mind, his wanting to know about her as he slowly disintegrated in front of my eyes. Or it may have been watching Jarod with the boy, the way he held him all night wishing him back, the way his eyes lit up with joy when the boy woke up. He will make a wonderful father one day, and a little voice within me hopes that it will be to my children. Whatever it was, I nearly let them go. If Gar and his henchmen hadn't shown up when they did, I would have been explaining once more to the Centre how he had managed to evade me. But once again the decision was made for me, the concept of free will doesn't exist in the Centre's dictionary.
What is it that I feel for Jarod? Is it just the remains of our childhood friendship? A growing kinship because of our shared Centre experience? Or is it something deeper? As much as I've tried to ignore it, I can't deny it any longer. There is a link between us, and as much as the Centre and Daddy have tried to destroy it, we still manage to gravitate towards each other. I just don't know what that link is. Or maybe I do know what it is but it's safer to ignore and deny. Putting a label on it would mean having to deal with it. And I don't think I'm ready to recognise what I think it is. My father's daughter insists that all I'm feeling is an obsession that will end when he's back in the Centre. But my mother's daughter...she tells me...she says that I'm in love with him. Hell, could I be? I don't even know what being in love is. She must be mistaken. The idea of me, me pining away for Jarod, it's laughable. I'm not a hearts and flowers girl. Romantic love...I just can't allow someone in that far, it's too dangerous. I spend my days trying to keep Syd, Broots and Debbie alive. I don't need to be responsible for anyone else, I haven't got the time or the strength. And especially not Jarod. Life is complicated enough. I'm just obsessed about getting him back to the Centre, that's all these feelings are. Nothing more. Obsession can be confused with sexual desire, with something deeper. Hunters get a thrill from stalking their prey, that's all it is. That's all, nothing more.
What is Jarod's motivation? Why does he keep sending me clues, parts of my mother, parts of myself? I know he's trying to get me to break free, to leave the Centre, to escape, like he did. But why is he doing it? Is he trying to resurrect his childhood friend? He should have realised by now that it isn't working. Does he think that by giving me secrets of my life, I will return the favour and lead him to his family? I haven't helped him yet. He must have the patience of a saint. Saint Jarod, saviour of the weak and abused. Well I'm not weak or abused, I don't need saving. I can do whatever I want. I could walk out of the Centre right now if I wanted to. But...I...don't...want to.
A part of me says that he loves me, cares for me. Why? What have I ever done to deserve that? All I've given him is grief and he just keeps coming back for more. Actually we do have something in common; we're both masochists.
The truth is Jarod that you are the strong one, like Mom. You believe so deeply that you can set things right. You have everything to gain, your name, your family, your past, your future, your life, yourself. You have nothing to lose, only a nightmare to be exorcised. And I'm sure that once you find yourself you'll rescue Syd and Broots, give them back their lives. But I can't go with you, Jarod, I can't. I haven't got the strength. I don't even know whether the Centre would let me walk away, despite what Daddy has said. I'll probably meet my fate in an elevator somewhere.
I look at that photo you lead me to, of my mother and Ben with me as a baby. Smiles, happiness, a family. I haven't even had the strength to find out whether Ben is actually my father. To question would mean to hope for something else, something better, to have faith that it is out there. My hope and faith died a long time ago. That's the difference between us, Jarod, you still have hope and faith.
Breaking free would mean leaving the Centre behind and I don't know who I am without it. The Centre is such an integral part of my life, it defines who I am. If I left I'd lose everything, my job, what's left of my family, my home, my purpose, my identity. Then what do I do? Where do I go? Who do I become? I get myself a nice cushy 9-5 office job? Know anyone who's hiring ex-hunters? Do I buy myself a nice house with a white picket fence and a mini-van in the driveway? Find a nice hubby and get working on the 2.5 kids, I'm not getting any younger. It's a fairy tale. I'm sure that's what my mother thought she'd have and look what happened. Where do you fit into this picture, Jarod? My white knight, my prince? I don't believe in happily ever after, I can't. You ask me about my dreams--I don't have any. I don't know what I want. It's safer not to have dreams or expectations. Then I won't be disappointed when they don't materialise. Actually I lie. There have been dreams about my future. And a bullet and a pine box are involved. Though I must say, it's a nice headstone. Can't quite make out the year of death, I'm not sure whether I want to know. In some ways it would be nice. I could throw a farewell party; write my eulogy; tell Raines where to shove his oxygen tube; find Jarod, take him to a motel room somewhere and test the old fairy tale line 'one day my prince will come'... A part of me is dismayed that I think like this. Why couldn't I have had a normal life? Is it too late to start now? Surely I can try...I couldn't end up anywhere worse than the living hell I currently serve time in. Even the pine box looks more inviting than Pitchforks 'R Us.
Sometimes when I glance in the mirror, for a split-second I see her reflected back. Her nose, her mouth, her chin, her cheeks, her face. And that soul, sparkling, shimmering, radiant, warm, comforting. You're right, Jarod, she is here, within me and these are her eyes. But I can't follow her path; it would mean denying who I am. Don't worry, I'm not going to follow his path any longer. I need to find my own, a path that combines both halves of me, where they complement and reinforce the other, instead of trying to destroy. A path which will restore my hope and faith and my strength. I can't live up to other's expectations anymore, his, hers, Syd's or yours, Jarod. I need to create my own life, my own future on my own terms. I don't know whether the Centre will have any role in that future; if it does it will be my choice. I just hope that choice doesn't come at the end of a gun barrel. And I don't know whether that future will contain a place for you, Jarod. Thank you for pulling and pushing me, often kicking and screaming, to this point. But your job is finished; I have to go the rest of the way alone, in my own time and own way. Maybe one day, when I glance in the mirror, I will see me reflected back. My nose, my mouth, my chin, my cheeks, my face, my eyes, my soul...my life.
This story was never put out there, my supposed betaer never got back to me and I was too green to realise I didn't have to wait on her, that I could've gone elsewhere.
So it probably sucks completely, and there's definite structural (the paragraphs that ate Paris) and grammar problems. I apologise.
Reflections
by Kat
"So much anger so deeply ingrained
Seemed a burden that was hers alone
She didn't think that there was anything wrong
With wanting a life that she could call her own
How could I explain? You would not want to hear
You wouldn't listen if I talked anyway
For you were too weighed down by your own fears"
"Home" - Sarah McLachlan
They say I look exactly like her. And yes, the resemblance is there in the mirror. Her nose, her mouth, her chin, her cheeks, her face. But there is one crucial difference and it's there for all to see. I see it every day. It's in the eyes.
It's there every time my mind conjures up the memory of her, every time I look at her photos. Her eyes are, were, so full of life and love, of what can only be termed as pure goodness. Of dreams, of hopes and wishes, of the future, of her little girl.
There is an old adage that the eyes are the windows to the soul. And her soul sparkled, shimmering like the brilliant sunlight reflected off the sea, radiant, warm, comforting.
My eyes? My soul? Dark, troubled, stormy and oh so cold. Jarod and Sydney insist that my mother is still within me, that her light still burns. Maybe they're right, but if she is, she's so deeply buried under the permafrost only a permanent thaw could release her. And I don't know whether I'm willing to allow the warmth and light required to achieve this into my world. The ice age is more comforting to me than global warming. It's what I know, where I feel safe, where I have some measure of control.
Control...who am I kidding? What control do I have? Daddy owns me; I was born the property of the Centre. My body, my soul, my conscience. Do I even have a conscience? They dictate my every move, script my every emotion, I dance to their tune. Jump Angel. How high, Daddy? Do I win first prize? Do I now possess your love, Daddy? Do you respect me? Do you approve of me, Daddy?
Isn't a father's love supposed to be unconditional? Fathers are supposed to protect and love their little girls. Did he skip over that chapter in the instruction manual? Or did he have a waiver inserted when he signed the parenting contract? That would be just like him, cover all bases. "I am contractually obligated to provide the aforementioned daughter with all material needs. However, pursuant to Clause 1, Section 1, the provision of love, trust, respect and other emotional needs, I reserve the legal right to decide if and when these provisions should be ratified. Said ratification of these provisions will be dependent on the said daughter's performance."
Why in hell can't I let go of this need for his approval? I'm nearly forty years old for chrissakes. If I haven't got it by now, chances are next to nothing that I will achieve it before the end of his life. But I keep trying, hoping, praying, waiting to be thrown a bone. Maybe when I bring Jarod back, Daddy will smile at me, thank me, love me. And then I'll be out of that place and can start a life of my own.
How different would my life have been if mom was still alive? From the age of ten I have had no maternal figure in my life. Only an indifferent father, who took a sweet little girl and sculpted her in his image. Filled her mind with lies of her mother's death, convinced her that her mother was weak, that she needed to be strong, forceful, like him. A father who suffocated the humanity so carefully nurtured by her mother, who tried to erase every last sign of a mother and wife.
How ironic that I grew up to be her spitting image. What does he see when he looks at me? A ghost who will haunt him to his grave? Is that why he keeps me at arm's length, providing me with everything except what I need most, emotional fulfilment. Does he think that by making me more like him he can protect me, save me from mom's fate? I want to be able to believe that this is the reason, because... I can't let myself consider the alternative.
Why, Daddy, why? Why do you do this to me? Can't you see how much you hurt me? Every careless word, every snub, every broken dinner invitation, every dismissive wave of your hand; each eat away at my heart. You are killing me.
And yet I keep on coming back for more. I must be a masochist. I don't know how to let go of the need for your love and approval. I just don't know how. Over the years you told me that I was strong like you, not like mom who was weak. But the truth is that mom was the strong one, the brave one. She was willing to put everything on the line for what she believed was right. And she paid the ultimate price. Did you even care?
When I found out about the 'rescued' children I was so proud of her. But when I saw the DSA of her talking to Fennigor about needing to rescue Timmy and Jarod the day before she died, my feelings changed. I was angry with Jarod because he was the reason she put herself in danger. And I was jealous because she had cared more about these children than me. I was angry with her. She should have been acting as my mother; she shouldn't have let herself be killed. When Jarod gave me her letters, the letters that you kept from me, Daddy, I finally felt as an adult how much she loved me. Mom was going to rescue me too; she was going to rescue herself. Mom was going to show me the world. But the child's world disintegrated around her, as insubstantial as a house of cards.
I've relived that moment countless times, the memory imprinted on my brain. The living horror film that replays anytime, anywhere; every sensation preserved for posterity. The sharp crack of the gun explodes in my ears; the acrid smell of gunpowder burns in my nostrils and down my throat. A scream that radiates from my chest into every nerve ending. I run towards her, she's lying so still, splashes of crimson decorating her and the floor, an abstract painting gone mad. Momma! Uncaring arms grabbing at me, tearing me away, her carefully wrapped present shoved into my hands. I'm kicking and screaming, please Momma, get up, Momma, get up. I feel a familiar presence nearby and I turn briefly to see Jarod. I can see my horror reflected in his eyes. The unmistakable organic smell of her lifeblood draining away leaches into my skin, turning my stomach inside out. It took days to cleanse myself of the stench of death and even today, nearly thirty years later, the remnant odour still clings to me, haunts me.
Oh God, I wish I had died with her that day. A large part of me did, it's buried six foot under with her. And you, Daddy, slowly and methodically smothered what remained. But you couldn't destroy her completely. Jarod is right, the little girl who kissed him so tenderly is still here. On dark, lonely nights she comes out to play, lighting up this house, filling it with her laughter and innocence. She makes me feel alive, she keeps me alive. She is only a shadow of her former self, but she grows stronger with every piece of the puzzle of my life I've given back. The question is, as she is reconstructed, what will happen to me? Can we coexist in the one body, the one mind? Or will one of us be overthrown?
I'm sure Syd would love to hear all this, he'd attach some deep and meaningful psychobabble to it. Sorry, Sydney, I don't mean it like that. I've never been able to tell you how much you mean to me, how much I rely on you. You are always there for me, guiding me, loving me, even though I push you away. You were the only one there after Mom died. At the funeral you held my hand and let me know that you were there for me, that I was safe. I wish... I wish you were my father. In many ways you've been more of a father to me than he's ever been. Even now, the way you hold me, the way you put me back in my place, the way you care. I can't tell you, Sydney, not out loud, but Sydney... I love you.
One day I might be able to show you, to tell you. But that day isn't today. Until I can I'll go on protecting you, going to bat for you; it's the only way I know how to express my feelings for you. And you just go on guiding me, loving me, protecting me from myself. As much as I hate to admit it, you and Broots are the stabilising influences in this so called life of mine.
I know you're always on my back about the way I treat Broots. But the truth is, Syd, I do respect him. Hell, he's more of a brother to me than Lyle will ever be. He's a sweet man and I just don't know how to react to sweet men. I'm so used to men using me--my father, Raines, Lyle, using me for their own purposes. Or the others who use me for my body, for a quick screw. Don't get me wrong, I use them as much as they use me. I use my body as a weapon and deadly it is. Sex is an area where I have power, where I can be on top. And the rougher and more physical, the better. Intimacy is not required or desired. That would mean emotions and emotions are a commodity I cannot supply, I won't supply. What emotions remain are locked in a vault deep within the remnants of my soul, the key thrown away a lifetime ago. It is safer this way. If someone were to find that key and unlock the floodgates, the tide of emotions would drown me. It is easier not to feel. Because feeling would mean having to confront myself.
Yet that vault isn't airtight. A trickle of emotions still manages to undermine my control. My father still hurts me. Syd still makes me feel loved and of worth. My mother still haunts me. Broots exasperates and yet at the same time amazes me. And Debbie...Debbie slipped under my guard and infiltrated my heart. I still find it hard to believe how easily she did it. Maybe it is as Syd says, we see in each other ourselves. But she has something I don't, a father who loves her, who will do anything and everything for her. And that gives me hope that she will take a different path from mine. Because there is no way I'd wish my existence on her. Broots said that Debbie wants to be like me when she grows up. I'm going to make certain that your future is nothing like mine, Debbie. You deserve so much better than this. Your father and I will make sure that you get it. You will have the life you deserve, the life I should have had. And if anyone gets in the way of that life I will deal with them myself. It's amusing to think of myself as a guardian angel, maybe a guardian rottweiler is a better analogy. I'll be there for you, I'll watch over you. I just hope you won't treat me the way I treat my guardian angel.
His name is Jarod. He is my guiding light, my conscience, my friend, the other half of my soul. He is the boy I kissed, who tried to save my mother, the man who tries to open my eyes to the truth, who teases me, annoys me...loves me. He knows all my secrets, where to strike to bring the desired result, how to get under my skin. He knows me better than I know myself. And I hate him for it.
Frankenboy, Wonderboy, Ratboy...I have a list of cruel names for him. Syd hates it when I use them. But I have to, it's the only way I can do my job, keep myself detached. I need to make him a non-person, a non-entity. To make him human would only remind me that Jarod was my friend, is my friend. And then where would I be?
He is my passport to freedom, to life. I bring him back and then I can leave. His life for mine, a simple enough exchange. What's so wrong about that? I deserve a life of my own. That's what mom wanted for me, that's what she was going to give me. Until Jarod took her away from me. Even now he possesses a part of her that should be mine. He's the one who's carrying on her work, the one who's helping people. He is more my mother's child than I am. And I'm jealous. She must be so proud of him...and so bitterly disappointed in me.
So disappointed by the way I use my, her image, our face, our body. The way I flaunt it, abuse it, she must think me no better than a hooker. And yes, I have prostituted myself in so many ways. I've sold myself to the Centre, to Daddy. Even some of the men I've picked up have offered to pay me, they obviously considered me to be a professional screwer. Maybe that is all I am. A high-class call girl, going to the top bidder, but I'm not sure who's paying the highest price. Maybe it's all I deserve to be. Maybe in some perverse way I am punishing Mom for leaving me by destroying the most potent reminder of her...me.
Sometimes...I just don't know who I am. I feel like I'm being pulled apart. All I see is two separate paths lying in front of me--my father's daughter and my mother's daughter. My father's daughter is who I've been for most of my life. It's who the Centre and Daddy have taught me to be. The heartless bitch who will do anything and everything asked of her, even to the point of killing. Who will destroy lives, whose only loyalty is to Satan himself.
The path of my mother's daughter was so clear for the first ten years of my life. After she died Daddy started planting it with weeds until it became so overgrown I couldn't follow it anymore. Since Jarod escaped he has been sending me the implements, the weed-wacker, the herbicide, to clear her path. Each little piece of her he gives back to me, each truth, kills another weed and plants a forget-me-not in its place. He is restoring her to me. And encouraging me to break free. But I don't understand why he's doing it.
I don't understand my feelings towards him, for him. When I was first ordered to bring him back I had no qualms. He was a problem that needed to be dealt with. And dealing with problems was something I was good at. But when he sent me that DSA, showing me the truth about her, that's when everything stopped being so black and white. Grey is so much harder to understand and deal with. It didn't stop with the clues about Mom. The bunny, the romance novel, the valentine, gifts from a lover. The phone calls, his voice calms me against my will. His request for trust, his certainty that I will figure it out, his belief in me frightens me. And the way my body and emotions respond when I'm near him. When we were held hostage in that bank, I couldn't ignore the brush of his body against me. It felt so natural, so right. He kept leaping in to protect me. Normally I would have jumped down his throat at that, but I didn't, I just accepted it. We worked so well together, we complemented each other. My feelings of happiness that he had escaped were so unexpected.
We don't see each other in the flesh very often, but every time we do, something inside me stirs. I want to be nearer to him, to feel him against me. My brain fights me, tells me that this is betrayal. When I look into his eyes I see the same battle within him. A strong underlying urge from deep within me, that wants to protect and be with him, is waging a war against the conditioning that tells me that he is the enemy. The conditioning tends to win out, but as I've rediscovered my mother's path, it is having a harder time. In fact it very nearly failed at that cabin with Angelo and the boy. Maybe it was the shock at finding out that either Angelo or Lyle was my twin...or dare I say it...relief that Jarod wasn't. It could have been Angelo's use of my mother's memory to change my mind, his wanting to know about her as he slowly disintegrated in front of my eyes. Or it may have been watching Jarod with the boy, the way he held him all night wishing him back, the way his eyes lit up with joy when the boy woke up. He will make a wonderful father one day, and a little voice within me hopes that it will be to my children. Whatever it was, I nearly let them go. If Gar and his henchmen hadn't shown up when they did, I would have been explaining once more to the Centre how he had managed to evade me. But once again the decision was made for me, the concept of free will doesn't exist in the Centre's dictionary.
What is it that I feel for Jarod? Is it just the remains of our childhood friendship? A growing kinship because of our shared Centre experience? Or is it something deeper? As much as I've tried to ignore it, I can't deny it any longer. There is a link between us, and as much as the Centre and Daddy have tried to destroy it, we still manage to gravitate towards each other. I just don't know what that link is. Or maybe I do know what it is but it's safer to ignore and deny. Putting a label on it would mean having to deal with it. And I don't think I'm ready to recognise what I think it is. My father's daughter insists that all I'm feeling is an obsession that will end when he's back in the Centre. But my mother's daughter...she tells me...she says that I'm in love with him. Hell, could I be? I don't even know what being in love is. She must be mistaken. The idea of me, me pining away for Jarod, it's laughable. I'm not a hearts and flowers girl. Romantic love...I just can't allow someone in that far, it's too dangerous. I spend my days trying to keep Syd, Broots and Debbie alive. I don't need to be responsible for anyone else, I haven't got the time or the strength. And especially not Jarod. Life is complicated enough. I'm just obsessed about getting him back to the Centre, that's all these feelings are. Nothing more. Obsession can be confused with sexual desire, with something deeper. Hunters get a thrill from stalking their prey, that's all it is. That's all, nothing more.
What is Jarod's motivation? Why does he keep sending me clues, parts of my mother, parts of myself? I know he's trying to get me to break free, to leave the Centre, to escape, like he did. But why is he doing it? Is he trying to resurrect his childhood friend? He should have realised by now that it isn't working. Does he think that by giving me secrets of my life, I will return the favour and lead him to his family? I haven't helped him yet. He must have the patience of a saint. Saint Jarod, saviour of the weak and abused. Well I'm not weak or abused, I don't need saving. I can do whatever I want. I could walk out of the Centre right now if I wanted to. But...I...don't...want to.
A part of me says that he loves me, cares for me. Why? What have I ever done to deserve that? All I've given him is grief and he just keeps coming back for more. Actually we do have something in common; we're both masochists.
The truth is Jarod that you are the strong one, like Mom. You believe so deeply that you can set things right. You have everything to gain, your name, your family, your past, your future, your life, yourself. You have nothing to lose, only a nightmare to be exorcised. And I'm sure that once you find yourself you'll rescue Syd and Broots, give them back their lives. But I can't go with you, Jarod, I can't. I haven't got the strength. I don't even know whether the Centre would let me walk away, despite what Daddy has said. I'll probably meet my fate in an elevator somewhere.
I look at that photo you lead me to, of my mother and Ben with me as a baby. Smiles, happiness, a family. I haven't even had the strength to find out whether Ben is actually my father. To question would mean to hope for something else, something better, to have faith that it is out there. My hope and faith died a long time ago. That's the difference between us, Jarod, you still have hope and faith.
Breaking free would mean leaving the Centre behind and I don't know who I am without it. The Centre is such an integral part of my life, it defines who I am. If I left I'd lose everything, my job, what's left of my family, my home, my purpose, my identity. Then what do I do? Where do I go? Who do I become? I get myself a nice cushy 9-5 office job? Know anyone who's hiring ex-hunters? Do I buy myself a nice house with a white picket fence and a mini-van in the driveway? Find a nice hubby and get working on the 2.5 kids, I'm not getting any younger. It's a fairy tale. I'm sure that's what my mother thought she'd have and look what happened. Where do you fit into this picture, Jarod? My white knight, my prince? I don't believe in happily ever after, I can't. You ask me about my dreams--I don't have any. I don't know what I want. It's safer not to have dreams or expectations. Then I won't be disappointed when they don't materialise. Actually I lie. There have been dreams about my future. And a bullet and a pine box are involved. Though I must say, it's a nice headstone. Can't quite make out the year of death, I'm not sure whether I want to know. In some ways it would be nice. I could throw a farewell party; write my eulogy; tell Raines where to shove his oxygen tube; find Jarod, take him to a motel room somewhere and test the old fairy tale line 'one day my prince will come'... A part of me is dismayed that I think like this. Why couldn't I have had a normal life? Is it too late to start now? Surely I can try...I couldn't end up anywhere worse than the living hell I currently serve time in. Even the pine box looks more inviting than Pitchforks 'R Us.
Sometimes when I glance in the mirror, for a split-second I see her reflected back. Her nose, her mouth, her chin, her cheeks, her face. And that soul, sparkling, shimmering, radiant, warm, comforting. You're right, Jarod, she is here, within me and these are her eyes. But I can't follow her path; it would mean denying who I am. Don't worry, I'm not going to follow his path any longer. I need to find my own, a path that combines both halves of me, where they complement and reinforce the other, instead of trying to destroy. A path which will restore my hope and faith and my strength. I can't live up to other's expectations anymore, his, hers, Syd's or yours, Jarod. I need to create my own life, my own future on my own terms. I don't know whether the Centre will have any role in that future; if it does it will be my choice. I just hope that choice doesn't come at the end of a gun barrel. And I don't know whether that future will contain a place for you, Jarod. Thank you for pulling and pushing me, often kicking and screaming, to this point. But your job is finished; I have to go the rest of the way alone, in my own time and own way. Maybe one day, when I glance in the mirror, I will see me reflected back. My nose, my mouth, my chin, my cheeks, my face, my eyes, my soul...my life.
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i've said it before ...
Date: 2005-05-01 03:55 pm (UTC)on another note, i'm a part of a commiunuty that you might like. :-) it's called
Re: i've said it before ...
Date: 2005-08-14 06:35 am (UTC)