Subject:  Re: THE THREAD THAT BINDS - Part I |
Author:
Kitkat
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Date Posted: 18:41:07 04/07/01 Sat
In reply to:
Kitkat
's message, "THE THREAD THAT BINDS" on 18:35:17 04/07/01 Sat
The Thread That Binds
Part I
Marnie
I heard my mother call his name;
I saw him touch her breast
I slipped down from my hiding place
No need to see the rest.
I crept into my tiny room
And sat upon the floor.
The boards were cold and dusty;
I leaned against the door.
I knew I would not sleep that night.
I’d sit and stare and wait
For the morning sun to fill my room,
And the sound of the old gate
Creaking open to let him out
And let another in
To visit Mama’s bedroom..
I cannot still pretend
To not know what’s going on
And what my mother is.
I’m not a baby anymore;
I’ll never be again.
My mother is the way she is
Not the way that she could be—
A broken dream of faded youth.
But what does that make me?
I sit inside my tiny room
And know that no one cares
About the fact that I could share
My life with someone special.
Then, I’d be special, too.
I’d be someone you’d like to meet.
I’d be someone that you
Would like to talk to
And really get to know
You’d be proud to be my friend
And let your feelings show.
I heard my mother call my name.
Then, she laughed at something
He had said.
How could she act so happy
When I knew that she was dead inside,
And I wished that she could be
Dead and cold and in her grave—
So there’d be hope for me.
"Coming Mama", I called out.
I’d played the game before.
But she’d already forgotten me
By the time I reached the door.
I heard my mother call his name.
I saw him touch her breast.
I turned and headed for my room—
No need to see the rest.
Frank Evans was prepared to die. He ran his fingers through his iron gray hair patting it carefully across his bald spot. The mindless vanity of the gesture made him smile. Knowing that the end was near was, in a way, comforting. He crossed to the back of the cell putting easy distance between himself and the rest of the prisoners.
Frank was pleased to hear that the girl had survived. Her pale blonde hair and assessing blue eyes were etched in his memory. He wished that he could, in some way, make it up to her. No one should experience death in that way.
"Frank Evans." Frank turned toward the sound of his name. He smiled. Soon it would all be over. "Would you come with me please?"
What polite executioners they were. He followed the young man down a long hall and into a white, open room. The room was bare, except for the metal chair sitting prominently in the middle. When Frank sat down in the chair, metal bands secured his wrists and his ankles. Frank smiled at the beautiful woman in the chic, black dress walking toward him.
He was pleased to see her smile back. Civilization is held together by good manners, he thought to himself.
"Torturers are getting better looking every day," he said.
"Hello, Frank. My name is Madeline. Is there anything that I can get for you?"
"If my last request were to spend an evening with you, would it be granted?"
Madeline’s lips curved upwards in a rare smile and she cocked her head flirtatiously.
"Frank . . ." She drawled his name in a slightly chiding manner, still smiling. "You could help us with some information, though."
"Be glad to, Madeline.
* * * *
I am late. I smooth my hair and make my way hurriedly across Systems to the briefing. I slip into my seat and mumble "Sorry" in what I hope is a contrite sounding tone. I feel all eyes upon me and wish that I had taken time to comb my hair. Operations gives me a stern look. Michael glares at me and I return his look boldly, bravely hiding my discomfort.. I sit in the briefing and try to look interested. I nod whenever Operations glances in my direction and wonder what I’ll have tonight for supper.
When Operations turns to Birkoff to discuss some of the finer points of tactical, I remove my new shades and clean the lens on my shirt. The shirt is closely fitted, and I have to hunt for cloth loose enough to work with. When I look up I catch one of the operatives giving me the eye and quickly lower my raised shirt. I tilt my head slightly to the left and wink at him.
Michael intercepts the exchange, and his eyes warn me to behave. I know that I can expect a reprimand after the briefing. I turn my head away as if I don’t care. Stern looks and reprimands have been the total extent of our relationship for the past few weeks. Ever since Michael "rescued/kidnapped" me from Remy, he has been distant and aloof.
Operations closes the briefing by instructing us to read our POAs for an updated profile. I pretend to look for something in my purse as the operatives vacate the table. I am hoping that Michael will leave, too, because I am not in the mood for another lecture on my attitude. Closing my baby-doll purse I look around the empty table. I feel smug that my little ruse had worked. Smiling I toss my head and stand to my feet.
When I turn around my heart jumps in my throat, and I find myself face to face with my mentor. ( I make a mental note that the words "mentor" and "tormentor" are very similar. His face tells me nothing, but his eyes say that he is all too aware of my feeble attempt to avoid him.
"I’d like to see you in my office," he says without preamble
"I’ve got an appointment," I counter, in a voice that suggests boredom. "Can’t this wait?"
"Now," he says, his voice low and intense.
"Fine," I respond loudly enough for several heads to turn.
Angry at the attention I have attracted, he turns on his heel and walks off.
I smile at my small victory. I’m not a green recruit to be intimidated by an angry look. As I make my way unhurriedly to Michael’s office, I stop several times to speak to people and make small talk. My excitement builds as I deliberately delay the meeting. After about fifteen minutes, I knock on Michael’s door and stick my head in. Michael is sitting at his desk, typing on his computer.
"What do you need?" I ask calmly, striving to make my face as blank as his. Standing in the doorway, I lean from the waist so that only my head and upper chest are actually in the room. I want to give him the impression that I do not intend to stay.
Michael imputs the code to interrupt the audio monitor before answering.
"Sit down," he orders. Although the barely controlled fury in his tone sends warning signals pounding into my brain, I ignore my instincts and continue with my plan.
I put an innocent look on my face and pretend to misunderstand. Smiling sweetly, I reply, "No, thank you. I’m fine right here. What do you want to see me about?"
Michael stands up. "Sit down," he yells through clenched teeth.
I am shocked at his unusual display of emotion, but still not intimidated. I shrug my shoulders, walk to the chair in front of his desk, and sit down, deliberately leaving his office door wide open. Michael gives me a hard look and walks across the room to close the door. I keep my eyes straight ahead, smiling secretly to myself at the sound of his rapid breathing. I know that he is struggling for control of his temper.
I straighten slightly when I realize that Michael is standing behind me. He places both of his hands on the arms of my chair and leans down to whisper in my ear. He is so close that I can feel his warm breath on my neck. An involuntary chill runs over me.
"I’ve had enough, Nikita," he informs me in his low raspy voice. "Your indifferent attitude will no longer be tolerated. You are late to briefings and inattentive. You’re becoming sloppy on missions, and half of the time, I’m unable to reach you by phone."
When he’s finished he walks back behind his desk and sits down.
I remain calm, the smile still planted firmly on my face. "What are you going to do about it, Michael," I ask, tauntingly.
He stares out of the office window in silence. When he looks back he is, once again, in control.
"I’m replacing you on the next mission," he says.
I try to appear unaffected as he continues.
"We have a transfer operative from one of our other Sections. I will use her for the husband/wife scenario. You will remain behind to work the com with Birkoff.
I feel the blood leave my face. Michael knows that he has won. He has placed himself in position to play the loving and attentive husband to someone while I am forced to watch. I stand to my feet, all thought of play-acting lost.
"I know what this is about," I say. "This is not about my attitude. This is about revenge. You’re still jealous over my feelings for Remy, and this is your way to pay me back."
I step up to his desk and shake my finger, gesturing wildly.
"You set me up to care for him, then, couldn’t handle it when I did. He touched parts of me that you can’t reach, and that really gets to you, doesn’t it?"
"No," Michael says in denial.
His denial infuriates me. I know that I should stop, but anger spurs me on. "He’s twice the man that you are." I throw out recklessly. "He makes me feel like a woman. Admit it. This is pay-back."
"No," he repeats."
His calm reaction infuriates me. I want more that anything to remove that blank expression from his face. Bending my arm, I lean down and sweep the papers from his desk on to the floor. Then I leave the room slamming the door behind me. The impact echoes throughout Systems like a gunshot. Tears blur my eyes as I walk rapidly past the computers, out of Systems and into the hall. I’m so focused on my pain that I fail to hear the footsteps behind me until its too late.
Hands grab me roughly by the shoulders, propelling me around to slam me up against the wall. Pinning me in a defenseless grip, Michael brings his face so close to mine that our breath intermingles. He eyes are cold and chill me to the darkest recesses of my soul.
"Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that, again," he says. " A Section operative is not allowed to have temper tantrums." His voice is quiet and calm, but his rage is unmistakable. I tremble at the depth of emotion I sense hiding just beneath the surface. Tiny tendrils of fear coil themselves deep inside me, and I begin to struggle. The man before me is a stranger. My futile attempts at freedom bring a slow smile to the face of my captor, and he tightens his grip, sending fingers of pain to play up and down my arms. My breathing is rapid and shallow, and my fear is becoming a tangible thing.
Satisfied that he has my full attention Michael continues. "You will behave yourself, or I swear that you’ll be sorry. I’ll have you demoted back to trainee and moved in-house with no outside access. Do you understand me?"
I lower my eyes, realizing that I have pushed Michael too far. "Yes, I understand. I’m sorry." I pause, and take a deep breath. "I was wrong."
Michael loosens his grip and steps back. He turns and walks away without another word.
The End of Part I
Kitkat
* * * *
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