| Subject: Chapter 263 - Part 2 (16 and above) (end of chapter 263) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Wednesday, November 08, 07:19:21am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark (258>?) continued" on Monday, October 23, 07:10:30am
The pair's employer read over the letter slowly--but with an ever-increasing sense of rage, the trembling from an entirely different cause by the time she had finished it. She didn't even notice that Fredericks was still beside her, until she was done--her words slipping out in a growl. "How dare he?" She looked up to her helper, giving him her hand; she had already learned not to push away any aid which helped her to stand up--being four or five months along in her pregnancy beginning to make such a move more difficult, especially when starting from the soft couch she now occupied. He did his part, and she moved past him toward the desk, simmering--intent on teaching her father the truth. That son-of-a-bitch wasn't going to get away with this for long.
She had entirely forgotten about her worried helpers by the time she had gotten out her stationery and pen, writing at the speed which her fury brought on, ready to tell the bastard just what she thought of him. She wrote:
You idiot, damnable, old man,
How dare you judge me? How dare you look down on the life I lead with the man who loves me? What have you ever done to deserve even a moment of gratitude or thanks? You'll get nothing of the sort from me.
My reaction on reading your letter was not what you hoped. I am not ashamed or sorry for being happy or in love. I will not apologize for my unwounded sense of self. If anything, I'm revolted that you feel you have any right to treat me in this manner. Just what have you done that you would pretend to it now?
Remember who you are, old man. You order the deaths of innocents for profit. You live off the backs of abused women. You cheat and lie and steal and blackmail your way into even more power. None of these sins gives you any right to talk to *me*.
I'm disgusted by your letter, by all your multiple insinuations. I am not some stupid little girl taken in by a smooth liar, deluded into bed and childbirth, while my husband fools around. This is certainly *your* one way of dealing with women--my poor mother is a prime example--but do *not* put your same, sick faults onto the man I love.
And yes, I do love Michael--as he loves me. That's why you're entirely incapable of understanding our feelings for one another. You have no ability to love. I rather doubt that you have anything like a soul. Your "affection" for anyone is strongly tempered by what you feel you can get out of them. When that usefulness to you is done, they're disposable. Again, think of my poor mother.
You dare to call my child a bastard, too. *I'm* the bastard child here--and solely because of you. You're the one who used my mother like the whores you sell the world. You're the one who can see women in no other way. I wouldn't apologize to you for anything which could be named. Even if I were ever to sin against you, which I certainly haven't, there could be nothing I could do--up to and including killing you--which could in any way equal all you've done to me.
Do you not believe this fact? Are you senile enough to have forgotten? Well, let me refresh your failing faculties. Remember Hillinger? Remember the fact that you were more than willing to see me turned over to a rapist gunman simply for your own amusement? I certainly do. His presence in my house is still a taint, whatever the work of your men to mend the room. And I have *you* to thank for nearly getting me brutalized and killed. This is your idea of being a good father.
But this isn't your only sin against me--not at all. Now, you've forced my dear husband to leave in fear for our own lives. He's risking his life in a military which he's too old for simply to keep you from killing us. In these months when I wish to have him here the most, and he most wishes to be here, you intentionally separate us. This is the "love" you have for your own grandchild.
You also offer to find me a more "suitable" match. You callous bastard. I'm in *love*--and with a man who knows how to return the sentiment, who will do whatever it takes to see me happy and well; see the above paragraph, and remember your idiotic, brutal demands, if you doubt that.
Your mind, your standards of morality, amaze me. Would it make you happier to see me shackled to some gunman like Hillinger, beaten and abused in every manner possible, just so your sadism is fed by knowing there's no such thing as tenderness or love in my life? I suppose it would. Still, there's no way in Hell--where you clearly plan on living--that I'll ever give into such degradation from you.
Your utter callousness and stupidity doesn't entirely surprise me, of course. I lived with my mother for almost 20 years, before the hard use you put her through finally killed her. My only wish is that you might also have had her disease. At least then you'd be dead of syphilis by now.
Do not mistake these words as those of a "girl" who can be convinced to take part in the degradations you have planned for her. I'd rather be dead. But, again, don't misunderstand me. I have no intention of dying anytime soon.
Never contact me again, you son-of-a-bitch. Never bother me, my family, or my husband. You're too far beneath us to be worthy of notice. But, if you do *anything* to harm any of us, I will damn well see that you know about it.
Believe my threats. I mean them.
Your cast-off daughter,
Nikita
She was still shaking by the time she finished the letter, had half a mind to go over to his house and scream out every single one of her, understandable, responses to his threats; her eyes cast over her work for half a second, before she started to seal it up. Her only real surprise in her response had been its vague formality. Yes, she had used a bit of blue language in it--but nothing like he so richly deserved for such threats. And, while a part of her wished to respond the way her mother would have--in a stream of language so coarse that it would make most sailors cringe and blush--she knew that wasn't the way to deal with him. He, like his daughter--she unfortunately knew--was a low-class brute with only a dim covering of civility; she felt this now, even more strongly--hating the similarities she saw. But he would only understand her answer if it were given in those same terms he had presented.
It took quite a lot to keep her from balling up the letter she had just written in her rage, to not just do some damage to something nearby out of sheer fury. It wasn't like she had had very good training in how to manage to anger, in how to calmly respond. From her mother's maddened, drunken rages, to the brutality of the men who had so often inhabited her childhood home, to the fact that she was the child of a man who had people killed for a living, she wasn't particularly predisposed to calmly channeling her fury; she had to close her eyes, stopping halfway through her addressing of the envelope, trying to pull herself together. But breaking things wouldn't help her--wouldn't keep her father to himself; she let out a slow, slightly steadier, breath. She had to remember that, if she didn't wish to make life very unpleasant for her poor aides just now.
It was the two of them she thought of, as she willfully calmed herself--doing her best to remember these truths. They too had fathers like hers--poor Annie, apparently, even having to live with him. If she started screaming and throwing things, not only was she doing herself no good at all, she would also be harming them. None of them needed the memories of their godforsaken parents brought back to damage them now.
She focused on this fact for several long moments, purposely calming herself--as much as that was possible. Finally, she refocused on the envelope in front of her, finishing the address work in a far steadier hand. There was no time for such indulgences, anyway. The three of them needed to plan.
She took only a few more minutes to dash off another letter, then--one to her husband to apprize him, as much as she could, of this latest, hideous turn of events. As little as she wanted to worry him, she knew he had to be told. If her father got too far-reaching, Michael might well be in danger; she did her best to repress her shudder. She had no idea just how far the businessman's evil grasp could go.
She was absolutely silent, as she wrote to her beloved furiously--trying to finish up in time to continue her intentions. She had no doubt that Fredericks would help her; not only was it his job, his reaction to simply seeing Jones's address had been more than telling. There was no love lost there. All she had to do was begin her plans.
She wrote quickly:
Michael, my love,
I'm afraid that my letter will be as brief as yours--and far less easy to read, in many senses. I've just received a letter from the man who suggested that you take the path you're now enduring. Nothing that he said there was in any way hopeful for us.
I'm sorry to make your day worse with this news; I wish I could spare you, but I want you to know it, to be especially cautious. He's not at all happy with the fact that I still love you, that each of us is faithful. He's convinced that--well, of all the things he always has been, with us together. He even wants to see me with someone of his choosing. He was quite insistent about it all.
I've already written back to him, to let him know--in no uncertain terms--that I'm thoroughly uninterested in his suggestions. Still, I can only wish that this will be the end of things. I'm going now--I hope to talk with my grandmother and some of our friends--to see what we can do. I won't let his suggestions win for long.
I'm sorry that this is so brief and unpleasant a letter. I want us to only be able to focus on our love here--but I know you won't be any happier not knowing. Still, I'll be taking care of myself here--of myself and our child. You simply look after yourself and try your best not to worry over me. There is not only nothing on earth that I will allow to take me away from you; there's nothing in heaven or hell, either. His letter has had quite the opposite effect from the one he wanted. I will *never* give you up.
I love you. I will be here, whenever you return. There will never, in any time or place, be a man who can take me from you. Know that in your heart for good.
Take care of yourself, my love. Please. Look after your life, your sanity, and your well-being. If I know you're safe, I'll be able to go on. I and your child *will* be here, when you return.
Nothing can make me stop loving you,
Your Nikita
She found that she was breathing heavily by the time she had finished writing, had never felt more absolutely determined. No matter what the businessman's intentions, she *would* see that she was safe--that her future was with Michael alone; there was a long, calming breath. There was absolutely nothing which could sway her now.
She wasn't a fool, of course; she knew the risks had just multiplied by some thousand or so. Still, she was determined, as she turned to Fredericks, a small smile on her lips. "We need to go to my grandmother's now. We have things to plan." Her mind turned, looking over to Annie before returning her gaze to her guard. "Would you feel better if she stayed here or came with us?"
Annie understood why she had been left out of that question, Carl's role being to protect them both. Still, she would not have decisions made for her--had come too far for that. "I'll stay here." Her look met with her new husband's, her eyes determined. "I'll handle myself, if any trouble comes." After a moment, the man nodded. They had that much understanding of each other, at least.
Things moved quickly after this, Annie returning to the kitchen, Carl going out to ready the car for their trip, as Nikita made a quick phone call to Helmut and Rene. Soon, she was determined, they would start their plans--and neither Madeline, Jones, nor anyone else would be able to sway her after that.
[End of Part 263]
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