ForevaXena's FanFic . . .
The Reality In
Dreams
by A. Tietz
Copyright:
The characters of Xena and Gabrielle are owned by MCA/Universal/
Renaissance Pictures. I only
borrowed them to tell a story. No infringement was intended. The rest of the
story is mine and I hold the copyright to it.
Violence
Disclaimer: This Uber story depicts
scenes of violence and/or their aftermath.
Adult
Language: This Uber story
contains some foul language to assist in the story telling and its plausibility.
If you are offended please do not continue.
Love/Sex
Disclaimer: This story depicts a love/sexual relationship between two
consenting adult women. If you are
under the age of 18 or this is a prohibited form of literature in your life
please do not continue.
Adult
Uber Alternative Story
Comments,
Feedback: Please feed the bard: artzey@hotmail.com
Copyrighted
2002 by A. Tietz (Birdee)
Chapter
One:
Her eyes flew open, her heart
was racing, her mouth was dry, and her breath came in a gasp.
The dream had ended, again. And
still she did not know the face of the unknown woman.
NOOO! No, shit! Why
now!!? She punched her pillow so hard it almost burst.
That was the closest she had ever gotten.
She had never been that near before.
She could smell her hair, the salt air, the sway of the boat.
That sailess boat, on a calm sea at dusk, with a cloudy sky.
She was walking up behind her, that golden haired woman of a thousand
dreams. She could sense that the
woman knew she was there. Trace
could feel the woman’s excitement. She knew that this woman was about to turn around and throw
welcoming arms around her, and then the dream was gone.
So
many times she had dreamed of this person.
Such a mystery were these dreams. What
did they mean? When had they
started? Sometimes Trace believed
she had always dreamed of this woman/girl.
At first, when she was young, she didn’t remember any vision of the
dreams, it was just a feeling, a longing, a yearning, and yet a comfort when she
awoke. But she always knew she had
dreamed, it was at the edge of her mind. Still
try as she might, the images would not come.
The
night from hell had begun with the first remembered dream of the girl.
Too far away to see her clearly, the girl was young, but not a child.
Older than Trace, yet not, because here in this dream, Trace was older.
The girl sat on a log, in the middle of some forest or jungle.
She seemed to be bent to a task, perhaps holding something in her lap.
The feeling had been there, a warmth.
Then suddenly Trace had
awakened. Awakened to her horror,
awakened with fright. She didn’t
know why she was frightened. She
had only just dreamed of a girl. But
something was wrong. Something in
the house was wrong, she could feel it. She
always had a sixth sense; she could feel something was wrong before seeing the
cause. It had been the worst night
of her young life. In fact, life
was never the same after that horror filled cruel night of reality.
She had rolled up into a ball and cried until there were no tears left,
no feeling but cold burning rage and determination for justice for the crimes
that had ruined life. It was then the image of the girl had come to her.
She could not see the face, but she was comforted by the warmth of a
memory unknown. It was the only
comfort that could penetrate the devastation in her soul.
She was twelve then, twelve years old and suddenly alone, alone because
of a crime. That was so long ago.
And
tonight, sleeping in some hotel in Paris, after the routine of lessening the
world of a few more worthless excuses for human beings, she had dreamed of the
golden haired girl, now appearing vaguely but as a woman.
She had needed to dream of the woman tonight.
Trace reluctantly admitted that. Maybe
because of the little children her task had left behind.
The little girl and her brother who had no parents now thanks to Trace.
Why did men and women make families when they were so busy being scum?
Crab,
that bastard. Harry Fucking
Crabtree, she had worked for him long and hard enough to earn the right to
refuse a kill. He knew she seldom
did families. He knew she would not
kill children anymore AT ALL! But
he had sent her the profile of this hit anyway.
Pleading his case, carefully omitting the part about their having kids.
And they were on holiday. The
man and his wife were too guarded in the states for a clean kill.
The biological warfare terrorist, masquerading as a harmless, nerd faced
biochemist. Trace had not had time
to do much research. She almost
refused, but Crab had convinced her the man and his wife were alone in the
rented villa. Yeah, she
thought with rage, sure Crab, alone.
Now it was the children that were alone, with no parents.
She wouldn’t make this mistake again.
Crab was too much of an S.O.B. Know
more quick kills. No more trusting
research handed too her. The
bastard, she was so angry.
Fuck him.
He knew better than to fuck with her.
Maybe he had forgotten how scared he was of Trace.
Maybe he needed reminding that she loathed filth like him.
Legalized murder coordinators like him were the reason she had become
what she was. A little graphic
imagery might help, perhaps a bloody souvenir from this last kill.
Let’s let him dispose of the man’s severed hand and the woman’s ear
with earring in tact, which he or his wife would discover when reaching for the
milk from the fridge while reading the morning paper. No more hurried jobs, NO
MORE FAMILIES! Now, maybe if she
really tried she could get back to her dream.
She desperately wanted to see that face and feel something other than
loathing.
Trace
returned to her stark house that had little warmth.
She carefully put the keys on the soft pouch on the kitchen counter,
where they could rest without the sound of rattling giving away her entrance.
She had been gone for a week. She
hadn’t turn on the lights yet. The
answering machine light wasn’t blinking, there were no messages.
There hardly ever were. Except
the gardener every so often. She
liked the man, despite herself. But
she was careful, no real emotion, she could kill him if necessary, even though
he brought her flowers from the garden he carefully tended with the rest of her
property. No flowers today, it was
a house void of character, no friendly photos on the walls, no nick-knacks, it
was sparse of decoration but not empty. A
picture of the Northern California Rocky Coast was one of only three large
framed photograph/paintings hanging in the house.
One photo was a huge picture of a painting by a Hawaiian artist who had
captured two humpback whales breeching over the blue waters of the Pacific Ocean
along the shoreline of a small bay in Maui.
It hung in her bedroom. The
size of the piece was necessary to conceal false wall panels where her gun
arsenal was kept. Instead of
hanging from the wall itself it was suspended from the ceiling close to the
wall. It was rigged to be sensitive
to movement. If it had been move
Trace would know.
She
was always especially cautious when returning home from an extended absence.
She checked, the alarm had not been tripped, but any real pro could get
by that. She knew she was fine, no
one was there; she could feel the vacancy of the place so she continued without
gun drawn. But she slowly checked
each room. Walking from the
stainless steel cold kitchen into the mostly white living room where she
frequently sat at her computer carefully concealed in the wall.
The empty decoy, loaded with home and garden software data, was near the
sliding glass door. She passed by the comfortable yet seldom used sofa and kept
moving silently from room to room, with purpose, noticing every thing.
It was all as she had left it. She
would check the video feed of house surveillance and the motion sensors later.
The feathery Native American style wind chime in the hallway seemed a
little out of place in this house but it had not been disturbed.
Satisfied, she opened the stainless steel fridge and got a Pepsi, her
only addiction. Time to get the
travel washed off. Trace began
disrobing. After discarding her
royal blue blazer, she un-strapped her 44 Magnum ebony non-glossy handgun from
around her waist. She laid it under
the comfortable double bed that was draped with a blue down feather comforter
that matched the ocean blue in the whale painting.
She was more than ready for her shower as she tossed her cream colored
blouse into the white wicker hamper. The
last item removed was the small back up semi-automatic lightweight piece from
her ankle. It too was black without
any gloss. Someone in her
profession couldn’t afford anything shiny or flashy.
She walked into the bathroom and laid the piece on the silver metal shelf
stand that held her favorite soft green towel blanket.
It just felt more comfortable with a piece at arms length.
Trace’s house was simple but with a few comforts.
She had always liked blue and green.
She stepped onto the soft green bath rug, leaned into the shower stall
and started some warm water. Time
to get the soot of travel off her body; she would workout tomorrow morning.
As
soon as she landed she had gotten a request
on her cell phone to come into the office for a meeting.
She wouldn’t go, Crab knew it. But
she would show at an arranged meeting place, and he could come or not, his
decision. He’d come, he needed
her particular talent.
She hadn’t had Vietnamese
food for a while. Andy Nguyen’s
had good food and lots of atmosphere. Trace
could spot some of the Asian gang members and their thugs, even in this dark,
smoke filled setting. She had let
Crab sit alone for quite some time. She
could see he was pissed and about to leave when she said, “I wouldn’t make
any sudden moves if I were you.” He
froze. He couldn’t see her, and
she knew he was still getting the message, she wasn’t one of his brown nosed
dogs and she did bite back. Good
she was making him sweat a little.
She
came into view as a waiter. Her
raven dark hair, cropped rather short, went well toward helping her appear as a
male waiter. She had masked her penetrating blue eyes with brown contacts.
Her 5’ 11’’ frame was a little tall for an Asian man perhaps but
she slouched well. The rest of the
disguise was perfect; Trace was good at that, part of the job, part of survival.
She bowed.
He
awkwardly cleared his throat, “ Thanks for the um GREAT service.
Next time I’ll try not to be as demanding a customer.”
Trace
silently wondered if it was his wife who found those little presents this
morning. Nothing like finding
bloody body parts in the fridge instead of milk and eggs to get the message
across. She was in control enough
to know his patterns. She got in
and out without his watchdog making a peep.
He knew those could have been his wife’s body parts instead of the
parents of those now orphaned children.
With
a tight smile she said in a clearly acid voice, “Well you know,
consideration and respect is usually the best way to keep everyone friendly.
It’s also a good example for the kids.
Ah but then you probably don’t have any kids, do you SIR?”
Trace
wanted to be sure her message was “NO MORE FAMILIES” instead of an overt
threat to Crab himself. She was
pissed but not stupid. He could
order her hit as well, so she was walking a thin line a lot of agents dare not
walk. But she was here, and she
ready for another assignment. She
knew Crab, killing his dog would have been too far.
Playing it this way gained a little of his respect.
He knew she wasn’t just some ass kissing want-a-be, and she was a hell
of an assassin, just a little picky.
She
could see the perspiration on his lip. Some
of it she knew she was the cause of, yet most of it was likely fear.
She hadn’t been sure, but his nervousness confirmed it, he had a
connection here or some history that was not too steady.
That’s why she chose it. She
needed to know more of his history. He
had been in the Viet Nam War. She
was willing to bet he had used the war to make a name for himself.
She was still doing research on this CIA murder coordinator.
He rose and said with a sarcastic tone in his voice, “Friendly,”
then he bowed and made sure she saw the tip, then he left.
His message was clear, as long as it was convenient he would be friendly.
She grimaced but was satisfied that he at least would be less pushy
to avoid surprise presents or worse. She
took the paper under the tip and left as well.
All it said was, Mexico 2 weeks. Good
she could use the sun.
Mexico,
it had been in Mexico, Trace was remembering her first dream of the woman’s
face. She was sketching that face
now. Sitting in her favorite place,
at her drawing table in her den, the only room in the house with much color or
character. The drawing table was in
front of a large window looking out through the covered patio into the garden
where the gardener kept the flowers alive and bright.
Unlike the starkness of the rest of the house, this room had soft pastel
yellow walls. There were a few
watercolors on the walls, bright colored paints of the garden flowers washed out
nicely with watercolor technique. A
few paintings were scattered about, still drying.
Oil took so long and yet never truly dried.
In
Mexico it had been a routine Drug Lord slaying.
That task done, she had roamed the countryside a little.
She liked taking pictures, playing the tourist.
Those children, in that school, all dressed in white, with dusty faces.
They each got a bowl of beans and a tortilla for lunch.
They were not well nourished by any means, but there were no
bloated-starving bellies. There was
a toe-headed blonde little girl among the dark haired children.
She had hazel eyes and such a sweet face.
Out there in the field she was playing kick ball for all she was worth,
so free, so innocent, so pure. Had
Trace ever been like that?
That
night the dream had come. She had
had a glass of wine and sat on the balcony of the touristy hotel.
Much later sleep had claimed her. Trace
was back at the school, surrounded by dusty faced kids, grinning and yelling at
her to “Tire la pelota senorita”(throw the ball miss). The joy of play on their faces was plain to see.
She chuckled, Trace seldom really laughed, but in the dream she threw her
head back with joy and laughed, then she threw the ball.
They scattered. The woman
came up beside her, she could feel her. Trace
knew it was the golden haired illusive woman.
She was afraid to turn; afraid the woman would vanish, so she stood
still, watching the children run.
The
blonde headed little girl came running up to the woman beside her yelling,
“Maestra, Maestra,” then leaped into the woman’s arms.
The woman laughed with joy, and it so warmed Trace’s heart she lost her
fear and turn to see the face of the woman.
Green, no, hazel eyes met hers, the color of murky sea foam, but with a
sparkling gleam. The smile on her
face lit up her countenance with such sweet, pure warmth, Trace could not
breathe. Her golden hair fell upon
her shoulders and slightly on the girl in her arms.
The woman held her gaze for moments as if in slow motion, and the message
in those lovely eyes was clear, “Hello, it is so good to see you again.”
Trace
awoke suddenly, drunks out on the balcony below her room. Trace had sat up in
bed. This woman had not been the teacher at the school.
She had not seen this woman at the school that day, had she?
Trace’s mind raced. Had
she seen her elsewhere? Had she
been on the bus, in a shop, on the road, another hotel guest?
Trace knew the answer was no. She
had said “Again, Good to see you again.”
Yet Trace was sure she had never seen her.
How could she forget that face? It
was true; there was a welcoming feeling to this, a sense of coming home, a
peace. Still she had not yet met
this face in her life, or had she?
She
had gotten out of bed, rummaged the room for pencil and paper and made a sketch
of that face, that beautiful, warm, glowing face.
She made two sketches then returned to bed hoping continued sleep would
bring more dreams of the woman. Trace
spoke Spanish well enough so she had gone back to the school the next day.
She showed the sketch around, just to make sure.
As she suspected, no one knew who she was, no one had seen the woman in
the sketch. But now Trace had a
face, a beautiful face she would never forget.
And here she was back home; drawing the sketch of what would eventually
become a painting of a beautiful faced woman that both haunted her dreams yet
brought a measure of warmth and peace.
It
had only been a week since her return from Mexico.
She had no more dreams of the woman.
Despite herself, she was excited. She
chastised herself for being excited about a dream, told herself to get a grip,
but that face kept coming to her mind. It
compelled her to draw. Trace had
always been good at drawing. And
even now, in this odd, detached life that was hers, she could almost, if not
completely, transport herself into the world of what she was drawing.
She needed the escape, incomplete as it was.
This face though, Trace knew it was real.
She felt it. She knew that
this woman had to be more than a figment of her imagination.
After
a few days of continued sketching, she needed a break. It was time to get out a
bit. Trace was hungry, hungry for
some nachos and Joanie, beautiful shapely Joanie.
It had been a long time, and even Trace had to admit she was occasionally
human with human needs. She dressed
to go out to eat at the restaurant where she and Joanie had met.
Joanie knew that Trace was a mystery.
She knew not to ask questions. Joanie
could expect the tall, dark and mysterious woman to come quickly, treat her
divinely, and leave quietly without a Trace.
Sitting
in the back of Catches’ Bar and Grille, Trace watched the beautiful
strawberry-blonde move lithely, waiting tables with grace and charm.
Joanie had not seen her. Trace made sure to remain as concealed as
possible. She ordered nachos from a waitress she had never seen before and
watched the fair and lovely Joanie. Tight
jeans and a half top revealing a soft flat and smooth abdomen, also a fair
amount of cleavage. Joanie was a tall vision of soft and sweet, yet sultry.
The restaurant had been full. It
was a popular place, good food, a fun nautical atmosphere, and a TV sports bar
that drew regulars. But now it was
clearing out slowly, the hour was late. The
crowd that had helped Trace to remain hidden was slowly dwindling.
It was a few moments before she saw the gleam in the woman’s eyes.
Joanie had spotted Trace.
Joanie
gradually made her way to Trace’s table.
Looking at the half empty plate Joanie smiled, “I see you had nachos
but you didn’t finish, are you all full or can I offer you dessert?”
Trace
took a sip of her beer, “What can you offer me?”
Joanie
looked into smoldering blue eyes, leaned closer to Trace and grinned
mischievously, “That depends on the tastes of your pallet.”
Trace
locked gazes with the beauty and whispered, “I would enjoy something tall and
sweet, with a flavor that can be savored slowly.”
Careful
not to breathe too deeply, Joanie replied, “Well, you see, since the bar is
about to close, I am afraid we can’t offer you something so savory.
But if you care to wait until my shift ends, I may be able to offer you a
tasty treat sure to satisfy your particular craving.”
Trace
arched an eyebrow, smirked and said, “It sounds so tantalizing, I am sure its
worth the wait.”
“I
am positive you’ll enjoy every bite,” Joanie smiled brightly and promised
with her best sultry tone, “Be back soon.”
Joanie was definitely a good flirt.
Trace swallowed the last of her beer and left the bar.
She
waited outside unseen. Repetition,
and routine were not habits that promoted survival in Trace’s world.
She had only met Joanie at the bar once.
Their other meetings had been at Trace’s discretion.
When she had popped into the bar that first day she had driven her dark
blue two-seated Jeep. She had been
out and about that time, on a casual day in a sweatshirt and jeans.
This time she had taken the bus. Her
long shape was a dark figure in the shadow of the building.
She didn’t wear jewelry, her blouse was a dark purple silk covered by a
flattering deep blue blazer, finished with deep blue slacks that accentuated her
long legs. While she waited she watched, always careful, always aware, that’s
why she was still breathing.
Joanie
was searching, unsure when she came out of the building; she hesitantly walked
to her car. The blue eyed beauty
was so illusive, but so thrilling. She
had her keys in her hand; she was almost to the car.
For a moment her attention was distracted by bar customers hailing a cab,
and then she appeared. In the
moment it took for Joanie to glance at the taxi and turn her eyes back toward
her car, the mystifying woman was standing by the driver’s side door of her
pearl-white Beamer. Joanie jumped a
little. How did the woman do it?
No sound, no shadow of movement, seemingly out of thin air she just
appeared.
As
she approached, the door was held open for her.
Joanie was sure she had locked it. In
Miami, it was a fool that did not keep a car locked up tight.
She even had an alarm. Both of which were paid for with a lot of tips and
overtime. Yet gallantly her
sometimes-lover was holding the door open for her.
No alarm sounded, and she had done it without a key.
So mysterious, so exciting and dangerous.
Joanie knew it was dangerous to know the lady who called herself Stacy.
Somehow she doubted that Stacy was her real name.
Her instincts said stay away. But
Gods what a looker and YEOW, what a sensuous lover.
Those blue eyes seemed to hold her gaze as though there was nothing and
no one else in the world. And yet
she knew that Stacy was aware of every sound, every movement, and every
potential happening around them. Joanie
flashed her a quick smile and slid into the driver’s seat.
In a moment Stacy was seated on the passenger side and before she knew
it, Stacy had cupped her face in a beautifully shaped hand and was covering her
lips with a slow, sensitive and deep kiss of longing.
“You’re
right, very sweet and well worth the wait," Trace smiled as she broke the
kiss and looked into light brown colored eyes.
“Oh
but you said yourself, you enjoy savoring the flavor of dessert.
That was just the topping, you’ll have to wait a bit longer for the
rest.”
“Waiting
will give me the time to savor the sweetness that is already on my lips,”
those blue eyes flashed in the darkness with a seductive glint.
Joanie
giggled and started the car. “Stacy,
I sometimes wonder if you are real or just a daydream.”
“As long as I am never a nightmare Joanie,” Trace replied.
“I
get the feeling that you take particular pains to keep nightmares away from me
Stacy.” With a slight grin
and a smug look Trace said, “I have always been attracted to wise women.”
Trace
stared at the brightly colored angelfish in the clean, clear tank in Joanie’s
living room. Joanie was uncorking
some wine in the kitchen. This was
a warm yet airy apartment. Trace
looked at the picture of Chris and the softball gang on the entertainment
center. The group was laughing it up and Joanie was in the middle of them all,
enjoying the fun. She recognized
Joanie’s ex-lover from her own research and Joanie’s description.
Trace had to be careful, so she had been sure to research Joanie’s
past, as much for Joanie’s own protection as for Trace.
This was the first time she had seen the picture displayed in the house
though. Joanie still wasn’t over
Chris, the softball crazed teacher. But she wouldn’t admit it.
Trace suspected that Joanie thought Chris was a little too sedate for her
tastes. Still Chris was a hell of a
lot more healthy for her than Trace. Trace
looked a bit like Chris. Only Chris
was short, had long flowing dark brown hair and gray-blue eyes.
Trace moved to the window and looked out carefully.
And in the dark of the night, she remembered a face of warmth and beauty
with hazel eyes and a welcoming gaze.
Startled,
she jumped aside, immediately ready to respond to danger.
Joanie had come up behind her, and Trace had been so taken with that face
she had lost herself a moment. Joanie
flinched and spilled some wine out of the glasses in her hand.
“Joanie,
I‘m sorry, I, uh, well you startled me,” Trace said obviously shaken.
Joanie
looked up a little bewildered, “Um okay, let me get a towel to get this out of
the rug.” Placing the glasses on the table she retreated into the kitchen to
get a towel. Wow, she had never,
ever surprised this woman before. Stacy
was always in control.
“Here,
let me get this,” Trace took the towel and began working on soaking up the
wine from the rug. What was wrong
with her, she had lost concentration, awareness; she had lost focus, control.
She couldn’t afford lapses like that.
“Do you have some Resolve, or some kind of cleaner Joanie?”
In
a moment the woman reappeared with the cleaner.
Trace scrubbed the carpet.
“Don’t
worry Stacy, it was just white wine. I’m
sure you got it.” Trace finished
the task and Joanie disposed of the rag.
There
was wine still left in both glasses, “Here, I think you need this wine
Stacy,” Joanie giggled, trying to
put Stacy at ease.
Trace
accepted the wine and chuckled, “Well let’s hope I am not all thumbs
tonight.” Joanie had a wicked
grin on her face and said, “I don’t know, thumbs have their uses.”
Trace returned the grin, “Well, they are useful in helping make
desserts, am I right?” “They
can also be helpful in partaking of desserts I am sure,” Joanie looked rather
longingly at the tall mystery woman.
Trace
had put down her wineglass next to Chris’ picture.
“May I guess who this is Joanie?”
“Well
it may or may not have been wise of me, but I did love her,” came a sad and
bitter reply.
“Oh,
I hope I didn’t”
“No,”
Joanie interrupted, “I’m sorry, she is a good person. Sometimes things just
don’t work out.”
In
other words, Trace thought, subject
closed.
She
moved closer and kissed the melancholy face.
But it felt a little awkward. She
broke the kiss, and Joanie smiled up at her expectantly.
What was up with her, she wasn’t herself.
This is a beautiful woman whom I have taken in passion before, what is
my problem, Trace mentally chastised herself.
Catching
sight of the fish tank out of the corner of her eye Trace move toward it asking,
“Have you added some new fish Joanie,” She peered at the swimming fish,
feeling the calm it inspired, and that beautiful face returned to her minds eye.
Damn, here she was with a very desirable woman and all she could think
about was a dream. She had lost her
concentration and now she was about to insult the delicious Joanie.
“No,
same fish Stacy. What’s wrong
Stacy, you seem tense? Sorry I got
all mushy about Chris. It’s over
really.”
“I
am tense Joanie, but its not you, really. There’s
something I left unfinished and I thought I could put it away for one evening,
but apparently I can’t.” There
was an awkward silence.
“Well
let me try to take your mind off the unfinished and focused on dessert,”
Joanie said with a wicked grin.
But
Trace was still surprised at her earlier lack of attention.
She was angry with herself for getting lost in the imaginings of anything
that was other than reality. What
else had she missed? What details
had she been too preoccupied to pay attention to?
She was a threat to herself and maybe Joanie.
This was way out of hand. She
was concerned about Joanie now. This
had to stop. This wasn’t her.
“Look
Joanie, you are a lovely woman. I
know we enjoy one another’s company. But
you’re wiser than you know. You
are right; I do spend time making sure I don’t become your worst nightmare.
The less you know of me the better.
And although I can’t explain, I don’t think I can trust myself to
insure that you remain safe. As I
said, something is unfinished. Something
is always unfinished for me, but still. I
have to face it, if I can’t trust my own skills at something I do very well,
then its best if we say goodbye.”
A
look of rejection appeared on that lovely face.
Trace hated this. She
didn’t get involved for this reason. It
was too dangerous for them. She was
a fucking nightmare. And though
they had kept it light, Joanie was now feeling dumped.
She hurried over to the woman and held her, stroking her hair.
“Joanie,
I have never been free to offer you more than physical love.
I never meant to mislead you. We
have purposely kept this light, not overly personal.
Still, I can tell you are a sweet person.
Much too sweet for the likes of me.”
“But
Stacy” Joanie began.
“No
Joanie believe me this is too, uh, well I can’t explain but it has to end.
Before something irreversible happens I need to leave.”
Joanie
was clearly upset, “Stacy I haven’t asked for commitment or even information
about you. I hardly know a damn
thing about you. I am not asking
you to love me the way I believe you are not free to do.
I just feel less alone knowing you are around occasionally and you would
want me. I am not asking for
anymore than what we have had.”
Trace
ran her hands through her short black hair.
She had planned an evening of mutual sensual pleasure and it was turning
into a soap opera. What was wrong
with her, what had changed? Joanie
was right, she had not asked for anything.
But something was different. She
felt more out of control than she had since childhood.
She had to refocus, she had to take time and figure out what the fuck was
wrong with her. She couldn’t
afford sentiment. And here she was
having feelings, being sensitive,
caring about what this woman deserved. It
was unnerving. She was so enamored
with a dream she had lost focus, been startled by a simple touch.
She couldn’t afford the luxury of letting down, letting go; it could
only lead to the grave.
“I
know Joanie. Its not you.
You aren’t demanding, you haven’t asked for anything different, I
know. Remember I said I left
something undone. It’s true.
And that element of the unknown just can’t exist in my world.
I can’t explain why. It’s
been nice, but we can’t continue. It’s
unfair that I can’t explain why, but please know its not you.
Maybe seeing that picture of Chris has made me realize, you are much too
sweet a person to take chances. You are a lovely and desirable woman.”
That’s it Trace you are oh sooooo sensitive.
You have so fucked up. Now
look at her. Damn, the more you
talk the more hurt she looks. Shit
what have I gotten myself into. Where
did I go wrong? When was it that if
need be, I could not kill this woman. You
broke your own rule Trace, you know you can’t care damn it.
And here she was wrapping this woman in her arms to offer comfort.
Joanie
sighed deeply, stiffened slightly and with a tremor in her voice said, “Okay
Stacy. I knew this would come
someday. It’s just that…. well
it just, it comes at a vulnerable time for me, I’ve been thinking a lot about
my past. I just wish it could have
lasted a bit longer. But you’re
right; we never promised anything to each other.
I, uh well, I mean I won’t … um, ever see you again… will I?”
The woman looked sadly at Trace.
“No,
Joanie, it would not be wise.”
Awkwardly
the woman struggled to laugh, “Dessert will never be the same.”
Trace was mentally kicking herself.
She would never do this again; she could never get this close.
Looking at the sweet-faced woman she wanted to say the right thing,
“You’ve spoiled me, you know. I
doubt I will ever know a taste as delicious as you,” she took Joanie’s face
in her hands, and placed a deep kiss on those lips.
Damn,
I am gonna miss those lips.
Ah
Shit, she’s crying, I hate crying. You
did this Trace you…..bitc….
“Come here Joanie.” Trace
led her to the couch and sat her down. She
stroked the woman’s face and looked into her eyes. Trace wanted to say the
right thing. Somehow this reminded
her of her only TV interest, old classic films.
What would Cary Grant have said? She
gave it her best try, “Close your eyes Joanie.
Now put this in your mind. You
are standing in a wide-open field of green.
The sun is bright and warm. There
is a refreshing summer breeze on the air carrying the flowery scent of spring.
You can hear the birds chirping in the nearby trees with newly sprouted
leaves of green. And if you listen
closely, you can hear sounds of laughter in the distance, the laughter of
friends, of loved ones. Be quiet
now, be still, and listen with your whole body, with your heart and you will
know who the laughter belongs to. Be
still and wait for the memory of the laughter you love, let yourself get lost in
the music of its promise. The
laughter is getting louder now, they are coming closer, those loving laughing
friends that belong in the picture frames of your life.
They are coming to join you, because you are missed among them.”
Joanie wasn’t crying anymore, there was a knowing smile on her face.
And before the woman could know she was gone, Trace vanished.
There
was a punching bag in her house. She
had jogged home fueled by the heat of rage with herself.
She was in a mood, threatened by the reaffirmation of the weakness that
emotions were to her life. After
carefully entering the house, assuring it was safe, she threw down her keys,
yanked off her clothes and attacked that bag.
She needed the rhythm. She
needed to make her body obey her commands.
She needed to focus. Sweat
was pouring off her naked body. This
was her, this is what she knew, this was safe.
She went through her Thi Chi forms.
Slowly, in rhythm, one after the other.
Clearing her mind, no emotion. No
feelings with memories, just focus. She
placed that brown eyed beauty in that green field and backed away.
Things were safe now, but just barely.
It was done. It was over.
It should never have been. And
it could never be again. The only
memory she could afford was that unnerving feeling of being out of control.
She swallowed hard and resolved to never know that fear again.
The
weeks passed. First it was
Shanghai, then Brazil, Colorado, New York, and The Alps.
She had made herself keep busy. Business
as usual, focus. And every one of
those jobs had been a woman. A few
of them she’d slept with before killing.
Distance, resolve, iron, ice, cold, calculating, she was almost back to
normal. She fired the damn
gardener. The new one was skinny
and hairy, with bad breath, missing teeth and sagging jeans, whose only thought
was getting the work done so he could have some cold suds with the boys.
Plus he never brought her a fresh pick of flowers.
If he did, she’d shoot him, just for the hell of it.
She
had gotten a little soft and that was deadly.
She had started to care. People
like her couldn’t care. It was a
joke. No one could care for her,
what she had become. She was a
monster to most. Sure she did the
bad guys. She didn’t kill the
innocents if she could help it. But
she was just as much an assassin as those that did the families, the kids, the
grandmas along with the bystanders. Revenge
and her thirst for justice had come with a price and the price was her soul.
She had made the choice, now she had to live with it and die by it.
She
was too distracted, she needed to rid herself of the norm, challenge herself.
When had murder become so routine? She
needed to revisit the survival skills of being in the wilderness.
She had told Crab she would take a break.
He didn’t argue, she had done more jobs in the last two months than she
had in the last year. He didn’t
question, just used her. Good
assassins had the benefit of not having to visit Langley too often.
Its not like she would be missed. She
had the basics, a knife, one set of warm clothes, a bow and arrow, some easy to
carry trail food and she allowed herself a canteen.
The Rockies were never warm. But
since she was out of practice she started in late summer, early fall.
Before she could leave, she had to survive a snow.
Before it had snowed, she caught some fish, killed and cooked some
venison, storing it in the cold spring she had found, smoked some of the meat,
had built a shelter not far from the river, made some traps, cut enough wood to
last, and covered it to protect it from the snow as much as possible.
She could tell by her clothes she had lost about 10 to 15 pounds.
She wasn’t as good as when she was in her twenties.
But she was surviving.
It
was a cold night before the snow fell; she had made a fire and wrapped herself
in the skins she had tanned from the deer and the beavers.
Not all her time had been spent at the drawing table.
For survival training she would pour over books about the wilderness comb
tidbits from survival guides, study the Native American way of life building
shelters from the land. She had
also participated in a few wilderness survival camps.
The CIA did have its uses as well, she had picked up some tricks of
survival in the Crab, “learn as you go” school of assassins.
But she loved the outdoors. It
was pure, untamed and largely untouched by the vileness for human corruption.
She had made the shelter to be temporary.
Still, some of it would survive the winter even without care.
She would likely return for a visit at some future date.
Hopefully the return will be pleasure not necessity, she thought
to herself.
It was a moonless night.
The forest was still, awaiting the snow.
She fell asleep in the late evening.
At first, it was a dreamless slumber, then that feeling had come.
No images, just a feeling, a longing, and then she was running through
the forest. She was being pursued.
The feeling was all around her, it wasn’t natural, it wasn’t from the
forest, it was fear. Fear was the hound at her heels.
Something was wrong. That
sixth sense again. It had kept her
alive many times. She felt
compelled to keep running forward, fast, before it was too late.
Then she was at a lake, the cliffs above the lake where high.
It was a shear drop from the top of the cliffs to the rocks and water
below.
At
first she didn’t see her, then the image was clear.
Joanie, it was Joanie! Shit.
It looked like the woman was asleep and walking toward the edge of the
cliff. No, she scolded
herself. She had to snap out of it,
she was just dreaming again. In
reality the woman was fine. This
wasn’t real. But the fear stabbed
her in the gut, she looked up. She
could never scale that cliff in time. NO,
she wasn’t responsible for Joanie anymore.
She had left her alone, she was safe.
It
was all around her, FEAR. She dove
into the water. She was shivering,
she had no clothes on, but she felt this terrible weight.
She looked around her. The
lake was blood red. Joanie was
getting closer to the cliff. Trace
started forward, but she felt something tug at her waist.
It was some vine thing attached to her waist.
As she tried to move forward the vine resisted and became taught.
Trace looked at the vine, it seemed to be secured to the shore.
She looked up to the top of the cliff.
Joanie was right on the edge. Trace
surged forward and as she did she heard a tremendous rattling sound.
She frantically looked back. The
vine was pulling things out of the ground.
What was it, bones? It was
bones. It was skeletons, hundreds
of skeletal frames, of humans. She
tried to sever the vine, but it was firmly secure.
Trace lunged forward, she swam with all her might, but the weight was so
heavy. She heard voices in the
rattling of the bones; they were screams that filled her with pain.
She had made those skeletons. And
now they were keeping her from helping someone.
Joanie would just be one more skeleton.
She didn’t care she couldn’t afford to care.
BUT NO, NO, her whole being cried out NOOOO!
She reached the rocks just as
the woman was falling. Trace leaped
forward to reach for Joanie. She
caught her, but instead of falling on the rocks they plunged into the water.
She held her tight and swam to the surface.
Gasping for air, Trace had swallowed some water; she was coughing when
they broke the surface. But it was daylight now, it was warm. There was a waterfall and wild flowers around the lake.
Joanie was in her arms, but no it wasn’t Joanie, it was the golden
haired woman whose eyes seemed emerald green this time, peaceful and calm.
Her smile was warm and her eyes proud.
She lovingly brushed long raven hair out of Trace’s eyes and said with
admiration and love, “Thank you.” And
then Trace was awake.
It was still night.
She got up, her face was wet. But
it wasn’t snowing yet. She had
been crying. Shit, crying,
Crying? NO, no Crying damn it!
When the hell had she cried last, she was twelve right?
Shit, it was only a fucking dream.
“NOOOOOOOO, DAMN IT! What
the HELL is wrong with me,” she screamed into the night.
Why was she caring, why did she care if Joanie was happy. She was a cold-blooded killer, she DIDN’T do CARING!
It was that dream.
She had started to care after she had finally dreamed of the face of the
mysterious woman. But it was just a fucking dream.
Reality was hard, cold and cruel. Damn
it, killers didn’t feel, didn’t have emotions.
It was only a dream. You
don’t live in dreams. Snap out of
it. The woman isn’t real.
You shit. You worthless
piece of shit, you kill for a living. That’s
what you learned to do on purpose. That’s
what you do, its what you are, you BITCH! Face
it, live with it! And forget this
FUCKING ASS DREAM DAMN IT! She was screaming. Using
her walking stick to wail against a tree. The
hefty stick was splintering with the force of the blows.
It began to snow. She felt exhausted and disgusted. But she wasn’t stupid enough to get wet and cold and
freeze. She wrapped herself in her
blankets under the shelter and waited for sleep.
No more fancy dreams about pretty golden haired women that weren’t
real. NO MORE caring, emptiness was
her life, she had made it, and she would deal with it DAMN IT!!
She hadn’t stayed long
after the snow. When she came home, she was 25 pounds lighter, she had lost too
much weight and she was exhausted, mostly from fear. She hadn’t gained any more focus. Instead she had even more
dreams. It was time to get back to
work. Work was demanding.
No cutting corners, no missing details.
She was an assassin and she was good at it.
But work would have to wait.
Even Trace could get the flu. She
had only been home a few days when she had gotten ill.
She didn’t have time to take an assignment before her stomach had
rebelled and her body was on fire. Somehow
she had made it to the store. Got
all she needed. It was her fourth
day, and no sign of getting better. She
still refused to go to the doctor. She
hated relying on anybody but herself. And
in her weakened, less-vigilant condition, every night brought a dream of the
golden haired beauty. It was the
same dream; it had no motion, like a still photograph.
The woman was looking into Trace’s eyes as she had in the lake.
She was wearing a warm, loving smile and a proud expression in her eyes
as she stood in the middle of a forest. Trace
felt this woman pulling at something inside her.
Those eyes were beckoning, hoping, as if encouraging Trace to join her,
meet her, come with her or something. Trace
was too tired and too sick to try and explain it away or will herself not to
dream. And it was oddly comforting
after a few days; she just didn’t have the strength to fight it. So she felt comforted and slept.
It
had been a week and a half, and Trace was finally getting better.
She was taking it slow. She
looked at her drafting table. She
was too weak to do much physical activity.
But she was bored. She had
watched some classic TV. A little Cary Grant, that gallant man who could never
be real, at least not after twelve. But Trace wasn’t one to watch hours upon
end.
She
could not forget those eyes, that face. She
looked at her drawing table. She
picked up a sketch. There it was,
that look, the beckoning look. So
that look had been in her dreams before. That
beautiful face seemed so familiar, and yet she knew she had never met her.
Who and what was this woman, why must she dream about her?
Why wouldn’t this weird woman of dreams go away?
What the hell was she going to do? Was
she losing her sanity finally? She
fell asleep at the drawing table.
This
time the woman was clothed in a red crushed velvet sort of bathing suit.
She wore silver wristbands and a silver bracelet around her upper right
arm. Her blonde locks were short
this time. She seemed older than
she had appeared thus far. She was
sitting on a log with some parchment in her hand.
Trace approached her cautiously. She had a sad yet hopeful expression on
her face when she looked up at Trace. She
handed Trace the parchment and walked toward the forest.
The words written on the parchment were in a foreign language yet Trace
knew every word. “If you fight me
you shall never know me. If you
never know me you shall never know yourself.”
Trace
felt like a lance had just pierced her heart.
Her gut told her the words were true.
In these dreams it was so hard not to feel.
Like when she leaped to save Joanie, she had felt what was the right
thing to do, to feel, and she had acted before she thought.
And now here was the truth, she felt it, she knew it was true.
She looked up to find the woman standing at the beginning of a path.
She still had that sad but hopeful look in her eyes and her hand was
outstretched to Trace urging her to follow.
Suddenly the path behind the woman broadened and Trace could see what lie
in the path. It was covered with
skeletal bones. Trace froze, fear
and dread seized her. The woman
looked at the parchment. Trace
looked down to find more words written, “This path is a hard one to follow.
But to know yourself you must find your soul.
The journey to find your soul can not be made alone.”
Trace woke up and felt the urgent need to draw, so she drew, she drew for
days.
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