“It is only rarely that one
can see in a little boy the promise of a man, but one can almost always see in
a little girl the threat of a woman.”
Alexandre Dumas
“I would rather trust a
woman's instinct than a man's reason.”
Stanley Baldwin
The house did not look any different from those that
surrounded it. No one thing stood out
from its appearance: typical, ordinary, cookie-cutter;
neat and well maintained, manicured but not overly picturesque. Nothing would pull your attention to it, but
that was the point. Why? Because small,
subtle novelties would emerge if one with a critical, trained eye approached.
While the dark paved driveway accented the neatly adorning grass brilliantly, punched sharply with geometrically spaced single shrubs on each side, its slightly elevated positioning betrayed a pretext. It hid pressure sensitive pads. The front lawn itself stood defiant, naturally thick grass of varying strains that refused to cower from the other lots, which all appeared to hold neatly aligned artificial sod. The naked eye may not smartly distinguish between the two families, but this grass’ thickness also masked an underground invisible barrier, which sod would fail to hide. It would pinpoint any intrusion supplemented by the constantly scanning sensors concealed in each bush. Motion sensitive lights also peppered the structure’s perimeter, canvasing any approach. A quick glance at the three car garage would reveal a thicker-than-normal door of solid metal as would the main front door.
Below the first floor windows grew smartly groomed gardens that almost exploded with color but colors that disguised a nefarious purpose: hinder any would-be intruder. They would discover vines to entangle footing, thorn infested plants and flowers acting as a natural barrier, foliage too thick simply to push aside, retarding any attempt at a window – windows crafted of bulletproof glass resting in steel frames, which themselves rested within steel rod reinforced cinderblock walls, behind neatly adorned redbrick. Punching or cutting through would prove most difficult. Sound sensors located throughout the house would in any case promptly detect and alert the occupants of any such attempt. Well placed, visible and hidden cameras constantly stood vigil over and throughout the entire property with motion tracking, night vision and infrared. The backyard rested surrounded by laser fencing, encompassing similar sensors and lights found on the front and sides.
Even if some undesirable gained entrance to the house, they would find similar measures inside with the added detection of air density and atmospheric temperature changes. The entire array itself, indeed the entire house, expertly managed by Master Control Program developed by ENCOM used in the Gi-Bolst Industries’ MU-TH-R 146 model 2.0 petabyte AI mainframe or “Mother,” the back-up for the prototype mainframe model housed in the Holst Estate – a gift from a very grateful Mr. Holst to Gwen’s father. Like Mr. Holst’s own mainframe, it maintained contact with the outside world through redundant satellite, cellular, hardline, and fiber-optic communications apparatus. Indeed, an intruder would have to overcome all these defenses before they could have any meaningful time at this location. Even then, they may or may not stumble across the hidden first or second level Panic Rooms, which are themselves a whole other discussion.
In short, the expert ear would find that the entire property screamed “Go Away!”
Gwendolyne Shay Stacy stood quietly, gazing out the kitchen window as water ran over the vegetables for this evening’s dinner -- only an hour later than she wanted to start the preparation. Time, it seemed, often eluded her grasp at control, a mess she made repeatedly. She still wore her dark blue unitard under her pink workout t-shirt, and it took more than a slight effort to ignore the dull ache that formed in her legs. Maybe it would prove a more difficult task if not a mistake to rejoin the cheerleading squad; she never doubted it would be a challenge, though everyone welcomed her back with open arms and wide smiles.
She moved about the kitchen with an almost unnatural consummation, stepping around the Omni Consumer Products Series 12 Multipurpose Domestic Bot, mixing, organizing, and even cleaning here and there a bit. At the kitchen’s entrance, silent and vigilant as always, rested her father’s Golden Labrador Retriever -- loyal, obedient and well-loved. Only her eyes moved to follow Gwen as she busied herself. The dog would wait without protest for the inevitable scrap of food, which would come her way, ready to beat the OCP Type 9-12 Basic House Cleaner Bot. Gwen then paused to kneed and prepare the meat for tonight’s main course. She took a small sip from her wine glass as she began to listen to the news on the distant view screen. She slowly became immersed, a habit she fell into while dating Peter. She listened because he listened, and he would soak up the details like an old fashioned sponge.
First came the light stuff. A spokesman for the United States Astronautics Agency announced its preliminary participation in the Alpha Prime Colonization Project, the Jupiter Program, an effort spearheaded by the newly formed United Global Space Force (a branch of the World Space Commission). It would become a major undertaking. A representative of ENCOM, Ed Dillinger, outlined his company’s three-way venture with both ITC and Cyberdyne to engineer the systems required for the Jupiter 2, the craft to complete the final leg of the journey. Well now, Gwen mused, that comes on the tail end of a long and growing reach into the final frontier: the Clavius and Alpha Moonbases as well as the Ares, Capricorn and now the Jupiter Programs – not to mention the Earth-Saturn Probe -- exciting times above the skies today.
Then, quite abruptly, the news turned sober. She watched as an US Marshall at some train wreck site in Illinois began to bark orders. Apparently it had transported prisoners to a correctional facility. “Alright, listen up, people,” he shouted. “Our fugitive has been on the run for ninety minutes. Average foot speed over uneven ground barring injuries is 4 miles-per-hour. That gives us a radius of six miles. What I want from each and every one of you is a hard-target search of every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse and doghouse in that area. Checkpoints go up at fifteen miles. Your fugitive's name is Dr. Richard Kimble. Go get him.” Good looking man, she thought as his picture appeared in upper right corner, that is, if he’d shave the beard. He murdered his wife? Sad. The Seven Deadly Sins Serial Killer was now dead, killed by the police after he had murdered a detective’s pregnant wife, and now it seems we have a new serial killer making headlines dubbed “Buffalo Bill.” Awesome. A revolution of some sort deposed the Dictator of Vilena, General Gaza, and rumors have surfaced quickly that the US CIA had a hand in it. Then again, in what did they not have a hand? Now what? Two high profile Los Angeles Detectives, Lt.’s Raymond Tango and Gabriel Cash had just been convicted for murdering a FBI Special Agent.
Ugh, Gwen sighed. “Mother,” she snapped. “I would like something more lighthearted.” She paused again as the screen landed on some talk show. A rather flamboyant over-the-road truck driver, Jack Burton, promoted his new book about a war into which he stumbled between the Chang Sing and Wing Kong Tongs gangs. At least she heard laughter as he spun his fantastic tale. How could you take someone who drove a truck named the Pork Chop Express too seriously?
Okay, something’s missing she thought as she rinsed her hands. But what? She looked out the window again. Ah yes, a voice booming with commentary and opinion. Her thoughts thus betrayed her: Peter. True, she then mused, these interruptions grew further apart, and they no longer startled her with their force and vividness.
Peter Raymond Pfiel died just before the Merculia Festival on an unusually hot Friday May evening. He had raced alone toward Nashville when he became one of over fifty cars mangled in a large series of collisions on I65 South. The police, fire, and rescue arrived as quickly as possible. The news reports noted that it looked like an explosion took place. Even though Gwen’s father knew she prepared for that evening’s basketball game, he notified her without pause, direct and to the point as always.
She fled immediately.
Her drive proved surreal. The trip became endless. Shock became horror; horror gave way to frustration, which turned to anger. The anger gradually succumbed to fear that grew into full blown panic. By the time she arrived at the hospital she thought herself practically unhinged. Still, no mystery as to the aftermath, no great surprises revealed, no Oscar performance meltdown and no great conspiracies uncovered. She loved him; he died in an accident, and she went numb. That part of her life, the most important part, ripped away like a giant hand had reached out from the sky. Her father, though almost always stoic, looked at her, frowning and whispered how unfair for the gods to test those so young.
What crap!
It wasn’t a test; it was a farce. We have no fate, she heard Peter say time and again, except that, which we make for ourselves. Peter! She could almost hear his voice once more. How many times did it echo through this house? Gwen swore she would never find herself that dependent on anyone again – ever. Looking back now, one change became quite clear: Gwen no longer smiled because of things but only at them. Three hundred seventy-two days ago Gwen smiled all the time because of things, because she knew happiness, happiness born from young love. But love, no one ever explains properly, has a ferocious appetite, an appetite that consumes, that continually demands sustenance. Now, satisfaction and contentment eluded her.
Yes, she feels today so different than she felt then. Some days, she mused, she would not suffer surprise to see another’s face on her shoulders. Every morning, however, she saw her face, her long blond hair, her soft skin, her once familiar blue eyes from which she gazed. They remained blank, expressionless. What did others see? A girl running? Afraid? Indifferent? Callous? Did her heart actually break? Or but suffer from a youthful illusion?
Once the shock subsided, and that took some time, Gwen never really thought to dwell on what Peter’s loss did to her. She never once thought about how her own bereavement affected her – beyond the obvious, of course. If her mind wondered at all she would only haphazardly opine “if only.” She dismissed, sidestepped, ignored the pain, that is, until she refused to captain the Hawkins Cheeleaders. For a junior to be considered was almost unheard – certainly a rarity. And then, she walked away altogther. At that point, she could no longer ignore the impact.
Maybe she changed or maybe she merely wanted to show she still stood but no longer as the same girl – all while trying desperately to hide the ache and emptiness she in fact had become determined to bury. Yet, it lingered like an overly thick foul odor.
Gwen shook her head and covered the last of the pots. She wiped her hands on the dish towel. Then, after making sure she had set the oven, moved out of the kitchen to the adjacent dining room, while the OCP Series 12 Multipurpose Domestic Bot took over completing the night’s meal.
Tonya and Kelly soon enough expressed concern that Gwen had grown almost too accustomed to broad generalizations in her outlooks, that she had grown almost too bold in extrapolating from just her experiences. Their own talks thus devolved into abstracts. Gwen understood their discomfort but discounted their concern and ignored their criticisms. She had to remember at least certain things in certain ways. She would refuse all dissuasion from her chosen version of the past. If she did not, then the past would not stay put. If her vigilance on preserving her own history faltered, even in the slightest, someone would inevitably come along and attempt to correct her memories. If corrected, how could she then know who she actually was or who she thought she was … or who she is now? No, such things would not do. It could not stand.
Three hundred and seventy-three days ago Peter Raymond pfiel stood beside Gwendolyne Shay Stacy. Many dubbed them the Ken and Barbie of Hawkins, the picture perfect pair. She, a sophomore and (new) cheerleader. He? A senior and the star quarterback of the football team. It was too cliché even to emphasize. They always appeared happy, proper, in sync – when in public. Not that it proved to be a façade, but rather, if she dwelled on it long enough, she realized her past seemed just that way: proper.
Until it ended.
Gwen headed for her bedroom, stretching the entire journey. If she closed her eyes and thought hard enough, so hard that her mind ached as her legs, and inhaled a long deep breath, she caught his scent or its echo would rise from its shackled depths. Regardless, if she had tried to speak, it would have choked her. She moved across her room to the bay window and sat, gazing toward the sun as he began his descent through the western sky. She became part of the scene, curled-up, chin resting on her arm draped over her curled-up knees – as a curling hill rested upon a valley; each strikingly beautiful in their own ways.
She could remember how Peter’s teammates never let-up on him, how it embarrassed her, as if they became like that because the sport made them that way not simply because they were just boys. Good natured leg pulling helped men keep their identities, their masculinity, and (if you asked her) made them small. Yet, she always found herself pulled back and then deeper into the mystery of that suffering masked in laughter and jokes.
Gwen always made the point to see Peter alone before a football game. He never quite made himself available to her … exactly. On the days the field house came alive, she rarely “saw” him. No, it became the other days that, when she reached-out to him, that he would without pause find a way to be with her. He would, moreover, often surprise her. On more than one afternoon, he would boost himself up on the kitchen counter, saying “here’s something you should read.” He would then hold-up his P.A.D.D. and transfer some file, or pull an old time magazine from his pack, unfold a print-out, reach for a paperback, a pamphlet – something, anything. Then, a day or two later, he would question her at length about it. He valued what she thought, felt, believed. And yet, a certain distance remained between them.
Peter made Gwen more expectant than actually fulfilled, it seemed now, but that only sharpened the edge of her attraction to him. Paradoxically, it also became the reason she survived the loss relatively intact – at least she gathered this from all those counseling sessions.
Her father, as best he could, guided her to embrace this misfortune (as he called it), to train her as a combatant athlete, to seize her misfortune, protest it, and then accept the misfortune, turn it into a driving force. Did she have a dominate feeling now? Sharpened perceptions, most definitely, but neither anger nor frustration, rage nor any one emotion, dictated terms to her. A true sense of plight, yes. It took her quite some time to crawl, claw her way out of the emotional pit she created with her initial (and inevitable) depression. She thus came to appreciate and then enjoy these moments, the sweet solitude. She would at least have this.
Suddenly, Gwen surprised herself. Her thoughts turned sharply to the new kid: Nathaniel Baird. She caught him so obviously eye-fucking her in the library, and his reaction spoke volumes: archaic, passive, shy, reserved, cautious, but he also became formidable, quick, decisive, bold, and reckless. Nathan thus seemed like he needed dry-cleaning, and, if she entertained it, that combination could prove rather interesting if not irresistible. Rumor had it that he and Shane exchanged words over her and that he tangled with Todd for a similar reason. Of course she would see Nathan again, and, if she found herself still intrigued, and he didn’t inquire first, she just might ask him to join her during lunch.
While the dark paved driveway accented the neatly adorning grass brilliantly, punched sharply with geometrically spaced single shrubs on each side, its slightly elevated positioning betrayed a pretext. It hid pressure sensitive pads. The front lawn itself stood defiant, naturally thick grass of varying strains that refused to cower from the other lots, which all appeared to hold neatly aligned artificial sod. The naked eye may not smartly distinguish between the two families, but this grass’ thickness also masked an underground invisible barrier, which sod would fail to hide. It would pinpoint any intrusion supplemented by the constantly scanning sensors concealed in each bush. Motion sensitive lights also peppered the structure’s perimeter, canvasing any approach. A quick glance at the three car garage would reveal a thicker-than-normal door of solid metal as would the main front door.
Below the first floor windows grew smartly groomed gardens that almost exploded with color but colors that disguised a nefarious purpose: hinder any would-be intruder. They would discover vines to entangle footing, thorn infested plants and flowers acting as a natural barrier, foliage too thick simply to push aside, retarding any attempt at a window – windows crafted of bulletproof glass resting in steel frames, which themselves rested within steel rod reinforced cinderblock walls, behind neatly adorned redbrick. Punching or cutting through would prove most difficult. Sound sensors located throughout the house would in any case promptly detect and alert the occupants of any such attempt. Well placed, visible and hidden cameras constantly stood vigil over and throughout the entire property with motion tracking, night vision and infrared. The backyard rested surrounded by laser fencing, encompassing similar sensors and lights found on the front and sides.
Even if some undesirable gained entrance to the house, they would find similar measures inside with the added detection of air density and atmospheric temperature changes. The entire array itself, indeed the entire house, expertly managed by Master Control Program developed by ENCOM used in the Gi-Bolst Industries’ MU-TH-R 146 model 2.0 petabyte AI mainframe or “Mother,” the back-up for the prototype mainframe model housed in the Holst Estate – a gift from a very grateful Mr. Holst to Gwen’s father. Like Mr. Holst’s own mainframe, it maintained contact with the outside world through redundant satellite, cellular, hardline, and fiber-optic communications apparatus. Indeed, an intruder would have to overcome all these defenses before they could have any meaningful time at this location. Even then, they may or may not stumble across the hidden first or second level Panic Rooms, which are themselves a whole other discussion.
In short, the expert ear would find that the entire property screamed “Go Away!”
Gwendolyne Shay Stacy stood quietly, gazing out the kitchen window as water ran over the vegetables for this evening’s dinner -- only an hour later than she wanted to start the preparation. Time, it seemed, often eluded her grasp at control, a mess she made repeatedly. She still wore her dark blue unitard under her pink workout t-shirt, and it took more than a slight effort to ignore the dull ache that formed in her legs. Maybe it would prove a more difficult task if not a mistake to rejoin the cheerleading squad; she never doubted it would be a challenge, though everyone welcomed her back with open arms and wide smiles.
She moved about the kitchen with an almost unnatural consummation, stepping around the Omni Consumer Products Series 12 Multipurpose Domestic Bot, mixing, organizing, and even cleaning here and there a bit. At the kitchen’s entrance, silent and vigilant as always, rested her father’s Golden Labrador Retriever -- loyal, obedient and well-loved. Only her eyes moved to follow Gwen as she busied herself. The dog would wait without protest for the inevitable scrap of food, which would come her way, ready to beat the OCP Type 9-12 Basic House Cleaner Bot. Gwen then paused to kneed and prepare the meat for tonight’s main course. She took a small sip from her wine glass as she began to listen to the news on the distant view screen. She slowly became immersed, a habit she fell into while dating Peter. She listened because he listened, and he would soak up the details like an old fashioned sponge.
First came the light stuff. A spokesman for the United States Astronautics Agency announced its preliminary participation in the Alpha Prime Colonization Project, the Jupiter Program, an effort spearheaded by the newly formed United Global Space Force (a branch of the World Space Commission). It would become a major undertaking. A representative of ENCOM, Ed Dillinger, outlined his company’s three-way venture with both ITC and Cyberdyne to engineer the systems required for the Jupiter 2, the craft to complete the final leg of the journey. Well now, Gwen mused, that comes on the tail end of a long and growing reach into the final frontier: the Clavius and Alpha Moonbases as well as the Ares, Capricorn and now the Jupiter Programs – not to mention the Earth-Saturn Probe -- exciting times above the skies today.
Then, quite abruptly, the news turned sober. She watched as an US Marshall at some train wreck site in Illinois began to bark orders. Apparently it had transported prisoners to a correctional facility. “Alright, listen up, people,” he shouted. “Our fugitive has been on the run for ninety minutes. Average foot speed over uneven ground barring injuries is 4 miles-per-hour. That gives us a radius of six miles. What I want from each and every one of you is a hard-target search of every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse and doghouse in that area. Checkpoints go up at fifteen miles. Your fugitive's name is Dr. Richard Kimble. Go get him.” Good looking man, she thought as his picture appeared in upper right corner, that is, if he’d shave the beard. He murdered his wife? Sad. The Seven Deadly Sins Serial Killer was now dead, killed by the police after he had murdered a detective’s pregnant wife, and now it seems we have a new serial killer making headlines dubbed “Buffalo Bill.” Awesome. A revolution of some sort deposed the Dictator of Vilena, General Gaza, and rumors have surfaced quickly that the US CIA had a hand in it. Then again, in what did they not have a hand? Now what? Two high profile Los Angeles Detectives, Lt.’s Raymond Tango and Gabriel Cash had just been convicted for murdering a FBI Special Agent.
Ugh, Gwen sighed. “Mother,” she snapped. “I would like something more lighthearted.” She paused again as the screen landed on some talk show. A rather flamboyant over-the-road truck driver, Jack Burton, promoted his new book about a war into which he stumbled between the Chang Sing and Wing Kong Tongs gangs. At least she heard laughter as he spun his fantastic tale. How could you take someone who drove a truck named the Pork Chop Express too seriously?
Okay, something’s missing she thought as she rinsed her hands. But what? She looked out the window again. Ah yes, a voice booming with commentary and opinion. Her thoughts thus betrayed her: Peter. True, she then mused, these interruptions grew further apart, and they no longer startled her with their force and vividness.
Peter Raymond Pfiel died just before the Merculia Festival on an unusually hot Friday May evening. He had raced alone toward Nashville when he became one of over fifty cars mangled in a large series of collisions on I65 South. The police, fire, and rescue arrived as quickly as possible. The news reports noted that it looked like an explosion took place. Even though Gwen’s father knew she prepared for that evening’s basketball game, he notified her without pause, direct and to the point as always.
She fled immediately.
Her drive proved surreal. The trip became endless. Shock became horror; horror gave way to frustration, which turned to anger. The anger gradually succumbed to fear that grew into full blown panic. By the time she arrived at the hospital she thought herself practically unhinged. Still, no mystery as to the aftermath, no great surprises revealed, no Oscar performance meltdown and no great conspiracies uncovered. She loved him; he died in an accident, and she went numb. That part of her life, the most important part, ripped away like a giant hand had reached out from the sky. Her father, though almost always stoic, looked at her, frowning and whispered how unfair for the gods to test those so young.
What crap!
It wasn’t a test; it was a farce. We have no fate, she heard Peter say time and again, except that, which we make for ourselves. Peter! She could almost hear his voice once more. How many times did it echo through this house? Gwen swore she would never find herself that dependent on anyone again – ever. Looking back now, one change became quite clear: Gwen no longer smiled because of things but only at them. Three hundred seventy-two days ago Gwen smiled all the time because of things, because she knew happiness, happiness born from young love. But love, no one ever explains properly, has a ferocious appetite, an appetite that consumes, that continually demands sustenance. Now, satisfaction and contentment eluded her.
Yes, she feels today so different than she felt then. Some days, she mused, she would not suffer surprise to see another’s face on her shoulders. Every morning, however, she saw her face, her long blond hair, her soft skin, her once familiar blue eyes from which she gazed. They remained blank, expressionless. What did others see? A girl running? Afraid? Indifferent? Callous? Did her heart actually break? Or but suffer from a youthful illusion?
Once the shock subsided, and that took some time, Gwen never really thought to dwell on what Peter’s loss did to her. She never once thought about how her own bereavement affected her – beyond the obvious, of course. If her mind wondered at all she would only haphazardly opine “if only.” She dismissed, sidestepped, ignored the pain, that is, until she refused to captain the Hawkins Cheeleaders. For a junior to be considered was almost unheard – certainly a rarity. And then, she walked away altogther. At that point, she could no longer ignore the impact.
Maybe she changed or maybe she merely wanted to show she still stood but no longer as the same girl – all while trying desperately to hide the ache and emptiness she in fact had become determined to bury. Yet, it lingered like an overly thick foul odor.
Gwen shook her head and covered the last of the pots. She wiped her hands on the dish towel. Then, after making sure she had set the oven, moved out of the kitchen to the adjacent dining room, while the OCP Series 12 Multipurpose Domestic Bot took over completing the night’s meal.
Tonya and Kelly soon enough expressed concern that Gwen had grown almost too accustomed to broad generalizations in her outlooks, that she had grown almost too bold in extrapolating from just her experiences. Their own talks thus devolved into abstracts. Gwen understood their discomfort but discounted their concern and ignored their criticisms. She had to remember at least certain things in certain ways. She would refuse all dissuasion from her chosen version of the past. If she did not, then the past would not stay put. If her vigilance on preserving her own history faltered, even in the slightest, someone would inevitably come along and attempt to correct her memories. If corrected, how could she then know who she actually was or who she thought she was … or who she is now? No, such things would not do. It could not stand.
Three hundred and seventy-three days ago Peter Raymond pfiel stood beside Gwendolyne Shay Stacy. Many dubbed them the Ken and Barbie of Hawkins, the picture perfect pair. She, a sophomore and (new) cheerleader. He? A senior and the star quarterback of the football team. It was too cliché even to emphasize. They always appeared happy, proper, in sync – when in public. Not that it proved to be a façade, but rather, if she dwelled on it long enough, she realized her past seemed just that way: proper.
Until it ended.
Gwen headed for her bedroom, stretching the entire journey. If she closed her eyes and thought hard enough, so hard that her mind ached as her legs, and inhaled a long deep breath, she caught his scent or its echo would rise from its shackled depths. Regardless, if she had tried to speak, it would have choked her. She moved across her room to the bay window and sat, gazing toward the sun as he began his descent through the western sky. She became part of the scene, curled-up, chin resting on her arm draped over her curled-up knees – as a curling hill rested upon a valley; each strikingly beautiful in their own ways.
She could remember how Peter’s teammates never let-up on him, how it embarrassed her, as if they became like that because the sport made them that way not simply because they were just boys. Good natured leg pulling helped men keep their identities, their masculinity, and (if you asked her) made them small. Yet, she always found herself pulled back and then deeper into the mystery of that suffering masked in laughter and jokes.
Gwen always made the point to see Peter alone before a football game. He never quite made himself available to her … exactly. On the days the field house came alive, she rarely “saw” him. No, it became the other days that, when she reached-out to him, that he would without pause find a way to be with her. He would, moreover, often surprise her. On more than one afternoon, he would boost himself up on the kitchen counter, saying “here’s something you should read.” He would then hold-up his P.A.D.D. and transfer some file, or pull an old time magazine from his pack, unfold a print-out, reach for a paperback, a pamphlet – something, anything. Then, a day or two later, he would question her at length about it. He valued what she thought, felt, believed. And yet, a certain distance remained between them.
Peter made Gwen more expectant than actually fulfilled, it seemed now, but that only sharpened the edge of her attraction to him. Paradoxically, it also became the reason she survived the loss relatively intact – at least she gathered this from all those counseling sessions.
Her father, as best he could, guided her to embrace this misfortune (as he called it), to train her as a combatant athlete, to seize her misfortune, protest it, and then accept the misfortune, turn it into a driving force. Did she have a dominate feeling now? Sharpened perceptions, most definitely, but neither anger nor frustration, rage nor any one emotion, dictated terms to her. A true sense of plight, yes. It took her quite some time to crawl, claw her way out of the emotional pit she created with her initial (and inevitable) depression. She thus came to appreciate and then enjoy these moments, the sweet solitude. She would at least have this.
Suddenly, Gwen surprised herself. Her thoughts turned sharply to the new kid: Nathaniel Baird. She caught him so obviously eye-fucking her in the library, and his reaction spoke volumes: archaic, passive, shy, reserved, cautious, but he also became formidable, quick, decisive, bold, and reckless. Nathan thus seemed like he needed dry-cleaning, and, if she entertained it, that combination could prove rather interesting if not irresistible. Rumor had it that he and Shane exchanged words over her and that he tangled with Todd for a similar reason. Of course she would see Nathan again, and, if she found herself still intrigued, and he didn’t inquire first, she just might ask him to join her during lunch.
No comments:
Post a Comment