Table of Contents [Report This]
a.k.a. Musings of a cigarette-smoking woman
by Quistis Skywalker
Write they said. Finish a story they said. It doesn't matter what, as long as you wrote something, they said. Well, this is what happens when I actually listened to Terry Pratchett and Stephen King. Argh!
Disclaimer: I don't own them, or else they wouldn't have been cancelled. They wouldn't stuff like this either.
Miss Parker stared moodily at the package on the table. A whole medley of unflattering adjectives describing the sender paraded through her mind, all unpleasant. Annoying, irritating, useless, wretched…. What is it with Jarod and inane gifts, she though irritably. A small (very small, she stated firmly) part of her chimed in, pointing out that despite the inaneness, they all carry subtle meaning. But with all illusions in her life, Parker clung stubbornly to her cynicism. She had entertained the notion, but refused to consider it with any depth. To acknowledge this small (but very important) fact would start the avalanche of assessment, and she did not wish the spectacle of seeing her life as what she suspected it to be: full of ashes and shadows and no meaning.
She did not want to face the fact that a good part of her life involved Jarod. Their lives are as twisted together as a bundle of skein. She can’t even begin to untangle them. They’re joined together, like it or not (and Parker herself could never decide one way or another). But more importantly, she didn’t really want to face the hard fact The Centre had been blind to: this was just a pointless, wild goose chase. They’ll never catch him, unless he let them, and she’s willing to bet her last penny that hell would freeze over sooner than Jarod’s surrender. To be completely honest (and that itself was a rare occurrence), she doesn’t really want to capture him; as far as she was concerned, he’s free to screw up his life as much as he wants. It’s everyone’s inborn right. All she wanted from him was the truth. The irony never escaped her: The Centre’s captives knows more dark, sordid secrets than their captors. She’s being hypocritical, of course. Searching for the truth while willingly living a lie. But it’s the only life she’s ever known. Her days of innocence were too short, and it had ended the day her mother died.
She resented the fact that the truth was being dangled invitingly in front of her, like an irritating piece of carrot she just had to have (and to think, she hates carrots). Maybe a stick of cigarette would be a more apt analogy. If anything, this whole ‘experience’ (for even resentful cigarette-smoking women must hold some hope that all this would be over soon) proved one thing: both extremes of the bell curve are equally annoying. There isn’t really much difference, except that one group has a tendency to drool (which one? Go figure). She sat there, nursing her drink, wishing desperately for a cigarette, mentally kicking herself for not remembering that she was down to her last carton today. If all those tofu-eating, yoga-practising New Agers were right, she should be dead in less than 15 years. Well, at least there’s something to look forward to. Who would want to spend their lifetime upside-down and eating soy-based products?
One would assume working in a secret organisation would be a life filled with danger and excitement. What they forgot to mention was the inherent terror, sheer headache and outright stress of it all. Sure, she got to carry a gun, but the logistics of killing someone and hiding the bosy could only be appreciated by an accountant (or more rightly, a statistician). Of course, given the public’s gullibility, she could kill the President and replace him with a department store mannequin, and nobody would notice. If anything, they would probably comment on his new-found morals.
But it all comes down to one thing: envy. She might be the hunter and he the hunted but it was he who was enjoying true freedom. The Truth hurts, more so because they both had shared so much and went through things the world would never understand. She bitterly hated the circumstances that forced them to be adversaries instead of… instead off….
She was getting maudlin. Of course, Jarod’s ‘gifts’ tend to herald moments of deep introspection. She looked at the package again, her face unreadable. She picked up the bottle and twirled it in her fingers, careful to not let it fall and spill the contents spill to the floor. A bubble solution. How very whimsical, how very Jarod. However, he hasn't called, and Miss Parker couldn't be bothered to think of the reason why, and whatever mysterious surprise he might have rigged up. Too tired, maybe. Too excited, possibly. Downright curious, definitely.
She remembered a time when blowing bubbles was something she and her mother had loved to do whenever they were in a park. She stopped after her death, something unconscious that she never realised until now. Damn Jarod and his gifts. She blinked her eyes, suspiciously wet.
She twisted off the cap and carefully removed the foil. In goes a manicured finger; out comes it with its prize: a bubble wand. On a fancy, she held the bottle to the light, making the bottle glow in her eyes, the fluorescent candy colours somehow cheering her up. She dipped the wand, once and twice and held it before her mouth, giving it a gentle blow. A fat bubble appeared, wobbling heavily in the air before giving up and succumbed to reality, meeting its end at the edge of the coffee table. She felt strangely sorry.
After a while, and a few failed attempts, she got into a good rhythm. Just the right speed, and a multitude of bubbles rushed out from the wand. She couldn't really enjoy it, what with her doing all the huffing and puffing, but in the intervals she took to enjoy the moment, she enjoyed it immensely. The transitory quality of her pleasure was not lost on her. It made her more appreciative, and silently she thanked Jarod.
The hard-edged realism of the modern living room, designed for the go-getter of today gave way to a surreal scenery, almost magical due to these floating translucent fragile globes. It felt almost mystical, and if she was younger, Miss Parker would probably imagine that she has been transported into a dreamland. A giggle was growing from within her, rising up. She tried to stop it, and succeeded. Almost. It escaped and became a broad grin. She felt almost giddy, a very un-Parkerlike condition.
Despite having more than half of the solution still in the bottle, she finally stopped. Letting the bubbles drift down and dissipate on their own, one of them popped on her forehead. Her lids were growing heavier, and with a sigh, she fell into a deep sleep not brought on by any prescription drugs.
The next morning, she awoke to the faint sounds of a whirring machine. She opened her eyes to find her home infested with eggs of a fairy insect. She rubbed her bleary eyes and tried to focus them again properly. Her entire house was filled with dancing bubbles. How did he know what I wanted, she thought. That's a clever question to ask about a Pretender.
She spent the next five minutes enjoying the illusion, and forgetting reality. Eventually, she got up and found the source of her bubbles beside the refrigerator. Somehow, Jarod rigged together a bubble machine. For a second, she considered throwing out her alarms; obviously they didn't do much good. She switched the machine off. The illusion must stop. More importantly, she didn't want to bubble solution to finish so quickly. She smiled, a record for sure. Such obvious happiness within 24 hours, pretty impressive for a Parker.
She ran her tongue over her teeth; she tasted nasty. She felt nasty. She made her way to the bathroom, determined to enjoy every moment. She will be late, she couldn't care less. After all, she's Miss Parker, wasn't she?
Once, there was a boy, locked in a building drab and grey, mirroring the hues of his life. Then, he met a girl. And through her, he saw the colours that were missing. One day, he saw something so pure in its joy, the very sweetness began to plague his dreams and haunt his memories. He saw a girl having one of her last happy moments with her mother, blowing curious spheres made from soap and water. The she saw him from below and waved. Her smile was as bright as the midday sun. Her heart was clearly shining in her eyes.
But the years passed, and the shutters were drawn. He no longer saw her heart. The colours had drained out of her, leaving her life as dull and grey as his. And when the boy, now a man, escaped, and found the colours long missing, he never forgot her. The spellbinding dazzle of the rainbow reminded him of her everyday. And every time he wished that she got her colours back, so it would restore her smile and tore away the blinds.
Jarod put away his binoculars. She appeared happy (as much as she would allow herself to be), and he hoped the memory would bring back a piece of her heart. He can't be sure, but whatever reprieve that was available, he was glad.
He took out a red notebook. In the meantime, there was someone else who needs his assistance. He stole a last glance at her house. She can take care of herself. He has faith in her. After all, she's Miss Parker, wasn't she?
END
