Percepted Control
Author: Cappuccino Girl
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG-13 for subject matter
Disclaimer: They aren't my characters.
This isn't my show. They belong to Aaron
Sorkin, John Wells Productions, and Warner
Bros.
Notes: Many thanks to my beta readers (you
know who you are) for putting up with me
and my crazy, angst-ridden world. You are
brilliant. I don't really know where this
story came from, I just started hearing
the voices....
Summary: She never meant for him to know
so much, but with star gazing came the
intimacy which she feared
She touches the drops of water which are
pearling on her forehead. It has been
raining outside, and now, at midnight, she
yearns for nothing more than the peace of
her apartment. The cat is fast asleep on
the bed, oblivious to her entrance. She
watches as her paws twitch, dreaming of
fields overrun by tall grass and mice.
A blanket is sticking out obtrusively
from under the bed, and she reaches down
to move it. It is a little stubborn, so
she pulls harder at it, until it is free
from entanglement and unravels in front of
her feet, unveiling not only its rich blue
color, but a familiar carton which tumbled
out with it.
The cat has just woken and tries to seek
comfort by brushing around the bed post.
She kneels down to pet the kitten, which
rolls onto its back, purring contentedly.
The woman takes her place on the floor
scratching the cat's furry stomach and
proceeds to open the dark brown box.
Some years ago she secured the lid with
two elastic bands. Now she grips them, and
slips one of her tired fingers underneath
to remove their hold from the container.
The bands have turned grainy with time,
and so they crumble and break in her
hands. She sighs, embracing the emotions
of reliving and revealing the past as best
as she can by brushing a film of dust
from the lid to delay opening it. The box
has little creases on the sides, and the
top is sunk in a little due to her
storing it with far less care than she
takes now when she clutches the lid. She
lifts the one corner and eventually opens
it, like a child savoring unwrapping a
present.
The contents have faded, unlike her
memories of the many people shown in the
photographs clustered inside the box.
She glances up at the mirror on the
bedroom wall. There is the reflection of a
woman. Tired. Worn. Hurting. She doesn't
resemble the 25 year old in the picture.
Thoughtful, she wonders whether they ever
were the same person. Time should breed
wisdom. She didn't look worried then.
She strokes her index finger over the
picture she is studying. It is Sam and the
President and the First Lady at the time
when they were known as Jed and Abbey.
When she was known to everyone as CJ, and
not the White House Press Secretary. Sam
is just Sam. He has stayed that to her
through all these years, and silently she
prays that he will continue to be.
Her life has made friends and soul mates
scarce. That which remains of them is
falling out of this carton and onto the
smooth oak floor. Pictures, concert
tickets, a few addresses to which she has
never sent anything in years. She wasn't
trying to block these out, just attempting
to place them in a hold so that she could
return to what once was. What she once
had.
Everyone tells her that she has it all,
yet she feels this secret wish to try
again, to go back and regain all things
personal which she had. It would all mean
so much more then.
She has close friends. The closest of
friends, and the deepest of loves. She
fears what she does, what she may have
done. Can she keep everything together, or
will she continue to scar and fade until
nothing remains but photographs to remind
her? Will they take their place in a faded
box under her bed, only to be opened by
chance?
~* *~
11 hours earlier...
She has not spoken with him today. Avoided
him deliberately for fear of what he might
tell her. While she would never admit to
it, she is fragile and those words which
he said the night before caused those
little cracks in the mirror of her
emotions to spread further inwards,
weakening her whole outer frame. Her not
admitting is the problem, or so he told
her.
She shivers gently at the thought, trying
desperately to find some comforting
thought in her work. Its appealing
distraction cause her to type frantically
as she can hide all manner of difficulties
behind her work, for no one questions her
on that. They trust her incomparable
ability in managing the media, and know
little of her failures elsewhere. She will
never publicise those failures, for none
could be more damaging to her self-
confidence and others' perceptions of her.
What else is she to them than percepted
control, eloquence and intellect?
She tries so hard to escape, yet he has
found her. She removes her glasses so
that she can see him without straining her
bloodshot eyes.
"Samuel." She murmurs wistfully, recalling
those nights on the back lawn of his house
when they used to talk about star
formation and childhood dreams. When she
felt safe for the first time in her adult
life.
He places a hand on her desk, nervously
playing with the notepad upon it. She
hopes he will talk so she won't have to,
for she is afraid of talking again, afraid
of what might be said between the two of
them. She has so little to hold on to, so
little which is sure and certain. And so
she silently continues to study him. She
watches how he fiddles with the pen he is
holding and stares at his newly shined
shoes.
They once talked of wishes until their
tongues were without words and all that
was left was to kiss, for they knew so
much about each other. Now he would not
even say her name, but rather "Have you
been briefed on the President's plan for
police financing?"
She tries to reply that she has, and she
will try to make that her main focus, but
it wouldn't be true, and if she can't be
honest with him then there is no one.
"Do I hurt you?" She questions, fearing
the answer, yet longing for it to fix the
cracks which are causing her to feel
nauseous.
He takes a seat opposite her and she
watches him as he waves his pen around. He
always does that when he wishes to delay a
conversation so that he can script it out
in his brilliant mind before talking.
"Just look at yourself. Smart. Loving.
Unconventionally beautiful. Why do you
proceed to hurt yourself?" He pleas,
rubbing his hands to distract himself from
her painful gaze.
She wraps her arms around herself trying
to find security in them. She knows what
he means. She never meant for him to know
so much, but with star gazing came the
intimacy which she feared.
He knows how she punishes herself for
failure with tablets to deprive herself of
sleep, sometimes for a week at a time. He
had found her that night, shaking on the
steps to her apartment. Crying. He had
never seen her crying before, never known
she was capable of it.
In his kindness he had taken a tissue from
her purse with which to dry her face, and
offered her his coat while they walked
inside. She had laid on the sofa and
cried until her stomach and chest hurt and
all that came were sobs without tears for
there was nothing left to shed. He had
held her and assured her that she was
beautiful and competent, while he felt her
increasingly prominent shoulder and
collarbone. She assured him, as she did
everyone that she was ok, that nothing was
wrong, but he didn't believe her for he
felt it in her spiritless limbs. Rather
than speak, he brushed the strands of damp
hair from her face and traced the line of
her face with his finger, in adoration of
her fragility.
He sits in the chair opposite her now.
She studies the expression on his face,
for he can formulate no words. She drops
her head, losing some of the artificial
pride which holds her public persona
together. Her head hurts and it feels
good, because she has failed worse than
she can cope with, and her talking could
provide no comfort to the one she
cherishes.
Eventually he strains himself to speak,
reaching out to her for security, but
finding nothing other than a fractured
woman for support.
"You are too precious for this. You should
see how you look when you fall asleep,
with your tousled hair and expression of
hopefulness. You cry in your sleep, and
shiver when you wake, and I know you don't
want me to know, but I do."
She places a hand in front of her mouth to
subdue the emotion which might take her
over if she is not careful.
"I've seen the medicine cabinet in your
bathroom, with the pills you use to force
yourself into impossible success."
She knows that he is right, that everyone
fails, but inside she feels she shouldn't.
She hears the voices of those who once
taunted her when she was young. She proved
them wrong and outshone them with her
academic success, because she couldn't
beat them in any other way. It is their
tongues which plague her dreams and their
words which deprive her of rest and inside
she must continue to beat them.
It is they who throw the stones at her
inner mirror and cause little shards of
glass to break off, which in turn pain the
one she now loves. He knows all this, even
though she has never mentioned it to
anyone, not even him, for her face is
honest to him alone.
He shifts to the left of the chair,
trying to find hidden strength in the arm
rest. They cannot talk now, for he has
said all that could be, and she has
displayed all the emotions she will permit
herself to.
So he exits and she remains at her desk,
swallowing another pink capsule, wondering
whether she will lock away a further
personal relationship in order that she
can silence the sneering of those people
she met so many years ago.
Feedback to: cappuccinogirlie@hotmail.com
Visit the author's website at
www.btinternet.com/~nagnrugs
Author: Cappuccino Girl
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG-13 for subject matter
Disclaimer: They aren't my characters.
This isn't my show. They belong to Aaron
Sorkin, John Wells Productions, and Warner
Bros.
Notes: Many thanks to my beta readers (you
know who you are) for putting up with me
and my crazy, angst-ridden world. You are
brilliant. I don't really know where this
story came from, I just started hearing
the voices....
Summary: She never meant for him to know
so much, but with star gazing came the
intimacy which she feared
She touches the drops of water which are
pearling on her forehead. It has been
raining outside, and now, at midnight, she
yearns for nothing more than the peace of
her apartment. The cat is fast asleep on
the bed, oblivious to her entrance. She
watches as her paws twitch, dreaming of
fields overrun by tall grass and mice.
A blanket is sticking out obtrusively
from under the bed, and she reaches down
to move it. It is a little stubborn, so
she pulls harder at it, until it is free
from entanglement and unravels in front of
her feet, unveiling not only its rich blue
color, but a familiar carton which tumbled
out with it.
The cat has just woken and tries to seek
comfort by brushing around the bed post.
She kneels down to pet the kitten, which
rolls onto its back, purring contentedly.
The woman takes her place on the floor
scratching the cat's furry stomach and
proceeds to open the dark brown box.
Some years ago she secured the lid with
two elastic bands. Now she grips them, and
slips one of her tired fingers underneath
to remove their hold from the container.
The bands have turned grainy with time,
and so they crumble and break in her
hands. She sighs, embracing the emotions
of reliving and revealing the past as best
as she can by brushing a film of dust
from the lid to delay opening it. The box
has little creases on the sides, and the
top is sunk in a little due to her
storing it with far less care than she
takes now when she clutches the lid. She
lifts the one corner and eventually opens
it, like a child savoring unwrapping a
present.
The contents have faded, unlike her
memories of the many people shown in the
photographs clustered inside the box.
She glances up at the mirror on the
bedroom wall. There is the reflection of a
woman. Tired. Worn. Hurting. She doesn't
resemble the 25 year old in the picture.
Thoughtful, she wonders whether they ever
were the same person. Time should breed
wisdom. She didn't look worried then.
She strokes her index finger over the
picture she is studying. It is Sam and the
President and the First Lady at the time
when they were known as Jed and Abbey.
When she was known to everyone as CJ, and
not the White House Press Secretary. Sam
is just Sam. He has stayed that to her
through all these years, and silently she
prays that he will continue to be.
Her life has made friends and soul mates
scarce. That which remains of them is
falling out of this carton and onto the
smooth oak floor. Pictures, concert
tickets, a few addresses to which she has
never sent anything in years. She wasn't
trying to block these out, just attempting
to place them in a hold so that she could
return to what once was. What she once
had.
Everyone tells her that she has it all,
yet she feels this secret wish to try
again, to go back and regain all things
personal which she had. It would all mean
so much more then.
She has close friends. The closest of
friends, and the deepest of loves. She
fears what she does, what she may have
done. Can she keep everything together, or
will she continue to scar and fade until
nothing remains but photographs to remind
her? Will they take their place in a faded
box under her bed, only to be opened by
chance?
~* *~
11 hours earlier...
She has not spoken with him today. Avoided
him deliberately for fear of what he might
tell her. While she would never admit to
it, she is fragile and those words which
he said the night before caused those
little cracks in the mirror of her
emotions to spread further inwards,
weakening her whole outer frame. Her not
admitting is the problem, or so he told
her.
She shivers gently at the thought, trying
desperately to find some comforting
thought in her work. Its appealing
distraction cause her to type frantically
as she can hide all manner of difficulties
behind her work, for no one questions her
on that. They trust her incomparable
ability in managing the media, and know
little of her failures elsewhere. She will
never publicise those failures, for none
could be more damaging to her self-
confidence and others' perceptions of her.
What else is she to them than percepted
control, eloquence and intellect?
She tries so hard to escape, yet he has
found her. She removes her glasses so
that she can see him without straining her
bloodshot eyes.
"Samuel." She murmurs wistfully, recalling
those nights on the back lawn of his house
when they used to talk about star
formation and childhood dreams. When she
felt safe for the first time in her adult
life.
He places a hand on her desk, nervously
playing with the notepad upon it. She
hopes he will talk so she won't have to,
for she is afraid of talking again, afraid
of what might be said between the two of
them. She has so little to hold on to, so
little which is sure and certain. And so
she silently continues to study him. She
watches how he fiddles with the pen he is
holding and stares at his newly shined
shoes.
They once talked of wishes until their
tongues were without words and all that
was left was to kiss, for they knew so
much about each other. Now he would not
even say her name, but rather "Have you
been briefed on the President's plan for
police financing?"
She tries to reply that she has, and she
will try to make that her main focus, but
it wouldn't be true, and if she can't be
honest with him then there is no one.
"Do I hurt you?" She questions, fearing
the answer, yet longing for it to fix the
cracks which are causing her to feel
nauseous.
He takes a seat opposite her and she
watches him as he waves his pen around. He
always does that when he wishes to delay a
conversation so that he can script it out
in his brilliant mind before talking.
"Just look at yourself. Smart. Loving.
Unconventionally beautiful. Why do you
proceed to hurt yourself?" He pleas,
rubbing his hands to distract himself from
her painful gaze.
She wraps her arms around herself trying
to find security in them. She knows what
he means. She never meant for him to know
so much, but with star gazing came the
intimacy which she feared.
He knows how she punishes herself for
failure with tablets to deprive herself of
sleep, sometimes for a week at a time. He
had found her that night, shaking on the
steps to her apartment. Crying. He had
never seen her crying before, never known
she was capable of it.
In his kindness he had taken a tissue from
her purse with which to dry her face, and
offered her his coat while they walked
inside. She had laid on the sofa and
cried until her stomach and chest hurt and
all that came were sobs without tears for
there was nothing left to shed. He had
held her and assured her that she was
beautiful and competent, while he felt her
increasingly prominent shoulder and
collarbone. She assured him, as she did
everyone that she was ok, that nothing was
wrong, but he didn't believe her for he
felt it in her spiritless limbs. Rather
than speak, he brushed the strands of damp
hair from her face and traced the line of
her face with his finger, in adoration of
her fragility.
He sits in the chair opposite her now.
She studies the expression on his face,
for he can formulate no words. She drops
her head, losing some of the artificial
pride which holds her public persona
together. Her head hurts and it feels
good, because she has failed worse than
she can cope with, and her talking could
provide no comfort to the one she
cherishes.
Eventually he strains himself to speak,
reaching out to her for security, but
finding nothing other than a fractured
woman for support.
"You are too precious for this. You should
see how you look when you fall asleep,
with your tousled hair and expression of
hopefulness. You cry in your sleep, and
shiver when you wake, and I know you don't
want me to know, but I do."
She places a hand in front of her mouth to
subdue the emotion which might take her
over if she is not careful.
"I've seen the medicine cabinet in your
bathroom, with the pills you use to force
yourself into impossible success."
She knows that he is right, that everyone
fails, but inside she feels she shouldn't.
She hears the voices of those who once
taunted her when she was young. She proved
them wrong and outshone them with her
academic success, because she couldn't
beat them in any other way. It is their
tongues which plague her dreams and their
words which deprive her of rest and inside
she must continue to beat them.
It is they who throw the stones at her
inner mirror and cause little shards of
glass to break off, which in turn pain the
one she now loves. He knows all this, even
though she has never mentioned it to
anyone, not even him, for her face is
honest to him alone.
He shifts to the left of the chair,
trying to find hidden strength in the arm
rest. They cannot talk now, for he has
said all that could be, and she has
displayed all the emotions she will permit
herself to.
So he exits and she remains at her desk,
swallowing another pink capsule, wondering
whether she will lock away a further
personal relationship in order that she
can silence the sneering of those people
she met so many years ago.
Feedback to: cappuccinogirlie@hotmail.com
Visit the author's website at
www.btinternet.com/~nagnrugs