A/N: I've... written something about Gordon Deitrich from V for Vendetta? Yeah. That's what happened. I own nothing that you recognise from other things, including one or two tiny Hamlet references (as I started this around the time I was writing a Hamlet term-paper for AP English).
I took some perspectives that might be wrong, as I wrote this during school for several months, and since I elaborated things in my mind without watching the film for confirmation.
I HAVE read the graphic novel of V for Vendetta, and, frankly, like the movie character more. Is it partly because of my Fry obsession? Yes. But Mister Deitrich WAS my favourite character before my obsession, so, at least it's not entirely a pathetic thing borne out of adoration. XP
Hope you may be able to enjoy.
P.S.- After looking through the files here on 11 July 2010, I THINK that this may be the only thing with a real connection to Gordie... Will people read this without the intrigue of V or Evey? I suppose that I shall see. I was just intoxicated by the dichotomy of this very briefly-featured character more than V. Perhaps someone else out there may agree with me.
It all started with an idle comment, just two years ago at the BTN, upon what seemed, then, a normal day. Gossip, after all, has morphed into an accusation, so I could have heard nothing before of what was, in my youth, a topic that made the girls giggle fatuously and the boys furrow their brows to feign seriousness as their cheeks flushed to show the reality of their feelings. It was now something that could have someone "disappeared", gone out into the oblivion created by those nightmarish black bags forced over the head with a merciless kick down, down into that unfathomable mire of the government's "cleansing'".
One of our reporters came to me as I was taking tea outside of my office. We were chatting of the usual, mindless things that were "allowed" and not taken specially by the monitors roving up and down the streets: About work, the advanced subtleties of cream in tea and coffee- things of that nature, the sort that, when one recalls what freedom was like as I do, is a wonderful push towards madness. Somehow, losing my mind's normal mediating warning, we came into more personal things, and she, the deep-voiced, ever incisive lady before me began without any apparent pretense,
"It is odd... a man in your position and age without any wife to speak of." She spoke with measured precision and politeness, and smiled a large-toothed, white smile at me that made my actors' tact repay her in kind as a chill ran down my spine, fearfully... suddenly the fear that I should somehow, some damnable way be revealed and erased from the country's collective memory by threats of the same fate, became prevalent to me in a manner that I'd never experienced before, not in all my years in the business of comedic television. Glorifying the simple and the asinine aspects of what was once a noble art for eyes and ears so numbed by censorship that nothing more could be understood, let alone allowed... I suppose that it must have dulled my senses, too, making me forget, for my business, that I could not afford to be truly private in my ways; my mask had to be painted to appear real.
"As a matter of fact, I've simply been working out the courage to have one of your delightful young ladies here over for supper," I had supplied genially, even before my mind had ceased spinning its shroud of catastrophic ends to our frank little chat. "Someone of my age can no longer trust in his confidence, you know, even when in so recognized a job as mine."
She nodded thoughtfully, and the conversation moved casually through to another topic, - showing me how deadly close I was to being in an utterly different way detected, because of my preoccupation with the matter, - and, afterwards, I was forced to seriously contemplate the proposition I had made for myself, staying true to my word, and passing an invitation to one of the inane, wide-eyed young secretaries as if I were the normal man of my age, searching in vain for some thrill that may have been impossible to attain since I was quite young. Perhaps not even then, but, if that was so, in these days, I was supposed to take advantage of my position as the second-most recognized face and voice in England. Now, I would, and for exactly the opposite manner I desired. The thought itself was practically torture, living such a double-life...
I made the most predictable choice, of course, to serve my purpose, and I had a very public proposition of a message sent to her through the BTN offices themselves; while this may not seem terribly much, the gossip over the matter came immediately. It comforted me. After all, before, whispers of suspicion over me had had to be completely stifled in those who may have had any, due to the severity of even speaking such a word in these days- now, I was safe in the realm of peoples' imagination of the "bad" in what was not condemning by law. I think, over the years, that people rather forgot to be suspicious any longer, because such obscene sin as homosexuality was no longer an accepted part of our perfected society, free of filth of that repugnant nature.
She, - my sickening "fancy", Alexandra, - was a curly-hared blonde with deep, ingenuous brown eyes and paper-thin skin, with a figure to rival that of a tightly corseted lady from more than two hundred years ago, aged herself only about twenty-three. I could not mind the silly sayings that ran to my office not minutes after the message was relayed and responded to well, the comments about my now-proven taste for the young and sprightly- the only correct way was to smile abashedly, to agree to the charges with some tentative mind that I had never shown before (which, truly, helped my charade) that I had the same carnal desires for the porous, bleeding flesh of a youthful girl, one likened to those even younger than she, and subsequently to the cloud of Heaven, as any other pure, God-fearing Englishman would surely share.
I heard all of this, the degenerative slop from my own mouth, and recalled my house, with its secrets hidden away behind the wine cellar... I felt much like I was betraying something, though nothing had ever existed. I had always been alone, with my imagination, passed from the chains of my unbelieving parents to those of a society that evolved into a literally mortifying stigma as I came to be an adult.
What was more difficult was forcing some imagined taste for such things translate into life. I am an actor, - it has been so for much of my time grown, - and I regarded this as a shocking exercise. Recreating life as though it were the truth is what I do every day, but making this into a believable self rather than my character... I felt like I was making a martyr of myself, condemning what little I still had left beyond my character to self-destruction.
At the least, I was well prepared to entertain, and cooked with the most extravagance I could, minding all of the products that had been banned that made the best dishes impossible, even with numerous creative adjustments. This effort resulted in boiled prawns with our charming, sticky mess of a butter substitute as a sauce, and some of my better white wine.
The girl arrived looking perfectly thrilled, and, in a way, I supposed that I could see why that was. It certainly was nothing to do with any actual attraction, no- this girl's brightened smile and cheerful demeanor were caused purely by the significance of her position, the first girl to be publicly coerced into dinner by the wealthy television star. She wore a too-short red dress that was, to me, scandalously tight and low, and clutched a leather bag in both hands down to her knees as her little voice barely pushed forth the shuddering words, "Hello, Mister Deitrich."
There was something weirdly endearing about that statement, at the worry of the common girl being judged by a "celebrity". It gave me a push towards a thought of reality for my manner with her, already dangerously turning my true self into a caricature, and I smiled, taking one of her hands to kiss on its over-soft and perfumed back.
"Enchante, Mademoiselle." The words, words, words made me despise myself once again, but a moment had me back in the mind of my man. She didn't seem to notice a bit of my distraction and merely let out an insufferable giggle she undoubtedly found sweet, judging by the way her translucent skin colored with blood. "Please, Miss Alexandra, call me Gordon. I have made a charming meal for us. Come inside." I led her to the table and proceeded to pour the pale wine for each of us, to which she laughed softly again with nerves I did not comprehend. I supposed I had done something mildly suggestive, and, once again, as with the rumors earlier that day, I was perversely happy to be able to quell whatever suspicion was possible by becoming overtly and openly the opposite of what I was. If I was an obscene, garishly forward lover of women, what credence could be given to the concept that I instead loved men?
I sat down before her after a time, and gazed at the lady with a lessened smile across the table. I could see her flush noticeably again, and she sipped her champagne flute with an attempt at a delicate show that made her appear rather foolish- it made me wonder how very farcical my own attempt at pretending was… I guess that it was lucky, in a way, that I kept to myself outside of my work and my television show, that no-one really knew my "true" nature enough to discern that I was making changes.
I had some appreciation for her appearance- she was quite lovely, in the most glorified of ways in these days, with small features but for her eyes, and a mane of wheat-colored curls that hung so far as her chin. It was amazing, to me, to imagine the wonderful contrast between myself and any other man, just then. That I could find myself merely appreciative of a beauty while he- my man- may have already shuddered with a base anticipation for her presence in my home, and proximity to my bedroom. As I briefly lost him, in thinking from my outer consciousness, I was able to fixate briefly upon one thing, - pathetic as it was, - to keep my supposed attraction alive; this was provided in the form of her particularly virile, dark eyebrows. The ominous quiet that fell between us worked well to my advantage, in this regard, frankly observing her. With a touch of jocularity, I chided myself for being beyond homosexual in sexual perplexity, finding something to lust over in a lady's eyebrows.
"Eat, please, Mademoiselle Alexandra," I bid her in a smooth, deepened voice, surprising myself with the ability to smile as my entire nature howled against me for doing wrong. "I made this especially for you- there was a rumor passed onto me that you care for seafood- what little we get in these days. Please- I would hate to think that a lady so beautiful as yourself refused me, in this manner." The child laughed inanely once more, and, again, she proved herself the opposite of my desire, that of a strong, broad and free thinking man of passion and intelligence. Sitting with this young lady, I felt much like I was being put to death by way of strings of cloying, molten sugar forced down my throat to burn a warm, agonizing hole into my intestines.
I chatted to her about whatever came into my mind, refilling her wine glass whenever it turned low and drinking conspicuously little myself, in a sordid effort to keep myself quite aware- not to slip into any position of shedding my mask. Alexandra didn't care, of course, as she didn't seem to care for anything but our words, hanging languorously and rather nauseatingly upon each of mine. Life at the BTN punctuated by more necessary comment upon her loveliness and her minute amount of wit. She showed me some, beyond her unpleasant pandering, but certainly not enough to have me be moved by her in terms of thought- let alone anything else.
The end of our dinner arrived faster than I thought was quite possible, with the dread I had been laying upon the event all day, and I found myself caught in a dilemma like an unsuspecting vole passed by a trap-door spider- just as wide-eyed and uncomprehending that I had managed to pass by a situation I that I thought had no danger into something that alluded to death. What was to be done with the bright little lady, to enforce myself just enough to prevent suspicion, but not far enough to unnerve myself with the disgust of forcing my nature to what it desired, at most, to appreciate from afar?
"Come with me to the parlor, Mademoiselle Alexandra," I suggested pleasantly, taking one of her hands to sit us before the fireplace in my living room, bringing an arm around her with warmth and working to bring out that kind of word I had decided, once, that I would only spill when in love. Once again, I was markedly sacrificing my reality for something false, and it badly stung. It does even more, in these days. "You are wonderfully lovely, Miss Alexandra. I've not met someone like you for some time…. You are so like an angel, my sweet…." I came forward to her amorously, much as if I had taken so much wine as she and fallen into a stupor that forced "truth" out, and pressed our lips together. The child, - to my surprise, and partial revulsion, - gladly accepted the gesture, and drew back to meet my probably terrified light blue eyes through her sharp, fire-bright dark ones, and I felt something awfully real in hers that made some sense of guilt come forth for my scheming. Not enough to draw forth the truth- not nearly. Losing everything, I fear, was too much for going out of my way in preserving the feelings of one sweet young girl.
"You're so... charming, Gordon." Her young, fluted voice sighed in beauty, that which any man was supposed to adore madly, to be rifling for all through an arrangement, through a show of propriety where there was none… the fact that I was the very opposite, I now find amusing, but, at the time, I could hardly think beyond the shocks I had been experiencing. She brought us quickly back together again. And, just then, with a clarity of thought that I never achieved again during that evening, I felt that, as I had nearly no experience in sexuality beyond what one can provide for oneself in words and thoughts, she could have just as well have been drawing a dagger through my chest if she wished to kill my self. Only in this case, what remained was worse than what would have come forth if I had died... a paper-constructed shadow of a normal man as opposed to a rotting corpse. At least the latter would have placidly disappeared after some years...
Despite my attempts to convince through any means necessary, - affront, even, - the girl ended up leaving before things could come much too far, with the mild excuse that I was a gentleman of the heart when it came to physical matters. There was some childish, exceedingly awkward contact, kisses that succeeded to disgust me, and a wonderful show of forged reluctance towards her leaving my house, but, overall, success.
It was an horrendous success. I suddenly had all the office buzzing, gossip running sieve through sieve from Alexandra down through the office and, as ever, never to me until things had been exaggerated in grotesquely humorous manners. I had gained the place that I desired just by a few hours with one lady. There would have to be continuation, certainly... the difficulty was the first girl, herself. I shuddered at the thought of having to make myself out to be a veritable Don Juan with women, achieving my purpose and immediately moving on, but... if it served...
Each promoted my image wrenchingly forward, of course, with a new girl every two weeks or so, charming each in the same sort of "private" way which made them feel quite desired when we were together, and minimally sour when I moved on- I expect, with some imagination of my reasons for doing so, using justification by way of my "busy" career, and such. They only drove other girls to receive me better when I requested new- it is amusing, in that way, that the young women enjoy my company so.
Their delicacy and their constant feminine sweetness plagued me- made me feel dangerously rebellious. I was drawn yet more obsessively by the day to one particular man at the BTN, a young reporter whom I had always felt vainly for, an Ernest Gage. He is a pleasingly short, slim-shouldered figure, with very thick and seductive black hair and a quiet, authoritative nature to match with his metallic and lustrous name; his likewise steel-colored eyes. I could easily spend a moment in his company talking of a report or something of that ridiculously insignificant manner, and derive an exponentially higher level of pleasure and fancy than that from the unnumbered multitudes of hours I spent sitting with a pretty, gawkish young thing with nothing to speak of but her contentment with all that was quickly becoming false in our lives. And of herself, and my character. I wonder if, had I been allowed to do so without fear hanging over my head so, if I would have been so self-centred as that, to reveal most everything about myself without invitation, with a few hours and a glass of wine from a friendly acquaintance.
This I will never know, of course.
Work became a normal state again after a time as I cycled artfully through the girls at the BTN, as new came so close together that there was an endless supply. I felt like I was drinking myself to death, or consuming a gluttonous amount of a sweet I disliked, simply to feel the sensation of and resulting illness from excess. I was being a hedonist in the most repugnant sense, going so far as to gorge myself upon things that held for me no pleasure. I hated myself even more for finally beginning to release my guarded, tragic and willfully stubborn love for Ernest... though I knew there was nothing in it but my love for him, it was, as I have expressed what seems an infinite number of times before, for the loss of a part of my soul more than my obsessive and impossible level of care from afar.
Even now, I cannot say whether it is by intrinsic or extrinsic forces that I am plunged into the deepest throes of disgust. Surely, my willingness to die so was horrid, squalid, and one of the most devastating means one could use to destroy, utterly; however, the response taken to such gestures was gross in its own manner. Within a month, the more cynical girls in the BTN offices had taken to calling me "Daddy Deitrich" (though I know for a fact that the ever-penetrating light of a star can melt the most frozen cynic, simply by my experience). I loathe that name for its complete misrepresentation, but that which I could never deny. I keep up my same act that was present in the beginning, tolerance, and wry acceptance of "my self". I sound so utterly repetitious... I have mourned the death of my reality more in these passages than a requiem mourns a passed Christian man, yet I cannot help it. It is devastating in the same way... it is not as though I ever loved my self, but at least I could have said before, with clarity and truth, that I knew of my own existence. I don't know that I do in these days.
The latter is true primarily because of the perverse rhythm I've fallen into, intuitively calling for companionship with a female that is never more than an egotistical, self-promoting speech on my or the woman's end. The Christians used to say that they could cure homosexuality through prayer... I think it is more likely that selling one's soul to the devil is the only affective tool religion could offer, as I had done in my own, perverse manner. Whenever a pretty young lady came about, new to the BTN and subsequently still in the process of a mental osmosis which prevented her thinking too badly of me, I immediately pressed myself upon her by way of a smile and my address on a bit of paper- a wink when feeling indulgent in my passion for gamey flesh like hers. Such was the attitude I assumed when I made a proposition to Evey. She was, by far, the most lovely-faced (though awfully slight) and most intelligent child I went to prey upon- the only one who gave me guilt at the very thought of asking her over due to my respect for her ardent nature. I only saw her in menial jobs, delivering coffee and my tea and such, but our little association showed me a wonderful fighting that I'd not seen in others.
I sound a bloody psychoanalyst when I look back, like I was sure of everything just as it came to me now that I expound upon it in the present. It probably wasn't clear as I say it was, my ability to assess human nature. But I somehow fancy it to be so now, this being my final address to whatever hands this lovely account has fallen into.
Still, there was definitely something that I know I saw in her. There was disbelief in the others... incredulousness... but never candor in a cause like Evey's. I felt, for once, to be overstepping bounds in asking her presence, and had the rather sobering feeling that, were I not mercilessly employing her as a tool for my image, we might have been friends. Allies, at least, in a common and disallowed stream of thought.
Perhaps I had hated myself before, but, on the night I made to prepare for things with Evey, the revulsion over the intricacy of my lies came to me more strongly than ever. I wanted badly to call the whole thing off, to see that she never came to see how much of a falsehood I represented without really seeing. It was only by twisted coincidence that it was all let off, of course, and I could nearly say that I rejoiced in it. Exultant in the glory that is retaining a thing like purity between acquaintances when I've come into living a life of acts towards the opposite spectral end.
I wonder if she felt the same ring of triumph as I did when the Old Bailey was destroyed as it was. Her enchantingly dangerous presence at the scene makes me inclined to think so.
Meeting her the next day was something to look forward to. I felt so frank and so free, and the world was wonderfully clear, knowing that I'd not made my gross little act for her, and, now, likely never would.
I nearly stumbled in releasing my writers from the call we had on our troubled script, - which experienced awful flounderings at some times, when keeping within the government's pressing walls which were so charmingly and falsely called 'decency', - and ended it as quickly as I could for some opportunity to speak to the vision of Hellenic splendor, with her thick brown curls and strong face. I smiled as I always do, though, I am almost certain this one held something of a dry quality, as I felt, due to the pleasant, lightly manipulative words which came so easily through my teeth.
"I've never been stood up by a more attractive woman," my voice rang amiably inside my head, and revoltingly in the pit of my stomach. The girl trained her gaze upon me boldly, but her words seemed to fail, despite whatever resolution she had made for herself, undoubtedly preparing for this meeting as I had.
"I'm sorry, Mister Deitrich-"
"Gordon." Another forced expression of pleasure with her nervous mannerisms came forth and forced me to continue, "I don't need 'Mister' added to my name to make this body feel any older."
"Gordon," her voice repeated more strongly, and I was gladdened to hear it incited, that she became impatient with my pandering as much as I did myself. "I was on my way last night, but there were fingermen, and I… couldn't make it, with the curfew as it is." My face fell in a sigh, and I looked back down to her after a solemn moment of thought,
"I fear that, with the 'demolition' as it has been, our curfew can only get worse." The girl looked to me with more of an accepting seriousness, and I let her from the room, left to my tea and my thoughts until the fateful announcement began.
As I was during the sight of the Old Bailey, I was chilled, yet exhilarated. There was the fear of uncertainty, yet the gratification that responsibility was being given out with such efficiency. I was responsible as anyone- more, due to my influence, and my unwillingness to make any statement against the government's oppression of myself and of everyone else with the minutest complaint. There were things to be done… small things, which would be of use towards my cause. "The Cause", as it were. I quite suddenly felt determined. There was something to be done... all my life I had been hiding, first from myself and then from a discriminatory world. With this... I would begin in a slowly toxic manner, as lead accumulates in the body to kill when decades have passed. Allegory that only those looking for it could see, just as good could only be seen in this fatal broadcast by those who stood by waiting for a rebellion- a symbol, an omniscience to pervade the sleeping mind pressed downward by the utter denial of reality.
I was very briefly accosted by the police during the course of the transmission, being told urgently to evacuate the building, and something vague about a bomb that I cannot recall. But I refused pointedly. If one had the desire to be a part of something so large and so currently uncongealed as this... one accepted the mild threat that came along with it all for the sake of a larger being. When it was all over, work began again as normal, only with amore shaken, constricted way about everyone who had dared to return. My show was plain and typical, but we were all sent home at a curfew immediately after: It had been raised to seven o'clock. What a marvel it is, how quickly oppression is accepted under times of national stress.
Coming home was something hollow to me. My secrets became something akin to madness, now that I felt I had some duty to something besides my few and rather lamely executed personal efforts against our government. And I had lived with them for so long now... how would I ever be able to face one of the girls at the BTN again, when all I desired was to make myself known, not even for acceptance, but for the guilt of those who would think otherwise that it is impossible for a man of my nature to thrive in life and career? I supposed that I would have to stop my acts, lest I should make myself truly mad (whatever that can be called). I had no need to call girls for any form of companionship any longer, anyway- I now had the backing of all people as disillusioned as myself- an unfathomable number. It could be every man, woman and child in Britain, or it could be just myself and that masked face on the television screen. As I had once, in adolescence, called myself a socialist, I finally had the chance to be one again.
It was in my home that I choked down the reports on the supposedly deadly occurrence that morning with an easing glass of wine, though my outrage continued to be stirred continuously as the progression went on, starting from the most mild and- fair is not the correct word, but I suppose it will do- and ending at ten with the God-damned Voice of cocking London, the most reactionary soul I ever chanced to meet. It appalls me; to know that the trash he spouts daily is truth, for him. Not like my program, something created for the populace and to the limits of the government so that I can make my living selling lies, no- he really believes it all. I have a great sense of wonderment at how a soul could be so warped into a mass of goose-pocked flesh that has been immovably attached to its complacency in such views, and that something within it does not simply wish to vomit constantly, to purge itself of whatever is causing that stagnant blood to flow only in passion for oppression.
Distress was present with me through the whole of the parade, however, pressing his threading fingers throughout my thoughts, because of the disappearance of Evey. She was referred to irreverently on the news as another 'dangerous terrorist' who had been successfully captured and was being detained at a government facility for questioning... but, after the years of living daily with news reporters as I have, one can tell which words and which mannerisms translate into a lie. But, with our basically fascist regime as it is, the allowed news has to instill complete, utter, unbending, galvanized-steel confidence, which would be absolutely the epitome of decorum breaching to express even the slightest doubt against.
I worried for her. Though I knew her to have been taken by the character "V"- a whisper I had been passed along from my allies in the less-deluded reporters- I had to worry. She had been such a darling child for the bit of time in which I felt I'd known her... and, while one appreciated the expression of radicalism when spoken, the thrill of fear that made it so appealing translated into quite valid, sickening dread when placed into a situation of real life. Perhaps he was so unstable in his actions as his words were firm and calculated. I knew basically the same phenomenon to be true of myself, after all, and the just-forged connection between that hidden face and myself brought me to be even more afraid for the girl.
A/N: Is this poor, random rambling I did to keep myself entertained when not working during my senior year in High School? Yes.
Will you review it, despite being poor, and random?
...Please? 8D Even if you really dislike it. ANY COMMENT AT ALL, I BEG YOU. I just want SOME feedback before I go posting the rest, as it's all already written.
Cheers!
-Raven