Author's Note: All right, I admit it. I don't know quite what compelled me to write this one. I think a lot of it is the terribly overt Rose hatred around here--if I remember rightly, most people don't like her...or ignore her, which is just as bad. :) plink's the only one I can remember really portraying the poor girl with the smart, sexy undertones you see in the game...so I wanted to see what I can do. I think a little bit of it was catharsis over my own college and family anxieties, too.
So, without further ado, I give you..."Marmalade".
Disclaimer: Metal Gear Solid series != mine. Wha.
"Marmalade"

I bought a couple of the jars of that marmalade you like. You know, the stuff that comes in the white glass jars you're so fond of. I put it in the fridge; I'm sure you'll see it when you get back from work. I hope it makes up for this morning.
I hate it when we fight. It seems like we've been getting into arguments more since the whole Big Shell thing. I...thought telling you would ease matters a little; I thought if I wasn't living a lie anymore, it would be easier to love you, easier to talk about how I was feeling. Easier to work out our differences, if I didn't have to pretend all the time that the things that really upset me about you were just fine, just perfect...
...And I wouldn't have to keep pretending I didn't understand that you hated what I did. I hate clinging to you. I hate it. I love you, I want to be with you forever, but I hate forcing myself on you. I hate it when you shove me away because you can't stand me near you sometimes. I'm not a touchy person, Jack. I'm not. But your psych profile said you'd be scared more by me being 'too perfect' than by a little clinging; it said that you like your women 'a little helpless'.
And you know me; I love a hero.
Or maybe you don't know me; you aren't the only one with secrets, after all. I keep thinking that you already know me, that you can see right through me--that I'm naked, or transparent, all the time...when I'm around you. It's scary, it's exciting, all the same time--you're so perceptive, it's heartbreaking that I could lie to you for so long.
I'm so sorry. I keep telling you to 'see the real me'--like it's your fault you never saw in the first place. I keep pretending that I was dropping all these hints, that it was clear as light to you but you were lying to yourself...and it wasn't. I know it wasn't. I'm not stupid, Jack, I'm not. It's just that you aren't the only one hiding things.
And it hurts! It hurts so much that you were the only one who wasn't 'in' on my little secrets. They called me the 'Patriot slut' back at base when they thought you couldn't hear. Everyone else knew what was going on; and they hated me for it. It didn't matter that they were playing along with it; they hated me because I was leading you around by the nose. At least they liked you.
I didn't deserve this, Jack! I didn't! I had a life and a family and a job and a future before the Patriots picked me up! I don't deserve their stares and their name-calling and their hatred! I was going to Stanford! I had everything! I was going to be a journalist; I was going to try for the Pulitzer and win. I loved everything about college; my roommate was the coolest girl I'd ever met. I was on my own for the first time.
It was the best part of my life. And then my dad drove the family car off the road in an ice storm when they were driving back to Nevada over Christmas break.
Just like that. Everything was gone. I lost my family; I lost...I lost everything. I had a job and a scholarship, but it wasn't enough to keep myself afloat for a whole year, not on the tuitions they charge now. Dad willed most of the money to his sister. She adopted me, but...I couldn't go back. I couldn't. I'd spent so much time crying, so much time feeling so alone...It would never feel right. I couldn't finish the year.
I didn't know what to do. And then the Patriots picked me up--sound familiar?
I was just a running girl for them, at first. And then a propaganda artist for a little while, and then you came along...and I volunteered for their project.
I didn't know I'd fall in love; I didn't want to. I didn't need a boyfriend. I just wanted something to do, and there you were. And you were so cute, too; I couldn't resist that.
Then they gave me your psych profile. I knew...everything, Jack. I knew why the dark scared you, I knew that you were a child soldier...it hurt to read that. I nearly backed out; I nearly told them I couldn't...I couldn't 'pick you up' with a whole conscience, and pretend that I didn't know. They were pretty compelling, though--I guess that's obvious. I'm here now.
I don't know when I really fell for you. Maybe it's the first time I thought you could see through me, when I thought everything was as clear as light to you. The first time you shoved me out of your room. I wanted to crawl back in there and apologize, I wanted to tell you everything I knew and everything I'd done. I wanted to cry with you over how much it hurt not to have family. I wanted you to know you'd been betrayed, because I knew you'd forgive me anyway.
But I didn't, and then I thought it was too late; and then you did forgive me. You did; you yelled at me, you called me a 'spy' and thought 'traitor'...and I deserved it. And I hated you, and I loved you, and I knew why I'd fallen in love in the first place.
You thought that I was the one manipulating you. I guess we were both wrong, huh? I kind of like it, though. I think I do, anyway. I like how my heart tears in two when you look my way and smile. I like how blue your eyes can be when the light is just perfect. I even like how it hurts so badly when you wake up at night, crying for the nightmares to leave you alone. I shouldn't like it, but I do, because it's--it's you. I want to protect you.
I'm so sorry. I shouldn't do this; I shouldn't like this. I shouldn't love you, but it's like a drug.
I keep worrying about the future. I don't know what we're going to do, I keep wondering if you're going to get fed up with what I've done and leave me and the baby alone. I don't know if I can be a mother, Jack. I know you've got doubts about being a father--I've seen the way you look so scared when I mention anything to do with the baby--but think about how I feel. For just a minute. This is the thing I've been brooding for all these months, this is...I can't explain how I feel. I can't. I keep wondering about my own motives; maybe I really did just conceive so I know I could keep you around, and maybe I'm jealous. I don't like to feel that way, though. I wanted this; I'm just scared that...you don't.
I don't know where we're going, Jack. I'm frightened. I've got to tell you some time, I've just got to...but I don't know when. I keeping saying 'Tomorrow, tomorrow...I'll tell him. I'll tell him everything.' And then I can't. I've kept up this identity so long that I'm afraid you won't know me if I--go back to who I was. I'm afraid I won't know who I am, when it's the 'real Rose' in love with the 'real Jack'.
I'm willing to try, though. I keep thinking I'm willing to try. I've got to try. It's the only way we're going to make this through alive and whole. I'm not ready to give up yet. I have to be stronger. I can't lose this time. I have everything again; I'm not going to let it go.


I found out a funny thing about marmalade today, when I was at the store. They don't make it from the kind of oranges you eat; they use a special bitter kind. The flavor just doesn't turn out right if they don't start with bitter oranges. It made me think, just a little. I know how much you like marmalade.
Maybe there's a little hope for us, after all.


Contents of this document are © 2002 Kim Kondratieff.