2. Ranting and Rorie
It was late morning, almost noon, but the house was quiet and for all Rorie knew, she was alone. She had not left her bedroom, or even lifted her head from the pillow, lying snugly cocooned in expensive blankets, for hours slipping between thoughtful misery and dreams unfathomable. Pyro brooded nearby, irritated but otherwise quietly sympathetic.
Devastated, humiliated, and most of all deeply hurt, Rorie could not bring herself to talk to the spider. Her only escape was sleep, and when that became impossible she let herself stare up and away, remembering and imagining, how things were and how they might have been different. Sometimes she was confused. Sometimes – truthfully, more often – she was angry. But always and under it all, Rorie knew that something very fundamental had shifted, that she'd been shown a Great Truth, and her relationship with Knight would never be the same. She wanted to cry for the loss of the friendship, but she was still too angry to do that. She wanted to condemn him for the damage he'd done, but she had too much pride to show him she cared. Instead, she pursed her lips and thought of ways she could distance herself from him without making it appear deliberate – the trick was, she decided, to make it appear natural. Her indifference would be his punishment. No, not indifference. Her happiness, bliss – euphoria! – in everything except his company, would be his punishment. Yes, it was an excellent plan. Rorie wiped back tears. It was so excellent a plan she could not wait to begin its execution.
So she threw off the comforter, planted her feet resolutely on the ground and marched to the closet, uplifted with the notion she was now officially ignoring him. To maintain the newfound high, Rorie knew she needed the perfect dress in which to ignore him. None of her usual clothing would do. The closet was filled with monuments to her dowdy taste in fashion – shapeless, artless frocks and the more popular alternative, pants. Pants would never do. You could not ignore a boy while wearing pants. Even Rorie, who flaunted and revelled in the intellectual tomboy aesthetic, knew that much about the dress code of feminism.
There were gowns in the back she had never worn, most of them gifts from her mother, who definitely knew a thing or two about ignoring men (usually, Neo). Bravely, Rorie ran her fingers over the accordion of hangers, feeling the rich fabric, stopping at a cross-section of deep, sensual violet. Curious, she plucked this one off the rack and held it up for inspection, confounded as she couldn't quite figure out the mechanism. The skirt was simple enough, flaring out like an inverted flower, blossoming around the knee. The top was a mystery. It was missing an entire side – the back side, she hoped – tying high around the neck, and again around the waist. Impossible to use a bra. She could never wear such a thing! Pyro wanted to know why not. But spiders didn't know anything about the need for bras, so Rorie ignored the question and took the dress to her full-length mirror, hooking it over top of the glass. When she caught her reflection in the pane, she paused, transfixed, frowning. Something about herself made her want to scream.
She pulled out her braids and shook the loose, raven waves over her shoulders, and then pressed her lips together and bit down, making them wet and red. Her nightgown, more like a giant sac than a garment, was the next thing to go. Slowly, nearly seductively, she lifted it over her head, watching herself with strange interest. She tossed it away and rearranged her hair, clad in the same underthings she'd had on earlier that morning. This is what he'd seen, she thought. This is what Knight had found so amusing.
Rorie stared at her reflection but what she saw was his face, his reaction to her undressed body. It all returned to her with crystal clarity, unbidden, haunting. She didn't know why she'd taken off her dress on the catwalk. The reasoning – if there had been any reasoning at all – for what she had done was eclipsed by the act actually of doing it, of the dress brushing against her skin as she slipped it off, of a warm draft curling sickly around her waist, between her thighs. It was like a nightmare. But she could have endured the humiliation, all of it could have been overcome with time, had she not looked up at him and seen his expression as she demanded he release her train.
He was smiling. Rorie swallowed a welling of emotion as she recalled the horrible cruelty of it. The wicked glint of humour in his eyes, sparkling and golden, was like nothing she'd ever seen or expected. He'd never looked at her like that before. Unkindly. Mockingly. Selfishly. As if all her angst, everything she felt was nothing to him, as if she were a fool putting on a show that fell tragically short of his expectations. What was it?
Her size in some places, her lack of size in others? Rorie moved her fingers over her skin, caressing herself from hip to breast. She did not dislike her body, but clearly, she was not beautiful. She had inherited none of her mother's curves, none of her subtle command of sexuality, but only a plain kind of daintiness, like chiselled porcelain rich in detail but lacking in form. Surely, Knight had seen many girls – made love to many girls – none of whom looked anything like her. How stupid and childlike she must have appeared to him, flaunting her awkward charms in a public street! What a sad moment indeed, when an educated, intelligent young woman is displayed and judged by the same standards as a common tramp, who has nothing more to offer!
Rorie was ashamed of herself, but he should not have laughed. He should not have made her feel inferior. He should not have put pain into her heart. This is not what friendship is.
Behind her, in the mirror, Rorie saw her bedroom door open and she snatched her nightgown from the floor. "Mom!"
"Oh, Rorie, I'm sorry." Trinity turned her head as her daughter threw the nightgown over her head and pushed her arms through the sleeves. "I thought you were asleep."
"You could have knocked!"
"I didn't want to wake you." Trinity put some laundry on the bed, apologetically regarding the younger One as she folded her arms across her chest and looked down at the floor. "Are you alright? What's the matter?"
"I'm fine."
Trinity hesitated, didn't answer. Rorie seemed to curl into herself, hunched over as she stared at her toes. She was not fine. Was it the insomnia, Trinity wondered? Was it nightmares, like the ones Neo had suffered for weeks after his first brush with death and the matrix? But like Neo, Rorie was a difficult person to read, and one could not just ask her what was the matter. Uncertain, Trinity waited, wondering, hoping Rorie would say something. "Did you sleep at all?" she ventured.
"A little."
"If you want to talk…"
"I told you, I'm okay, Mom."
"You've been through a lot."
"Nothing you and Dad haven't been though before, right?"
"That's different."
"Because you're soldiers and I'm civilian who can't even pilot a ship let alone handle myself in the sewers."
Trinity was at a loss. This always happened when she and Rorie talked. Inevitably, it became confrontational. "Well," she said curtly, "your father is a shitty pilot, too. We don't talk about it much, but once he depolarized the EM field and magnetized the hull. We were stuck to the roof of a support line for two days."
Usually, that story got great laughs at parties. Rorie barely smiled. "Yeah, but when you can blow up sentinels with your mind-"
"Rorie, there were knives and forks stuck to the wall. Knight was eating breakfast and his spoon flew up and hit him in the face. Left marks, you know, little indentations, because it was one of those sporks…"
"Yeah. Well, maybe he deserved it."
"Funny, that's what your father said."
But it was not funny. Rorie turned away covered her face in her hands, and Trinity was utterly stunned. She put her arms around her daughter and hugged her, half-certain Rorie would push her away, but she didn't. Carefully, Trinity caressed the back of her head, wanting to kiss her but not having the nerve. This was a delicate moment. Rorie had always been a sensitive child, quick to tears, quick to anger, quick to forgiveness. Trinity had long suspected that Rorie did not like this particular facet of her own personality. Rorie hated to be caught crying, hated to lose her temper, inevitably cycling into a ditch of self-reproach after any indiscretion which she thought had exposed her as weak-minded. When she was a little girl, she used to write formal letters to the family after tantrums, which – with their superior grammar and formal turn-of-phrase - read more like official military memos than a twelve-year-old's note of apology.
To whom it may concern,
Yesterday's incident before dinner was indeed regretful, and I would like to take this opportunity to say that I'm sorry I lost my temper. The use of my microscope by Knight (WITHOUT MY PERMSSION!!!) for the purpose of examining his own bodily secretions was a GROSS violation of my rights (the pun is intended with great prejudice). But, in a civilized society, there are rules for proper conduct. As I have a privileged place in Zion and because people look up to me I should set a good example. So I should not have pulled his hair, and I'm sorry I made his nose bleed. In the future, I promise to be more rational and less emotional.
Thank you for your understanding,
Aurora-Eon
04/01/2214
PS: Pyro says she's sorry she bit Knight but he deserved it and I need a new microscope now please.
The reminder of Pyro put Trinity on alert. Over her daughter's shoulder, she looked for the dreaded creature, determined to kill it if it came near her. Amazing it was still alive, after all the times she'd tried 'accidentally' to poison it, squish it, drown it over the years. Damn thing was tougher to ice than an agent. And then Trinity noticed the dress hanging on the mirror, the backless violet day gown that she'd had made for Rorie two years ago.
"Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry! I don't know what's wrong with me."
"It's okay." Trinity lifted Rorie's chin up so she could see her face. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You're a brave girl. If it weren't for you, who knows where your father and I would be right now."
"Mom, my rescue operation was a disaster. I stole a ship, the Neb is a wreck, the Witch got away…"
"We're all alive, Rorie. That's all that matters. You're alive." Trinity brushed some hair back from her daughter's forehead. "Let's not be ungrateful."
"Sorry."
Trinity shook her head. "No more of that. Come on, I'll make you something to eat. And uhm… I have shoes to go with that outfit if you want."
"Oh." Rorie turned her head to look at the dress. "No, I don't think I'll wear it. I mean, it's too dressy. I should save it for a special occasion."
"Actually tonight will be a special occasion. I'm having that family supper we missed. Morpheus and Niobe will be here, and all the usual crowd. I sent your father over to invite Knight…"
"What?!"
"I know, but I was hoping it would help if he went in person so they could have a talk. Turn over a new leaf, after what happened."
"He already went? This morning… ! Mom, why didn't you tell me!"
"You were asleep. And don't worry. I made your father promise not to say anything embarrassing. He told me it went fine and Knight will be here by five to help set up." Rorie turned so pale so fast, Trinity feared she might faint. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I just mean, I wish I'd known. You see, I have… things to do tonight. At the lab."
"Well, you'll have to cancel them. I already promised everyone you would tell them how you rescued Neo and me from a fate worse than death. It's a great story. Your first real mission." Rorie opened her mouth but her mother, effervescing with pride, cut off any objection. "I can't wait to see the look of Niobe's face when Knight tells her he pulsed the guard in a free fall and then kick-started the engine with a high heel. It's going to be the highlight of the entire evening, when her jaw drops."
"Niobe's done things like that."
Trinity grinned triumphantly. "Not in heels, baby."
Before Rorie could demand an explanation as to why it mattered what was on his feet, her mother was off to make them a late lunch. Pyro began seething from her aquarium. How dare Knight accept the invitation, hissed the spider! How dare he impose his awful company on them! Knight was no longer vile. He was worse than vile! He was whatever vile things scrape off their boots after a long day of being vile in the vilest possible conditions! (Pyro described this mystery-sludge as something like toxic waste only uglier.)
Rorie threw herself onto the bed and covered her face with the pillow. She'd suffocate herself. She'd commit suicide and it would be all his fault! Let him live with the guilt! Let him carry on with the knowledge that he was indeed so vile, so toxic, he'd actually killed someone!
When Rorie came up for air, Pyro scuttled up the side of the mirror and into the trumpet of the violet skirt. Wear it with your hair up, urged the spider. And find yourself a date. You mustn't be alone when Knight gets here. Even a spider knows that when it comes to ignoring someone, it's best not to be ignoring him all by yourself.