Chapter 3

She was angry, frustrated, irritated and completely out of chocolate. Christine sat, thought, stood up walked across her room and sat back down.

McCoy's words had bit at her all through her shift; small nippy dogs of thought disturbing her consciousness. "Love" he had used the word to describe her relationship with the first officer. "Love?" where could that had come from? She could acknowledge that Spock was good-looking, tall, dark, an exotic a mix of cool logic potentially bubbling with hot human passion, at least if the rumors which ran around the ship were to be believed.

"Well if I was in love with him at least I would have good taste", she forced a grin at her own joke whist rubbing her temples to try to rid herself of the headache, which had been building all day. Slumping further into her chair, she hugged a small cushion to her chest. Her mind began to drift…

Vulcan had been a much-needed escape from the Enterprise, she remembered needing to be away from the ship, away from the people whom she felt were swarming around her. The feeling of sinking returned to her mind. Yes she had felt like she was sinking deep into a pit where she had been losing herself. She hadn't gone on shore leave for a calm retreat, she had run away, flashes returned to her, agitation and … and… the first officer haunted the edges of her memories, his role vague.

She remembered returning from the planet, feeling calm, like a weight had been lifted, though if honest she could not say that she had felt happy. Then the questions had begun "What was it that Roger said?" "Where are your parents?" "What is the chemical combination of substance #470" It had been a flurry of unrelated queries, which made no sense, and then to top it all off the CMO was suggesting she had had impossible relationship with an inappropriate person.

Christine threw the cushion from her lap; flying across the room it hit her bookcase, knocking a small collection of stacked ornaments onto the floor.

"Damn"

Her movements were labored as she started to clean the broken remnants from the carpet, her hand stopping over the chipped curved bowl of a small ceramic pot, ashes were scattered across the floor. Holding it in her palm, tears started to gather as she stared at the crumbling collection.

This thing had been important to her, the strange writing across the side, the deep red of the clay, it had meant something to her, she could feel its significance even if she could not remember it. She cried, for no reason that she could understand she cried deep blue tears of loss, a loss that she could not understand nor remember.