Maybe I'm expecting to wake up any time soon. At least I'm honest and I admit the dreams were the worst part. But, of course, that doesn't mean I'll stop dreaming now. Maybe I'm afraid of that. I don't know. You wonder what your subconscious can tell you, wondering why you can never quite hang onto the images and scenarios that haunt your sleeping hours, yet you always somehow manage to cling to the worst of them. He'd be standing there, about to be gunned down, and I'd be only a few metres away. Except I couldn't move. When I finally managed to, it would always be at that moment that the bullets would hit him. Sometimes they'd hit me too, and as much as it scares me to admit, that was often more comforting. Then there were the good dreams, or so I believe I should call them, even if I've woken more often with tears than I'd care to admit. The ones where we were making love and it's not just sex, as I was always afraid it might be. I suppose that proves I'm somewhat delusional. I stayed quiet too long and I lost my chance, though I suppose the mind will do what it can to try and heal itself in whatever way it can. Because I can't get back to that place anymore. Even if I tried to say those words to him they would come out wrong...because it wouldn't be me saying them anymore.
I returned to my quarters, taking the corridors I hoped would be empty. I had no such luck. I managed a polite nod to Teyla as we crossed paths, then carried right on walking. I heard her footsteps stop - I was could almost feel her staring after me - and somehow I managed not to quicken my pace in an attempt to escape. I'm tired. I'm tired of hiding and hoping that one day this will seem natural. I walked right past her, when I was fully aware that she was only concerned for my wellbeing. They all are. It scares me that I'm actually this content to keep them at arms length.
I picked up the first book that came to hand and began reading it. It wasn't even in English, but something I'd read so often my mind compensated; the words I was reading were not of my own language, but somehow what I saw and understood was. Sometimes I think it would be nice not to understand anything or anybody. I can speak five different languages and curse in more than I'd care to admit, but where has that got me? I can flick from English to Russian in an instant but I still don't even understand myself. Let alone others. Or him. Perhaps I do understand him and I'd rather not admit that to myself.
The book wasn't distracting me enough. It's hard to concentrate on a distraction when all you're aware of is the fact that you're trying to create such a distraction. I was tempted to throw the book across the room, but placed it down on my bed, in the manner that would be expected of me, and left my quarters.
One day I hope this act will be easier. That there will be a time when I don't realize I'm acting. I'll wake up one morning and be myself for the whole day and I wont silently loath myself for trying to change. I'm not sure whether I saw hatred or confusion in his eyes. Somehow I'd prefer the former; I'd rather he understood me and hated me than found me an enigma. What worries me is that I know I can't go back…and part of me doesn't want to. I feel stronger this way, even if it may be only superficial. People don't question my actions as much, though whether it's because they now know I'm capable or they're afraid of my reaction, I don't know. I'm no psychologist, but I think it would be more worrying if I thought this was the real me and didn't acknowledge that this is an...effort. …Yet it's not so much of a strain anymore. I started this and I'm damn well going to finish it. I just never thought he'd have to see me like this. At least that way I could always hope I was doing the right thing and he would be proud.
That was one of the things I loved about him. He made me want to make him proud of me, and not many people have been capable of that in my life. He made me want to learn and see sides of things I'd never seen before, despite believing that my way of analysing a situation was a perfectly decent way. And…somehow…he needed me like I needed him. We were like missing pieces of each other's lives, parts of ourselves we'd never thought to investigate further. I could provoke him into an all out screaming match and he could wind me up until I just wanted to strike him, but we fit. Maybe it was intoxicating, the effect he had on me. I don't know whether it was love or lust, or just the knowledge that partners I thought I had loved had never had that effect on me, but he was just…
See, even now I speak of him as if he's dead, when I know he's sitting in the Infirmary, most likely cursing my name.
I headed down to the small firing range we had created when we realized we needed to train others in the use of weaponry. I swiped a blank cart from the rack at the side of the room, dropping the real bullets from my handgun and reloading it. At least I would have to focus to shoot. Or so I thought. I hit the targets almost mechanically, not caring how accurate my aim was. At least I didn't shake so much anymore.
The story about a team returning had been a lie. They weren't due back until tomorrow. But he should remain in the Infirmary for at least that long, so hopefully he'd never find out. I just needed…some time to think. To think about what, I don't know, because everything seemed to lead back to him.
I can't say I'm utterly depressed or distraught, devastatingly unhappy or on the verge of an absolute breakdown. I'm just confused. I know this is the right thing to do and I had managed to reclaim some normality until a few hours ago. I haven't lost myself by picking up a weapon and taking more control of my life.
But…
"Elizabeth?"
I whirled round, aiming wildly, finger curled round the trigger.
John Sheppard actually took a step back in shock, maybe hurt.
But…
"What are you doing?"
…Maybe I've gone too far…