DISCLAIMER: All recognizable characters are not mine, all others are.
Spoilers: Some for Oasis
Author's Note: I *finally* decided to write another part to this. I felt bad about leaving it on such an open note, so I think I'll try to tie up the loose ends. I'm trying to move away from the slash in the second and third parts and towards more what the first part was about. I still don't know what prompted me to write Parts 2 and 3 the way I did since I had no intention of introducing that stuff at all. I blame hallucinagenic spores and leave it at that.
Troubled Waters
I've been thinking about what Liana said to me for days now. Now when I lie in bed, desperately trying to get some sleep, it's her voice that I hear over and over again.
"Do you think it's possible to tell a lie so many times you begin to believe it's the truth?"
Funny, she didn't realize who she was talking to. I've been lying to everyone, even to myself, almost all of my life. Even Jon thinks that I have a great family: loving parents, close brother, adorable niece and nephew. Even my best friend doesn't know the truth. Hell, sometimes even *I* forget the truth. We all play our parts so well that it's hard to remember that we aren't the perfect family, that the Tuckers have more than their share of family secrets. And not little ones, like sometimes drinking too much or sleeping around. Big ones, the kind that destroy people.
Those secrets sure destroyed us. The proud Tucker family, reduced to nothing. At school I had to listen to the whispers and see the stares that followed me wherever I went. That's Charlie Tucker, his father lost their entire fortune and then shot himself, his mother left them, his sister is insane . . . God I was glad to get out of there, far away from the prying eyes and the endless whispers. I dragged Taylor across the country to California while I went to CalTech and then Starfleet training. There nobody knew us, no one knew that once we had been the richest kids in town. No one knew about our erratic father who gambled everything we had and lost, who shot himself rather than face what he had done. No one knew about our beautiful mother who had walked out of the house an hour after our father died and never once looked back. No one knew about Taylor's breakdown, how I had found her screaming and crying in the bathroom with a bottle of aspirin and a gun to her head. We could hide all of that in the bright California sunshine, smile and pretend that everything was fine.
And then the day came when Taylor didn't take her pills. An accident, or so she told me. But I think that at least part of her knew what she was doing. She hated the tired, dazed feeling that came with the medicine, and after she missed that first dose, she never wanted to take another. At first I didn't fight her too much, but then she started to scare me. I would sit on her, pin her down, and force the pills into her mouth every morning. I begged and pleaded her to take them only to have her spit them out in my face. What really scared me, though, was when she hid them. She would smile and tell me to leave, and then I'd come home and find her eyes too bright, her smile too wide. She nearly killed herself several times while I was in college, including once when she set fire to the apartment in the middle of the night. We both wound up in the ER that night, telling the police over and over again that it had been an accident, that I couldn't cook and had accidently screwed up the stove. They didn't believe me for a second, but what could they do about it? The doctors and psychiatrists went nuts every time we came in there, but every time we managed to walk out, even though I knew it was just a matter of time before one of us wound up dead.
And then I dragged her to San Francisco. I promised her that it would only be another year, then I wouldn't have to work so hard, I'd get a posting at a construction site and take her with me . . . over and over again the words poured out of me, trying to comfort her. I had to lock her up in that little cubicle. For six months she did not see another person. For six months she did not go outside once. And I still thought that I could take care of us, that everything would be all right, that we could be a happy family . . .
And then came the night that everything fell apart. She screamed and tried to kill herself, tried to kill me. I thought I would die that night. I prayed over and over again to a god I had long ago stopped believing in. The five years I'd been on my own had taught me not to look to anyone else for help.
But help came in the form of my younger brother, Will. Will saw the truth, saw what I was so afraid to see -- that it was over, that Taylor had to go away. And part of me died when I saw her tied to the stretcher as they wheeled her upstairs, her one long scream of agony and fear ringing through the halls.
"Charlie . . . "
And yet life went on, or at least my hollow imitation of it. I went to class, took tests, and worked hard to be a Starfleet officer. The only difference was that now I spent as little time in my own room as possible. Taylor's voice haunted me in there, and I sought comfort at the bar with my friends, drinking and sleeping with practically everyone in my class. Only when I was drunk or completely physically exhausted did I sleep without dreaming. Otherwise that cry echoed through my head all night long until I wanted to shoot myself.
"Charlie . . . "
Of course I never let anyone see that part of me. I played my part perfectly. I was the typical sex-driven twenty-something-year-old guy. I was carefree, cheerful Trip, the happy-go-lucky southern boy who always had a smile and a witty comeback. I lost myself in the part, burying Charlie underneath my carefully created layers of Trip until even I sometimes forgot who I really was. Until sometimes I could forget about Taylor.
"Do you think it's possible to tell a lie so many times you begin to believe it's the truth?"
I almost start laughing from the absurdity of it all. Liana's secret was nothing compared to mine. Who's did hers hurt? No one. But mine . . . it ripped my family apart and sent Will, Taylor, and me spiraling out of control. Will and I work hard to hide it, but sometimes I can see the pain in Will's eyes. Neither one of us mention Taylor or Mom or Dad, but the memories are always there, haunting me, torturing me until I want to scream.
And Taylor? Taylor's gone now . . . The words sound strange. She's gone, she's gone, and she's never coming back. The letter from the hospital is still on my computer. 'Dear Mr. Tucker, We regret to inform you . . . ' The words are so cold and hollow. They don't mention how Taylor must have screamed when I stopped visiting her every week or how pale she must have been when they found her, her body cold and lifeless. I found her like that twice, and twice they brought her back, but this time . . . jumping through a plate glass window and falling six stories is apparently a much more effective way to kill yourself than simple pills or slitting your wrists.
The voices are even worse tonight. They scream and scream and scream, and I haven't even turned off the lights yet to go to bed. That's when they really get loud, once all of the day's distractions are gone. I can hear her scream so clearly, and see her pale body falling, blood dripping from her cuts, her pale hair blown back in the wind. Did she scream as she fell? Or did she have that strange look of serenity that she wore those times I found her nearly dead in the bathroom? Did she plan to do it, or was it a sudden decision? Did she cry? Was she scared? A thousand questions . . . I have to fight the urge to call the hospital and scream them to her doctor to try to drown out the biggest question: Why wasn't I there? How could I have left her?
I slam my head on the desk. I see tears on the smooth surface, but I hadn't noticed that I was crying until this moment. Now I can taste the saltiness and feel the drowning wall of water. The tears fall faster now, and I can't control them. I cry for Taylor, for Dad, for Will . . . but mostly for me, left behind to face all of this. Will has a wife and kids, but I feel so alone. I've never told anyone about Taylor; I hid her very existence perfectly. But I feel the facade breaking, and when I look in the mirror, it is Charlie who stares back and not Trip.
God, I need help, I'm losing my mind, everything's spinning and I can't think anymore I just need help is this what Taylor felt? this dizziness and confusion and drowning and I'm going insane what's wrong with me . . .
"HELP ME!"
I realize I screamed those last words. I blink, feeling like when I was a kid and I would reach the surface after diving into the water and trying to touch the bottom. And suddenly everything is clear and I know what I have to do.
*****
I find myself standing outside of Jon's quarters. I don't really know how I got there, but he's standing in the doorway in his pajamas.
"Trip?" he asks, squinting. "What are you doing here? What time is it?"
"Can I come in?"
"Sure." He leads me inside, turns the lights on halfway, and sits on the edge of the bed. He doesn't say anything, just waits.
I stand by the desk, staring at the models and pictures. All of Jon's dreams are on those shelves. His life seems so simple, so free . . .
I almost chicken out right then, but instead I find myself taking a deep breath.
"Did I ever tell you I had a sister?"
A/N -- I like my stories to have a definitive ending, so here it is. I hoped you liked it. Again, I'm not quite sure why Parts 2 and 3 turned out so slashy. I kind of got off-track from what I intended to write about, but I complain so much about my muse's abandoning me that I guess I shouldn't be too picky about the inspiration she does give me. I know I kind of ignored Trip's feelings for Archer, but I decided in Part 3 that they wouldn't get together because it would ruin their friendship, and Trip realizes that friendship is what he really needs right now. Anyway, what did you think? Please r/r!
Spoilers: Some for Oasis
Author's Note: I *finally* decided to write another part to this. I felt bad about leaving it on such an open note, so I think I'll try to tie up the loose ends. I'm trying to move away from the slash in the second and third parts and towards more what the first part was about. I still don't know what prompted me to write Parts 2 and 3 the way I did since I had no intention of introducing that stuff at all. I blame hallucinagenic spores and leave it at that.
Troubled Waters
I've been thinking about what Liana said to me for days now. Now when I lie in bed, desperately trying to get some sleep, it's her voice that I hear over and over again.
"Do you think it's possible to tell a lie so many times you begin to believe it's the truth?"
Funny, she didn't realize who she was talking to. I've been lying to everyone, even to myself, almost all of my life. Even Jon thinks that I have a great family: loving parents, close brother, adorable niece and nephew. Even my best friend doesn't know the truth. Hell, sometimes even *I* forget the truth. We all play our parts so well that it's hard to remember that we aren't the perfect family, that the Tuckers have more than their share of family secrets. And not little ones, like sometimes drinking too much or sleeping around. Big ones, the kind that destroy people.
Those secrets sure destroyed us. The proud Tucker family, reduced to nothing. At school I had to listen to the whispers and see the stares that followed me wherever I went. That's Charlie Tucker, his father lost their entire fortune and then shot himself, his mother left them, his sister is insane . . . God I was glad to get out of there, far away from the prying eyes and the endless whispers. I dragged Taylor across the country to California while I went to CalTech and then Starfleet training. There nobody knew us, no one knew that once we had been the richest kids in town. No one knew about our erratic father who gambled everything we had and lost, who shot himself rather than face what he had done. No one knew about our beautiful mother who had walked out of the house an hour after our father died and never once looked back. No one knew about Taylor's breakdown, how I had found her screaming and crying in the bathroom with a bottle of aspirin and a gun to her head. We could hide all of that in the bright California sunshine, smile and pretend that everything was fine.
And then the day came when Taylor didn't take her pills. An accident, or so she told me. But I think that at least part of her knew what she was doing. She hated the tired, dazed feeling that came with the medicine, and after she missed that first dose, she never wanted to take another. At first I didn't fight her too much, but then she started to scare me. I would sit on her, pin her down, and force the pills into her mouth every morning. I begged and pleaded her to take them only to have her spit them out in my face. What really scared me, though, was when she hid them. She would smile and tell me to leave, and then I'd come home and find her eyes too bright, her smile too wide. She nearly killed herself several times while I was in college, including once when she set fire to the apartment in the middle of the night. We both wound up in the ER that night, telling the police over and over again that it had been an accident, that I couldn't cook and had accidently screwed up the stove. They didn't believe me for a second, but what could they do about it? The doctors and psychiatrists went nuts every time we came in there, but every time we managed to walk out, even though I knew it was just a matter of time before one of us wound up dead.
And then I dragged her to San Francisco. I promised her that it would only be another year, then I wouldn't have to work so hard, I'd get a posting at a construction site and take her with me . . . over and over again the words poured out of me, trying to comfort her. I had to lock her up in that little cubicle. For six months she did not see another person. For six months she did not go outside once. And I still thought that I could take care of us, that everything would be all right, that we could be a happy family . . .
And then came the night that everything fell apart. She screamed and tried to kill herself, tried to kill me. I thought I would die that night. I prayed over and over again to a god I had long ago stopped believing in. The five years I'd been on my own had taught me not to look to anyone else for help.
But help came in the form of my younger brother, Will. Will saw the truth, saw what I was so afraid to see -- that it was over, that Taylor had to go away. And part of me died when I saw her tied to the stretcher as they wheeled her upstairs, her one long scream of agony and fear ringing through the halls.
"Charlie . . . "
And yet life went on, or at least my hollow imitation of it. I went to class, took tests, and worked hard to be a Starfleet officer. The only difference was that now I spent as little time in my own room as possible. Taylor's voice haunted me in there, and I sought comfort at the bar with my friends, drinking and sleeping with practically everyone in my class. Only when I was drunk or completely physically exhausted did I sleep without dreaming. Otherwise that cry echoed through my head all night long until I wanted to shoot myself.
"Charlie . . . "
Of course I never let anyone see that part of me. I played my part perfectly. I was the typical sex-driven twenty-something-year-old guy. I was carefree, cheerful Trip, the happy-go-lucky southern boy who always had a smile and a witty comeback. I lost myself in the part, burying Charlie underneath my carefully created layers of Trip until even I sometimes forgot who I really was. Until sometimes I could forget about Taylor.
"Do you think it's possible to tell a lie so many times you begin to believe it's the truth?"
I almost start laughing from the absurdity of it all. Liana's secret was nothing compared to mine. Who's did hers hurt? No one. But mine . . . it ripped my family apart and sent Will, Taylor, and me spiraling out of control. Will and I work hard to hide it, but sometimes I can see the pain in Will's eyes. Neither one of us mention Taylor or Mom or Dad, but the memories are always there, haunting me, torturing me until I want to scream.
And Taylor? Taylor's gone now . . . The words sound strange. She's gone, she's gone, and she's never coming back. The letter from the hospital is still on my computer. 'Dear Mr. Tucker, We regret to inform you . . . ' The words are so cold and hollow. They don't mention how Taylor must have screamed when I stopped visiting her every week or how pale she must have been when they found her, her body cold and lifeless. I found her like that twice, and twice they brought her back, but this time . . . jumping through a plate glass window and falling six stories is apparently a much more effective way to kill yourself than simple pills or slitting your wrists.
The voices are even worse tonight. They scream and scream and scream, and I haven't even turned off the lights yet to go to bed. That's when they really get loud, once all of the day's distractions are gone. I can hear her scream so clearly, and see her pale body falling, blood dripping from her cuts, her pale hair blown back in the wind. Did she scream as she fell? Or did she have that strange look of serenity that she wore those times I found her nearly dead in the bathroom? Did she plan to do it, or was it a sudden decision? Did she cry? Was she scared? A thousand questions . . . I have to fight the urge to call the hospital and scream them to her doctor to try to drown out the biggest question: Why wasn't I there? How could I have left her?
I slam my head on the desk. I see tears on the smooth surface, but I hadn't noticed that I was crying until this moment. Now I can taste the saltiness and feel the drowning wall of water. The tears fall faster now, and I can't control them. I cry for Taylor, for Dad, for Will . . . but mostly for me, left behind to face all of this. Will has a wife and kids, but I feel so alone. I've never told anyone about Taylor; I hid her very existence perfectly. But I feel the facade breaking, and when I look in the mirror, it is Charlie who stares back and not Trip.
God, I need help, I'm losing my mind, everything's spinning and I can't think anymore I just need help is this what Taylor felt? this dizziness and confusion and drowning and I'm going insane what's wrong with me . . .
"HELP ME!"
I realize I screamed those last words. I blink, feeling like when I was a kid and I would reach the surface after diving into the water and trying to touch the bottom. And suddenly everything is clear and I know what I have to do.
*****
I find myself standing outside of Jon's quarters. I don't really know how I got there, but he's standing in the doorway in his pajamas.
"Trip?" he asks, squinting. "What are you doing here? What time is it?"
"Can I come in?"
"Sure." He leads me inside, turns the lights on halfway, and sits on the edge of the bed. He doesn't say anything, just waits.
I stand by the desk, staring at the models and pictures. All of Jon's dreams are on those shelves. His life seems so simple, so free . . .
I almost chicken out right then, but instead I find myself taking a deep breath.
"Did I ever tell you I had a sister?"
A/N -- I like my stories to have a definitive ending, so here it is. I hoped you liked it. Again, I'm not quite sure why Parts 2 and 3 turned out so slashy. I kind of got off-track from what I intended to write about, but I complain so much about my muse's abandoning me that I guess I shouldn't be too picky about the inspiration she does give me. I know I kind of ignored Trip's feelings for Archer, but I decided in Part 3 that they wouldn't get together because it would ruin their friendship, and Trip realizes that friendship is what he really needs right now. Anyway, what did you think? Please r/r!