"Letters"
by Acey
Disclaimer Couplets: DBZ is not mine. That suits lawyers fine. Though if you take characters I make, You'll find you made a big mistake.
The shoutouts: Kelly Neptunus: You've reviewed every chapter so far. Thanks for all that much-needed feedback. I really do appreciate it.
Martina: I'm glad you like it so far. I'm trying my best with this chapter, so I hope you won't be disappointed.
I don't know exactly what happened to my other reviewers (possibly they saw how fast I was updating, got scared, and ran away, thinking I was possessed with some creativity demon... nope, no creativity demon, sorry, just too much time on my hands), other than Darkness Angel... she's on vacation, and I hope she has a good time. Well, I'll keep updating (I don't get to go on vacation until late July, so I might as well update while I can, before school starts in August. Yep, school starts in August for me, darn it.). And now, chapter six.
Two hours later, the woman was still awake, silent, nervous, watching the glowing crimson numbers change on the digital clock on her nightstand: 1:12, 1:13, 1:14. The older you got, the less you slept, at least that was what the studies showed, but that was the farthest reason for her insomnia now.
She sat up, hearing the familiar sound of her cook's graceless steps upstairs. The cook normally got to bed late, mainly because the only television shows she ever watched (and could get away with watching without a request for her to do something for her mistress-- the truth was, and always had been, that the aging doctor used her cook for odd jobs more often than she'd ever used the maids for the work) were the late-night variety. The woman tried to make sure that the volume of the television set was turned as low as possible, but tonight she would have welcomed the noise. Tonight, of course, the cook had been polite and remembered to keep it down so as to not awaken her.
The door suddenly flooded with light, and she saw the matronly cook standing outside it.
"Cook! I--"
"Couldn't sleep well, Miss? I can get you that insomnia stuff--"
"Quite all right," she said, almost snapping. When she realized the harshness of her tone, she paused and said apologetically, "No, I'm fine, really. I just-- just go on to sleep, Cook."
The cook nodded and treaded to her own room, closing the door behind her. 'Odd old gal,' she thought, and half a smile came to her lips. 'Smart people like that usually are kind of strange, so into their work-- that Gero that wrote her all those letters probably isn't much different. She doesn't like stupid people, that's for sure.' A new thought came to the cook's mind. 'Maybe that man was an old beau of hers.'
She almost laughed at the idea as soon as she thought it. Miss, have a boyfriend? Flat-out crazy. Oh, the cook knew that her employer had been quite a lovely little thing in her younger years-- pretty, if only in a feyish way-- but still, the doctor, having a love interest? Uh-uh. The prim lady was devoted, mind, body, and soul, to her work as the leading geneticist of her time. Nothing that the cook knew of could stand in the Miss' way about that. Nothing.
With the absurd notion of her mistress in love with something other than genes and DNA cells in her mind's eye, the cook left for her own room, smiling to herself. **********************************************************************
As soon as the woman heard the door of the cook's room close, she flicked on the imitation Tiffany lamp that was perched on the nightstand, next to the clock. She blinked in the soft glow of the lamplight for a second or two to get her eyes adjusted, then went for the bookshelf that stood by her bed. Fumbling in the still half-dark through the rows of novels, historical documentaries, and so on (the light bulb in the lamp severely needed changing), she came across the thing she was looking for-- a hardbound azure book with the date 711 on the cover engraved in gold lettering. Her annual for year two of college. Her yearbook.
711-- she had started school early, first arriving at Western Capital College at the age of seventeen, mid-September, 709. It hadn't been until sophomore year that she had met him, which was odd since she had known of him for years, heard people mutter in the hallways after class that between her and Gero, there was no telling who would be giving the valedictorian speech at graduation. She'd ignored that rumor that there could be someone smarter than her in her year, ignored it and worked herself half to death in all subject areas, determined that she, not some Gero nerd, would be the valedictorian of the graduating class of 713.
Funny, she had met him in such ordinary circumstances as well. One of the freshmen had dropped her platter of lunch-- spaghetti and meatballs-- in the middle of the cafeteria, all over her blouse, all over the just-cleaned tile floor, and in front of practically the whole school. The woman (well, back then she was more a career girl than a woman, as Gero had pointed out in one letter), seeing the embarrassment in the poor girl's teary eyes, immediately got out of her chair and went over to help. She was on her knees, armed with a few paper towels, trying to calm the kid down and wipe up the mess at the same time (difficult-- the freshman was practically hysteric with crying), when she turned and saw that someone behind her was handing the girl a handkerchief to dry her eyes.
He was of normal enough height, irises a frozen cerulean blue. His hair was light brown and slightly curly, which when topped off by the circular glasses resting on his nose, gave him the standardized appearance of nerd, Class A.
The woman couldn't have cared less. **********************************************************************
Flipping through the faded annual, she winced as she saw the people she'd wanted to forget-- the cheerleaders, the jocks, the idiots who tried to look on her paper during exams. She saw herself in a few pictures besides the ordinary mug shot-- she'd won some awards and things like that-- and she looked all right in most of them, barring the one taken when she was in lab wearing super-thick goggles and gardening gloves. She saw a few of the people who had made it in their fields, and made it big-- herself, for one, and Doctor Tanner, Mister I'll-contradict-all-scientific-theories-proven-in-the-world-to-be- so himself. Taylor, who'd played the stock market and gotten rich. Rhi Williams, who'd become a champion figure skater.
'Gero, who'd become a mad scientist,' a voice said in her mind when she saw his own cameo a page later.
She ignored it, flipping through again until she found it, the page with the autographs. The woman had only a few, thanks to old memories of how the dumb blondes in junior high had written things like "I really admire you because of your intelligence," and then misspell intelligence. In college, she had stuck to only letting a few people sign, those that could spell correctly and those she appreciated sharing classes (or, in the cases of her roommates, sharing a dormitory). That had left only four signatures: Tanner, two of her roommates (the two that were conscientious about living space and allowed her enough room to put her stuff, occasionally let her use the showers first, and other small things like that that made the days start a lttle cheerier), and him, of course. Gero.
By the end of winter break that sophomore year they had become study partners, neither really needing help but each enjoying the other's company. Their relationship had never gone any further than that of friends, but still, the woman could count on Gero to be there for her.
After college they hadn't seen each other again. The woman had gone on to become the famed geneticist she'd always aspired to be, and Gero--
'had gone on to be a madman passing as a doctor.'
She slammed the book down bitterly, not even looking at the autographs. Her Gero was gone. Her Gero, the only man she'd ever even considered having as a b--
'Stop it,' she said to herself, 'stop it, you fool. He's gone crazy, and he wrote to you because of that, not in spite of that. He wrote to you because you were his friend, and he's so sadistic that he's telling you in every letter about the horrible things he's doing.'
That settled, she turned and put the annual back on the shelf, turning it around so the spine of the book faced backwards so she didn't have to see it, and remember. She absently pulled the bedcovers off and went into bed, mind still alert, lamp light still on.
And the rest of the letter she had stopped reading in her hand as she propped up the pillow to finish it.
Acey: To make up for my lack of updates (well, for me two days is awhile to go without updating-- unlike the people who write maddeningly wonderful stuff and refuse to update except for once a month-- you know who you are),the next chapter will be out shortly. =)
Disclaimer Couplets: DBZ is not mine. That suits lawyers fine. Though if you take characters I make, You'll find you made a big mistake.
The shoutouts: Kelly Neptunus: You've reviewed every chapter so far. Thanks for all that much-needed feedback. I really do appreciate it.
Martina: I'm glad you like it so far. I'm trying my best with this chapter, so I hope you won't be disappointed.
I don't know exactly what happened to my other reviewers (possibly they saw how fast I was updating, got scared, and ran away, thinking I was possessed with some creativity demon... nope, no creativity demon, sorry, just too much time on my hands), other than Darkness Angel... she's on vacation, and I hope she has a good time. Well, I'll keep updating (I don't get to go on vacation until late July, so I might as well update while I can, before school starts in August. Yep, school starts in August for me, darn it.). And now, chapter six.
Two hours later, the woman was still awake, silent, nervous, watching the glowing crimson numbers change on the digital clock on her nightstand: 1:12, 1:13, 1:14. The older you got, the less you slept, at least that was what the studies showed, but that was the farthest reason for her insomnia now.
She sat up, hearing the familiar sound of her cook's graceless steps upstairs. The cook normally got to bed late, mainly because the only television shows she ever watched (and could get away with watching without a request for her to do something for her mistress-- the truth was, and always had been, that the aging doctor used her cook for odd jobs more often than she'd ever used the maids for the work) were the late-night variety. The woman tried to make sure that the volume of the television set was turned as low as possible, but tonight she would have welcomed the noise. Tonight, of course, the cook had been polite and remembered to keep it down so as to not awaken her.
The door suddenly flooded with light, and she saw the matronly cook standing outside it.
"Cook! I--"
"Couldn't sleep well, Miss? I can get you that insomnia stuff--"
"Quite all right," she said, almost snapping. When she realized the harshness of her tone, she paused and said apologetically, "No, I'm fine, really. I just-- just go on to sleep, Cook."
The cook nodded and treaded to her own room, closing the door behind her. 'Odd old gal,' she thought, and half a smile came to her lips. 'Smart people like that usually are kind of strange, so into their work-- that Gero that wrote her all those letters probably isn't much different. She doesn't like stupid people, that's for sure.' A new thought came to the cook's mind. 'Maybe that man was an old beau of hers.'
She almost laughed at the idea as soon as she thought it. Miss, have a boyfriend? Flat-out crazy. Oh, the cook knew that her employer had been quite a lovely little thing in her younger years-- pretty, if only in a feyish way-- but still, the doctor, having a love interest? Uh-uh. The prim lady was devoted, mind, body, and soul, to her work as the leading geneticist of her time. Nothing that the cook knew of could stand in the Miss' way about that. Nothing.
With the absurd notion of her mistress in love with something other than genes and DNA cells in her mind's eye, the cook left for her own room, smiling to herself. **********************************************************************
As soon as the woman heard the door of the cook's room close, she flicked on the imitation Tiffany lamp that was perched on the nightstand, next to the clock. She blinked in the soft glow of the lamplight for a second or two to get her eyes adjusted, then went for the bookshelf that stood by her bed. Fumbling in the still half-dark through the rows of novels, historical documentaries, and so on (the light bulb in the lamp severely needed changing), she came across the thing she was looking for-- a hardbound azure book with the date 711 on the cover engraved in gold lettering. Her annual for year two of college. Her yearbook.
711-- she had started school early, first arriving at Western Capital College at the age of seventeen, mid-September, 709. It hadn't been until sophomore year that she had met him, which was odd since she had known of him for years, heard people mutter in the hallways after class that between her and Gero, there was no telling who would be giving the valedictorian speech at graduation. She'd ignored that rumor that there could be someone smarter than her in her year, ignored it and worked herself half to death in all subject areas, determined that she, not some Gero nerd, would be the valedictorian of the graduating class of 713.
Funny, she had met him in such ordinary circumstances as well. One of the freshmen had dropped her platter of lunch-- spaghetti and meatballs-- in the middle of the cafeteria, all over her blouse, all over the just-cleaned tile floor, and in front of practically the whole school. The woman (well, back then she was more a career girl than a woman, as Gero had pointed out in one letter), seeing the embarrassment in the poor girl's teary eyes, immediately got out of her chair and went over to help. She was on her knees, armed with a few paper towels, trying to calm the kid down and wipe up the mess at the same time (difficult-- the freshman was practically hysteric with crying), when she turned and saw that someone behind her was handing the girl a handkerchief to dry her eyes.
He was of normal enough height, irises a frozen cerulean blue. His hair was light brown and slightly curly, which when topped off by the circular glasses resting on his nose, gave him the standardized appearance of nerd, Class A.
The woman couldn't have cared less. **********************************************************************
Flipping through the faded annual, she winced as she saw the people she'd wanted to forget-- the cheerleaders, the jocks, the idiots who tried to look on her paper during exams. She saw herself in a few pictures besides the ordinary mug shot-- she'd won some awards and things like that-- and she looked all right in most of them, barring the one taken when she was in lab wearing super-thick goggles and gardening gloves. She saw a few of the people who had made it in their fields, and made it big-- herself, for one, and Doctor Tanner, Mister I'll-contradict-all-scientific-theories-proven-in-the-world-to-be- so himself. Taylor, who'd played the stock market and gotten rich. Rhi Williams, who'd become a champion figure skater.
'Gero, who'd become a mad scientist,' a voice said in her mind when she saw his own cameo a page later.
She ignored it, flipping through again until she found it, the page with the autographs. The woman had only a few, thanks to old memories of how the dumb blondes in junior high had written things like "I really admire you because of your intelligence," and then misspell intelligence. In college, she had stuck to only letting a few people sign, those that could spell correctly and those she appreciated sharing classes (or, in the cases of her roommates, sharing a dormitory). That had left only four signatures: Tanner, two of her roommates (the two that were conscientious about living space and allowed her enough room to put her stuff, occasionally let her use the showers first, and other small things like that that made the days start a lttle cheerier), and him, of course. Gero.
By the end of winter break that sophomore year they had become study partners, neither really needing help but each enjoying the other's company. Their relationship had never gone any further than that of friends, but still, the woman could count on Gero to be there for her.
After college they hadn't seen each other again. The woman had gone on to become the famed geneticist she'd always aspired to be, and Gero--
'had gone on to be a madman passing as a doctor.'
She slammed the book down bitterly, not even looking at the autographs. Her Gero was gone. Her Gero, the only man she'd ever even considered having as a b--
'Stop it,' she said to herself, 'stop it, you fool. He's gone crazy, and he wrote to you because of that, not in spite of that. He wrote to you because you were his friend, and he's so sadistic that he's telling you in every letter about the horrible things he's doing.'
That settled, she turned and put the annual back on the shelf, turning it around so the spine of the book faced backwards so she didn't have to see it, and remember. She absently pulled the bedcovers off and went into bed, mind still alert, lamp light still on.
And the rest of the letter she had stopped reading in her hand as she propped up the pillow to finish it.
Acey: To make up for my lack of updates (well, for me two days is awhile to go without updating-- unlike the people who write maddeningly wonderful stuff and refuse to update except for once a month-- you know who you are),the next chapter will be out shortly. =)