Email: Gypsyroo@aol.com
Disclaimer: The Pretender and its characters aren't mine, never were and never will be.
Note: I have been out of the writing loop for quite a while. I can't write everyday like I did before, and my writing as a result has suffered. School and work is time consuming and I just can't seem to get back into the writing groove where the words flow easily. Anyway, this isn't my best work, but my writing muscles need to be strengthened and this is a little exercise.
Spoilers: None
*BTW, this is Jarod's POV....you should be able to figure out who he's talking about
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Reaching For a Star
Every once in a while, I lurk in the shadows. I watch her through the window. I can't resist. She makes it so easy for me. She never draws a drape or curtain. It is almost like an invitation, like she wants me to see her.
Or, maybe it is simply that she feels safe, tucked away in her little college hidden amongst the woods in such a dangerous world. She, better than anyone knows the dangers. She works for the Centre.
She should know better than to leave windows open and uncovered. I am not a voyeur. I only feel at peace when I watch her sleep. She is lucky that it is only me, and not some psychopath watching her. And there are plenty out there.
I long for the day when I don't have to run away and keep my distance from her. One day, maybe she will stop the chase. Maybe one day, we will both stop pretending. Until then, I will have to admire her from afar.
I lay down on her lawn, as I do on many warm nights. The grass smells crisp and tickles my face. This simple act is so forbidden. I laugh at the thought of what she would do if she saw me casually stargazing in the middle of her yard.
The sky is scattered with random stars, their light billions of years old. Timeless. There are fewer visible stars compared to when my mother used to take me outside at night. "Twinkle, twinkle, little star..." The stars are one memory the Centre can't take from me. Those stars hold my hopes and dreams. But slowly, they are quashed one by one, as they disappear. Now, pollution and smog obscure many of the glittering diamonds as testimony. I tightly hold onto what I have left.
I go inside her house sometimes. Breaking and entering are no challenge for me. I sit in her bedroom. It smells sweet, it smells like her. I watch her sleep on many nights when I know sleep will never come for me. Nightmares plague my unconscious mind. She never knows I was there.
Occasionally, I get really daring. I touch her. I tend to think of it as a form of counting coup. In the Indian languages, it meant "war count". Coup could be counted by approaching an enemy close enough to strike him with something held in the hand, but I would never harm a hair on her pretty little head. Sneaking onto the enemies territory and touching them while they slept was essentially what I was doing. She is my enemy, but I can't forget our past.
Tonight, I brush her soft, sable hair off her face and stroke her smooth cheek. I pray that I can run faster than she can wake up and hold her Smith and Wesson nine millimeter to my temple. That is a risk I am willing to take.
Besides, I don't really think she could ever shoot me. She's fumbled shots in front of others and gotten nailed to the wall for her failed attempts. If she really wanted to shoot me, she would have done it a long time ago. It seems as if she wants me to elude capture, subconsciously, of course. She would never admit her feelings for me to herself. Just the two of us here, I doubt her aim will be any better. Of course, the dark would play a factor and she's never had me in such close range–armed.
A surge of cool air blows through the open window, the lace curtains billowing in the breeze. It is a beautiful spring night. The moon is full and bright and casting an eerie glow inside the bedroom. I don't need to look at the sky to see stars, she is my star.
I pull up the sheet and cover her bare shoulder. I take her hand in mine and stroke it gently with the tips of my fingers. Her grip on my hand tightens. My body stiffens. I don't breathe. But, her breathing remains slow and calm, signaling she is still asleep.
Maybe, one day she will allow me to hold her hand while she is awake and not think of me as an enemy. Maybe one day she will watch the stars with me. My hopes are nothing more than endless maybes, and ifs, but they burn brightly. She is my star. I can see her, but she is just out of my reach.
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(Feedback, pretty please?? Any and all appreciated.)