Title: Personal, Loopy Hell
Author: ReeCee
Feedback: If you'd like to give it, then I'd love to get it. lol No pressure.
E-mail: dangerous_angel@2die4.com
Distribution: Here! lol I'm not sure if my stuff is really up to par with everyone else's so I have no idea WHY you'd want to. . . but if you do. Thanks! Just email me and tell me where.
Disclaimer: Do I really need to? . . . (sigh) NOT MINE. Capiche? Besides, JJ Abrams is God to my Alias world.
A/N: I have no idea where I'm going with this anymore. But if you like it, well... thanks, I guess. lol Also thx to anyone who takes the time to R&R (either/or, of course). Again, I'm veto-ing betas, so if you see something hideously wrong, c'est ma faute, entièrement.
He was beginning to think that his life was all one endless loop, his own personal hell. He was always finding himself in a constant, vicious cycle of hope and wanting (I want to be with you), only to be stepped on, snuffed out like a candle's flame (I'm sorry, Vaughn. The information you retrieved was inconclusive – again).
He found himself beginning to expect the failure. To him, it felt more natural and real to assume the worst because that's what usually happened. What could be worse than having to be separated from the one person that means the world to you? He didn't know the answer, and he was almost positive he didn't want to know. He was hurting badly enough as it was.
The times when he found himself alone, his mind drifted to the stories he was told as a child. He could never remember where he heard them from, but one story always surfaced: The story of the levels of hell, how there is more than one. Each level was more intense, hot and fiery than the last. The lowest level was for the insignificant badly behaved people.
//I wonder where CIA field agents go. Maybe we make up a level all our own. Whatever.//
He was reaching his limit. He knew that there was only one thing keeping him sane, aside from the numerous cups of coffee that got him through his most restless nights.
//Coffee.//
More and more, he thinks of that day when she had kissed him in that homey, random café. How he foolishly frequented that same café numerous times after, if only to be closer to her and how they used to be.
He sat up straighter as the smell of freshly brewed (terrible tasting) coffee wafted through his office door.
Rising slowly, he made up his mind to again visit that café (theirs), just to escape.
Then he was leaving, yelling out to his co-workers at Inter-Op that he would be back later. "Takin' my lunch break early, guys. Be back after an hour or more. I haven't decided yet."
He knew no one would contest him. Golden boys got what they wanted at Inter-Op (including their own office, in lieu of a corner and a cubicle).
Driving down the streets of a suburban patch of L.A., he coasted to stop in front of a Tarot card reader. Intrigued, and reminded of his crazy, witch-like Aunt back in France, he parked his car and pulled out his wallet. He walked towards the woman, whose back was facing him.
As he closed the distance, she visibly tensed. Softly, she spoke, "Please, young man. No money. I'll read you for free. You are in great pain and in need of answers."
Vaughn stood with his mouth wide open (cartoons with their jaws dropped to the floor). Shaking himself slightly, he walked around to face her, settling himself on the stool meant for the "victim."
"A simple reading for a simple answer to all your problems. I promise you, you will not experience this deep, underlying form of sadness again. You will understand all with only one card." Silently, she pushed the deck towards him. "Cut them… 9 times." (9, his lucky number). He does as he's told, cutting the deck shakily the 9 times he was told to do. Nodding, the woman picks up the cards and closes her eyes.
She spreads the cards face down on the table between them, inhaling and exhaling slowly. "Pick one," she advised, and cut in abruptly as Vaughn reached for the first card. "FEEL the cards, young man. Do not just pick and choose blindly. Feel them, hover over them till you feel the pull of fate."
Confused, yet somewhat comforted by her words ("feel the pull of fate"), he did just that, hovering… not expecting the force that he felt. Slowly, his hand moved on it's own accord towards the left side of the line of cards, stopping when his hand dropped defiantly on top of one card.
The woman smiled. "Fate favors you to react so strongly to a simple Tarot reading such as this." She pushed his hand away gently, taking the card and looking at it thoughtfully before placing it before him.
Alarmed, Vaughn gazed blankly at the face of "The Devil" card.
"It isn't what you think, young man." She closed her eyes again. "Look at the card. The man and woman symbolize your spirit and body. There are loose chains holding them, hinting that they were placed there by the man and woman themselves. We, ourselves, create our own hell with a false understanding of our spirit and body. To escape our hell, we must rectify our understanding and then adjust our spiritual values so they work effectively to decrease the level of pain and your unsatisfied desires, wants and needs." She opened her eyes to look at him. "Is that clear young man? This down-spiraling abyss you've fallen into can be reversed. It isn't so much that you need a distraction, but merely a dose of reality. Fate favors you, as I've said before. It won't keep you unhappy forever."
Vaughn was thoroughly in awe of this woman. Nodding, he rose to leave her, but she called out to him before he made it to his car. "Coffee's great on a day like today."
Nodding, feeling the déjà vu at the back of his mind, he drove to "Home Style Coffee" a few more blocks down.
He entered, the little bell chiming wildly. He looked up to see Mandy smiling at him, already preparing his regular. Smiling back at her, he made his way to the counter and sat himself on the edge of a stool (teetering).
"You look like you need pie today, Mikey." He laughed softly. "Sure thing, Mandy. Any Sugar Pecan today?" She giggled at the absurdity of the conversation (the same one they have every time he comes). "Always."
"I'll be in my seat," he tells her, and she waves him off like a fly. Smiling, he walks into the back, fiddling with his car keys (house keys, garage keys, office keys, Eric's spare key…). He was so preoccupied; he never noticed her sitting there with her Chai tea and apple pie (topped with Vanilla ice cream). By the time he noticed her, it was too late for him to turn around (to walk away – again). So he continued on his way and slid into the booth, seating himself across from her.
"So…" she starts, "Mandy knows your name too?" He allowed himself to smile at her softly before turning to look out the window. But by then he had realized that whatever insight and relief he had received at the old woman's Tarot reading had dissipated the moment he saw her lips again.
He knew that, if only for a short while longer, his own personal, loopy hell had started up again.
Author: ReeCee
Feedback: If you'd like to give it, then I'd love to get it. lol No pressure.
E-mail: dangerous_angel@2die4.com
Distribution: Here! lol I'm not sure if my stuff is really up to par with everyone else's so I have no idea WHY you'd want to. . . but if you do. Thanks! Just email me and tell me where.
Disclaimer: Do I really need to? . . . (sigh) NOT MINE. Capiche? Besides, JJ Abrams is God to my Alias world.
A/N: I have no idea where I'm going with this anymore. But if you like it, well... thanks, I guess. lol Also thx to anyone who takes the time to R&R (either/or, of course). Again, I'm veto-ing betas, so if you see something hideously wrong, c'est ma faute, entièrement.
He was beginning to think that his life was all one endless loop, his own personal hell. He was always finding himself in a constant, vicious cycle of hope and wanting (I want to be with you), only to be stepped on, snuffed out like a candle's flame (I'm sorry, Vaughn. The information you retrieved was inconclusive – again).
He found himself beginning to expect the failure. To him, it felt more natural and real to assume the worst because that's what usually happened. What could be worse than having to be separated from the one person that means the world to you? He didn't know the answer, and he was almost positive he didn't want to know. He was hurting badly enough as it was.
The times when he found himself alone, his mind drifted to the stories he was told as a child. He could never remember where he heard them from, but one story always surfaced: The story of the levels of hell, how there is more than one. Each level was more intense, hot and fiery than the last. The lowest level was for the insignificant badly behaved people.
//I wonder where CIA field agents go. Maybe we make up a level all our own. Whatever.//
He was reaching his limit. He knew that there was only one thing keeping him sane, aside from the numerous cups of coffee that got him through his most restless nights.
//Coffee.//
More and more, he thinks of that day when she had kissed him in that homey, random café. How he foolishly frequented that same café numerous times after, if only to be closer to her and how they used to be.
He sat up straighter as the smell of freshly brewed (terrible tasting) coffee wafted through his office door.
Rising slowly, he made up his mind to again visit that café (theirs), just to escape.
Then he was leaving, yelling out to his co-workers at Inter-Op that he would be back later. "Takin' my lunch break early, guys. Be back after an hour or more. I haven't decided yet."
He knew no one would contest him. Golden boys got what they wanted at Inter-Op (including their own office, in lieu of a corner and a cubicle).
Driving down the streets of a suburban patch of L.A., he coasted to stop in front of a Tarot card reader. Intrigued, and reminded of his crazy, witch-like Aunt back in France, he parked his car and pulled out his wallet. He walked towards the woman, whose back was facing him.
As he closed the distance, she visibly tensed. Softly, she spoke, "Please, young man. No money. I'll read you for free. You are in great pain and in need of answers."
Vaughn stood with his mouth wide open (cartoons with their jaws dropped to the floor). Shaking himself slightly, he walked around to face her, settling himself on the stool meant for the "victim."
"A simple reading for a simple answer to all your problems. I promise you, you will not experience this deep, underlying form of sadness again. You will understand all with only one card." Silently, she pushed the deck towards him. "Cut them… 9 times." (9, his lucky number). He does as he's told, cutting the deck shakily the 9 times he was told to do. Nodding, the woman picks up the cards and closes her eyes.
She spreads the cards face down on the table between them, inhaling and exhaling slowly. "Pick one," she advised, and cut in abruptly as Vaughn reached for the first card. "FEEL the cards, young man. Do not just pick and choose blindly. Feel them, hover over them till you feel the pull of fate."
Confused, yet somewhat comforted by her words ("feel the pull of fate"), he did just that, hovering… not expecting the force that he felt. Slowly, his hand moved on it's own accord towards the left side of the line of cards, stopping when his hand dropped defiantly on top of one card.
The woman smiled. "Fate favors you to react so strongly to a simple Tarot reading such as this." She pushed his hand away gently, taking the card and looking at it thoughtfully before placing it before him.
Alarmed, Vaughn gazed blankly at the face of "The Devil" card.
"It isn't what you think, young man." She closed her eyes again. "Look at the card. The man and woman symbolize your spirit and body. There are loose chains holding them, hinting that they were placed there by the man and woman themselves. We, ourselves, create our own hell with a false understanding of our spirit and body. To escape our hell, we must rectify our understanding and then adjust our spiritual values so they work effectively to decrease the level of pain and your unsatisfied desires, wants and needs." She opened her eyes to look at him. "Is that clear young man? This down-spiraling abyss you've fallen into can be reversed. It isn't so much that you need a distraction, but merely a dose of reality. Fate favors you, as I've said before. It won't keep you unhappy forever."
Vaughn was thoroughly in awe of this woman. Nodding, he rose to leave her, but she called out to him before he made it to his car. "Coffee's great on a day like today."
Nodding, feeling the déjà vu at the back of his mind, he drove to "Home Style Coffee" a few more blocks down.
He entered, the little bell chiming wildly. He looked up to see Mandy smiling at him, already preparing his regular. Smiling back at her, he made his way to the counter and sat himself on the edge of a stool (teetering).
"You look like you need pie today, Mikey." He laughed softly. "Sure thing, Mandy. Any Sugar Pecan today?" She giggled at the absurdity of the conversation (the same one they have every time he comes). "Always."
"I'll be in my seat," he tells her, and she waves him off like a fly. Smiling, he walks into the back, fiddling with his car keys (house keys, garage keys, office keys, Eric's spare key…). He was so preoccupied; he never noticed her sitting there with her Chai tea and apple pie (topped with Vanilla ice cream). By the time he noticed her, it was too late for him to turn around (to walk away – again). So he continued on his way and slid into the booth, seating himself across from her.
"So…" she starts, "Mandy knows your name too?" He allowed himself to smile at her softly before turning to look out the window. But by then he had realized that whatever insight and relief he had received at the old woman's Tarot reading had dissipated the moment he saw her lips again.
He knew that, if only for a short while longer, his own personal, loopy hell had started up again.