Part 4 - Fragile Balance
The silence was deafening and the darkness painful. Sounds from outside were louder than they should have been. The smallest thing sounded like heavy machinery was working right above his head. Birds sounded like chainsaws and voices like jackhammers. The wind whistled through the small windows of the torture chamber and sounded louder than a tornado.
Jack woke suddenly from a vivid nightmare in which the girl, Myra, was slowly killed before his eyes. He lifted his head quickly to find it hadn't been a nightmare at all. The images flashed by him again, reminding him just how real it all had been. Reality was like a swift kick in the head. It ripped at Jack's heart so hard there was almost nothing left of it. The aching was so bad, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was tearing out his insides and slowly killing him.
When Jack opened his eyes, he remembered. The young girl, Myra, was still lying where they'd left her. The leader had slowly killed her - painstakingly slowly. It had lasted days. Jack had been awake the whole time. They hadn't let him rest, or let him have a moments peace since he arrived. Myra had been chained up, whipped, beaten, burned and tortured in every way possible. She had screamed in her endless pain. Her helpless, tortured cries echoed eternally in Jack's mind.
Myra's dead body lay still in the torture chamber. She'd been left there, and had been there for a day now. Her lifeless body was still covered in her blood; her pretty face disfigured by pain and suffering. Bruises and lacerations decorated her body, her eyes opened, seeing the last thing she would ever see. Jack wanted to be in her place. She was young. She shouldn't have had to die. He didn't feel that he should have to die either, but he deserved it more than she did. She was so young.
Jack lifted himself up. He hadn't moved in days; he hadn't been allowed to. The guards had held him in the same position for the days Myra was tortured to death. It had seemed like an eternity to remain in the same position, but lying on the cold ground was no better.
Blinding dizziness instantly filled Jack's head, but he ignored it. It was nothing now, compared to what Myra had had to suffer through. He'd suffered worse, here and elsewhere, but for a young girl like her to have to suffer what she did - it made Jack sick. Not only was it cruel, but it was uncalled for, and unjust. Nothing Myra could have done, nothing in the world, could have been bad enough for her to deserve such a punishment. Nothing.
The cold weather seemed amplified by Jack's hazy perception. Though the temperature was notably low, it felt less than it was to him. His eyes fell on the body of Myra once again, and the sight alone made Jack sick. He swallowed thickly and then vomited painfully at his side. The guards outside the chamber heard Jack's painful retching and opened the door they guarded. Light poured into the room and hit Jack's eyes with the sharpness of a needlepoint. He blinked fervently, squinted and turned his eyes away from the fierce light. He hadn't seen the outside world in weeks. The light seemed foreign.
"You have awoken?" the guard asked the stupidly obvious question, but Jack knew why. These guards were insiders. They worked in closely with Azyalae, the doctor.
"Yes," Jack's voice rasped from his throat as he waited for the guards to take him to Azyalae.
The guards didn't worry about the response as they entered the chamber. They saw the body of Myra, but didn't stop. They knew she was dead. Jack let the guards carry him. He didn't have the strength or stamina to argue with them. His body craved warmth, sustenance and rest. The continuous torture was weakening his immune system and slowing his recovery. The pain seemed to be dragged into endlessness. Everlasting in its evasiveness.
Azyalae frowned in sympathy as her friends, the guards, brought Jack into the barn and left him on the straw bed he now knew so well.
"Are you hurt badly?" Azyalae asked. When given the opportunity to talk to Jack, she liked to take it. So often, he was brought to her unconscious or barely coherent.
"No," Jack replied. He hated to be the beast of someone's burden all the time. Especially Azyalae's. She was not his doctor. She shouldn't have had to be concerned with his injuries as often as she was. He hated it.
"That is untrue," the doctor stated matter-of-factly. Being the doctor, she knew she needn't ask her patients whether or not they were hurt badly - they would not have been sent to her if they weren't - but it felt considerate to ask their own opinion.
Jack's own opinion of his injuries was never worth very much to Azyalae, for he always downgraded his pain, as though trying to make less work for her. She was a doctor - work was her life and the outcome of other people's. It was important for her to know exactly what was going on.
"If you say so," Jack said tonelessly. He hadn't the energy to argue with anyone, least of all Azyalae.
Azyalae saw the emptiness in Jack's eyes, and knew something more than just physical pain was taunting him. "Something more," the doctor thought aloud. "Something troubles you."
"I'm fine," Jack lied.
"Why is it you appear troubled?" Azyalae queried. "Something haunts you, please tell me what it is."
"I'm all right."
"Your eyes say otherwise."
A silence began from then on. The mentioning of eyes traveled Jack's mind and the horrible image of Myra's dead body pushed itself in front of him. Her empty eyes, staring up at him. Begging, one last time, for his help. Begging him for help that he was not permitted to give.
Her eyes were so helpless.
"Her eyes were open," Jack murmured distantly. "They left her eyes open."
"Of whom do you speak?" Azyalae asked in confusion. Was this a memory from his past? A dream? A nightmare?
"Myra. They killed her and left her eyes open."
Azyalae gasped. Myra was dead.
"They killed Myra?" she asked, shocked but knowing she had heard correctly. "Myra is dead."
Myra was Azyalae's younger sister. She had not seen her sister healthy in three years. It was always unpleasant circumstances that brought them together. Azyalae's family had been killed, long ago, but Myra was all she had left. When her young sister came to the barn to be cared for, it was hard for Azyalae to contain her emotions, but she was a doctor, she had to. Hearing the news of Myra's death was far too much for the doctor to handle. Emotions had no barriers now.
Tears began to fall from Azyalae's normally bright, blue eyes. She hung her head low and her long burgundy hair fell around her face. She felt unexplainable anger toward Jack in that moment, but inside, knew it wasn't his fault. He had been in that room with Myra when she died.
He should have helped her! Why didn't he help her?!
Jack watched Azyalae for a moment. His own weakness made the situation seem strange. Difficult to understand. Why was Azyalae so upset? She'd seen people die before and never reacted this way. What was different about Myra's death?
"Azyalae?"
The doctor looked up and saw Jack's concerned face. In that moment, her anger towards him was so strong she felt no sympathy for the fact that he had watched Myra die a slow, painful and undeserved death.
"How could you have not helped her?" she spat the words like dirt. How could he have let her die?
"I - I couldn't," Jack was at a loss for words. He couldn't explain the amazing guilt he felt. Azyalae's obvious anger towards him was making the whole thing feel worse. "They - I - I don't know what to say."
"You should have helped her!" Azyalae screeched and like lightning, jumped from her chair and had her hands around Jack's throat in one flashing instant. The shock of her sister's death was blinding Azyalae; she couldn't feel. "She died for nothing! No one helped her!" the doctor cried, tears streaking from her eyes. "No one tried to save her!"
"I wanted - Azyalae, please.I - I can't breathe."
The doctor's hands were gripped so tightly around Jack's neck, demonstrating strength she never knew she had. The shock was controlling her actions, the pain blinding her from seeing what she was doing. Jack began to feel his lungs burning for air. His eyes gathered stinging tears and his face lost the very small amount of color it had left. "Azyalae." his voice weakly rasped from his throat.
In a flashing moment, Azyalae realised what she was doing. Her consciousness came back to her and she looked down to see her hands gripped tightly around Jack's throat. What was she doing? She immediately released her strong hold and listened to Jack coughing for a few moments as he got his breath back. Azyalae's mouth hung slightly open and trembled as she stared into nothingness, taking on board what she had done as well as the death of her sister. After a moment, she began chewing her bottom lip and tears started falling from her eyes again.
"Oh, dear Jack, I'm so sorry," she cried. "I didn't realize what I was doing to you. I really meant you no harm. I'm very sorry."
Jack slowly regained a steady breathing rhythm and sat up. It took every iota of energy he had, but he needed to sit.
"You knew her, didn't you?" he asked Azyalae. She had to have known Myra to create such a reaction to the shocking news of the young girl's death.
"She was my sister," Azyalae replied, her voice quieter than a whisper. "She was my beautiful little sister. Oh, this is so unjust!"
The doctor's tears overtook her instantly and she fell, sobbing, into Jack's arms. He had little strength to hold her, but she didn't notice, nor did she care.
Jack was the only one who could understand.
After a few short minutes, guards came to return Jack to the torture chamber. His break was short lived.
***
Jack got up and silently left Kayla's quarters. He'd been talking all morning; he had nothing left to say.
Kayla sat motionless in her chair for five minutes of silence. She wasn't sure how to feel, what to think. It was easier to help, now that she had this information, but at the same time, it was harder. How could she approach something like this? What could she possibly say?
Yes, she was a psychologist; she was supposed to know about this sort of thing. She was supposed to have been trained to deal with situations like these, and worse. But no one can ever be taught what to do in a situation like this. No matter how much training, no matter how much practicing - no one can ever be taught how to deal with situations like this.
No one.
Kayla paced her room for a time - she wasn't sure how long. It didn't matter; nothing seemed to help. She needed to find something that would help Colonel O'Neill, but what could possibly help? What could possibly make something like what he felt, better? As yet, Kayla had no answers. There was nothing she could think to do. While her brain pounded in her head, she heard an added pound that wasn't in her head. It was at her door.
"Come in," she called weakly. She felt weak as Hell; there was nothing she could do.
"Kayla, you busy?" Janet asked as she opened the door to her friend's quarters.
"It doesn't matter anyway," Kayla mumbled as a reply.
"What's wrong? Is everything ok?"
"Of course, everything is fine."
"Why don't I believe you?" Janet stated, rather than asked as she sat down alongside her friend on the bed.
"Because I'm not telling the truth," Kayla answered truthfully and sighed.
"I didn't think so. What is it? It must be awful to make you seem so worried. I've never seen you like this."
"That's because I don't think I've ever felt like this. Not since my parents died."
Janet frowned. It would have to be very serious to affect Kayla this badly; whatever 'it' was. Janet didn't even remember Kayla being emotional when her parents had died, and even though she wasn't being emotional now, something was plaguing her. It was written all over her face.
"Kayla, what is it? You have to tell me. I know I haven't seen you in years, but we were best friends. We still are as far as I'm concerned. You've got to tell me what's wrong."
"I would, Janet, you know I would, but I can't." Kayla sighed again and closed her eyes. This shouldn't be plaguing her so much. She didn't even understand why it was, but she couldn't help it. It was getting to her on a deep, personal level. It was beginning to haunt her. I shouldn't have let this happen.
"Is it about Colonel O'Neill? Is that why you can't tell me?"
"I can't tell you, you're right. And yes, that is the reason why."
"If you think you can't tell me because of doctor/patient confidentiality, that could be waived for me. I am his doctor."
"But you're not his psychologist. At the moment, I am, and I can't tell you anything we've discussed. Even though you're his doctor, I still can't tell you. I'm very sorry."
"Don't be sorry, Kayla, I'm just worried about you. I'm just being a friend. I know you can't tell me. It's ok."
Kayla looked up to her friend and forced an appreciative smile. She did appreciate Janet's concern, she really did. It was nice to know Janet cared, but there really was nothing she could do to help. If only there was something.
"Thank you, Janet," Kayla said. "I really appreciate it."
"I know you do," Janet smiled and got up to leave. "Just remember you can talk to me any time. I'll be your psychologist, if you like?"
Both Janet and Kayla chuckled. Laughter was an important thing. It would never fail anyone. Kayla watched her friend leave her room and waited to hear the click the door made when it was closed. After hearing it, Kayla sighed deeply and flopped over her adopted bed - one thought still in her mind.
Laughter would never fail.
@
I sat in the darkness of my quarters, a million thoughts rushing my mind all at once. I had just told someone the one thing I promised myself I wouldn't tell anyone. I was going to keep it to myself. No one needed to know. I could pretend that I was getting better. No one had to see the bigger picture. No one needed to know. I was angry with myself for talking about it - for telling Kayla. I should have kept it to myself. I knew I should have. It's on my mind again, now. It won't go away for days. It always stays. It's always there, in my mind. It's like a tumor and it's killing me.
I pulled out a few loose sheets of paper from my desk as I switched on the lamp. If I couldn't talk about this, I needed to write it down. Keeping this all to myself would work, but it would keep hurting. It was always going to hurt.
Always.
After a small search, I found a working pen and wrote the date on my first sheet of paper. I didn't know how I could start writing about this. It was like writing a book, or an essay, or a mission report. Even mission reports were hard sometimes. This was so much harder. So much harder. I allowed myself some thinking time - time to gather my thoughts. It took a long time. I had so many thoughts, and they were so varied, so widely spread through my head. I found something relevant first. Something I tried not to think about, but still did. Something that plagued me.but everything plagued me. Everything I remember, it all plagues me. That's where I began.
Every thought in my mind haunts me with every minute, of every day. My sleep - when I get it - is haunted by my memories. Ghosts of my past, scream in my head, taunting my thoughts - constantly reminding me of their everlasting presence. They're a tumor. The tumor is killing me. Everyone thinks I hold onto everything and remember it. That I make things worse for myself by not trying to move on. What they don't realize is that my memories won't let me. I try - I try so hard - to forget everything that's happened. Maybe I don't even try to forget, but I try to move on. I try to get on with now, and leave the past where it should be. I try so hard to be here, in the now. I try so goddamned hard, but I just can't. I'm weak. I thought I could be strong, I thought I was strong enough to move on from this. I thought I could get past it and make the most of now. I thought I could. I thought I could do so much, but I can't. But the memories won't leave me alone. They won't leave me alone! They're everywhere I go! They won't leave me alone! They just won't leave me!
The pen slipped out of my hand, and I raised my hands to my face. I couldn't get away from it all, even when I tried to write it down and get it out of my head. While writing, my memories still got the better of me. Why was I letting this happen?
I shouldn't be letting memories control me. I shouldn't be letting any of this happen, but I can't stop it. I can't anymore. I thought I was strong, one time. I don't think I am though. I'm weak. God, this shouldn't be happening! I shouldn't be acting like this! I shouldn't be letting this happen to me!
//'All the ones around you
Will be there until the end
They care that you return
For you are a valued friend
Sight should not be lost
On something far away
The people that love you
Will never make you pay'//
I got up with the piece of paper crunched in my hand. I paced my room, back and forth in front of my door. Finally, I let the paper fall to the ground by the door, before I left my quarters. I couldn't stand being in there anymore. I felt restricted, closed in. It was just like the torture chamber on P4C 237. Just like it. I hated it.
@
Sam was beginning to feel guilty again. She hadn't seen her CO in days, and she wondered if it was because she had hounded him so much about wanting to help. Maybe it was. Maybe she was just being paranoid. Maybe she wasn't.
As she passed the closed door of his quarters, she felt compelled to do something. Apologize? Stop and say hello? Offer help once again? What? She didn't know why she had to stop, but she did. Knocking lightly on the closed door, she heard no noise inside the room, nor did the door open. After waiting nearly five minutes in front of the closed door, she turned the handle, to find that the door was unlocked. Suddenly her conscience spoke to her. What if he's in there and wants to be left alone? She asked herself. What if he's asleep? Trying to find peace?
"Colonel?" Sam said quietly as she slowly opened the door and looked inside the dark room. "Sir? It's Major Carter," she continued to whisper and then stepped into the room.
Flipping the light switch answered Sam's questions; Colonel O'Neill wasn't there. Although she felt it was wrong for her to be in her CO's quarters when he wasn't there and could be back any minute, she stayed. She'd never really looked closely at her CO's living quarters. Like all quarters, it was a bland room. Hers were the same. There was very little anyone could do to make them look more inviting than a prison cell. Little personal touches was all anyone could do.
Colonel O'Neill didn't stay on the base often, but he had some personal items around. A small photo of his deceased son, Charlie, was face down on his desk and another photo of SG-1 was framed on his bedside table. It had been taken at a Christmas party from the previous year. They were all standing close together, wearing various decorative items to symbolize the festive season, and laughing. They all looked so happy. So carefree.
They were happy.
A smile crept to Sam's face as she remembered the night. It had been fun. As she looked away from the photo and happy memories, Sam saw a scrunched up piece of paper on the floor by the door. Knowing she shouldn't look, but wanting to, she allowed her curiosity to get the better of her and she picked up the paper. Folding it out, she saw her CO's handwriting on it. Was this personal? Should she be looking at this? Of course I shouldn't be, she answered her own questions. I shouldn't even be in his quarters, let alone reading things he's written. Although she knew it was wrong, she couldn't stop her eyes from falling on her Colonel's writing, and reading it.
Sam felt her mouth open in disbelief as she read her CO's words. How could he keep all of this to himself? She thought. How could he believe those things about himself?
Sam shook her head and pushed the piece of paper into her pocket. He was wrong for thinking those things. No one thought of him the way he wrote. No one thought that. They might guess that he was holding on to some things, but they didn't think he tried to make things worse for himself. They didn't think that at all. Quickly leaving her Colonel's quarters with the crumpled piece of paper in her pocket, Sam headed to her own quarters. She needed to decide what to do about what she'd read. What more could she do? Hadn't she done enough already just by interfering and going into his quarters the way she had? What else could she do?
The silence was deafening and the darkness painful. Sounds from outside were louder than they should have been. The smallest thing sounded like heavy machinery was working right above his head. Birds sounded like chainsaws and voices like jackhammers. The wind whistled through the small windows of the torture chamber and sounded louder than a tornado.
Jack woke suddenly from a vivid nightmare in which the girl, Myra, was slowly killed before his eyes. He lifted his head quickly to find it hadn't been a nightmare at all. The images flashed by him again, reminding him just how real it all had been. Reality was like a swift kick in the head. It ripped at Jack's heart so hard there was almost nothing left of it. The aching was so bad, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was tearing out his insides and slowly killing him.
When Jack opened his eyes, he remembered. The young girl, Myra, was still lying where they'd left her. The leader had slowly killed her - painstakingly slowly. It had lasted days. Jack had been awake the whole time. They hadn't let him rest, or let him have a moments peace since he arrived. Myra had been chained up, whipped, beaten, burned and tortured in every way possible. She had screamed in her endless pain. Her helpless, tortured cries echoed eternally in Jack's mind.
Myra's dead body lay still in the torture chamber. She'd been left there, and had been there for a day now. Her lifeless body was still covered in her blood; her pretty face disfigured by pain and suffering. Bruises and lacerations decorated her body, her eyes opened, seeing the last thing she would ever see. Jack wanted to be in her place. She was young. She shouldn't have had to die. He didn't feel that he should have to die either, but he deserved it more than she did. She was so young.
Jack lifted himself up. He hadn't moved in days; he hadn't been allowed to. The guards had held him in the same position for the days Myra was tortured to death. It had seemed like an eternity to remain in the same position, but lying on the cold ground was no better.
Blinding dizziness instantly filled Jack's head, but he ignored it. It was nothing now, compared to what Myra had had to suffer through. He'd suffered worse, here and elsewhere, but for a young girl like her to have to suffer what she did - it made Jack sick. Not only was it cruel, but it was uncalled for, and unjust. Nothing Myra could have done, nothing in the world, could have been bad enough for her to deserve such a punishment. Nothing.
The cold weather seemed amplified by Jack's hazy perception. Though the temperature was notably low, it felt less than it was to him. His eyes fell on the body of Myra once again, and the sight alone made Jack sick. He swallowed thickly and then vomited painfully at his side. The guards outside the chamber heard Jack's painful retching and opened the door they guarded. Light poured into the room and hit Jack's eyes with the sharpness of a needlepoint. He blinked fervently, squinted and turned his eyes away from the fierce light. He hadn't seen the outside world in weeks. The light seemed foreign.
"You have awoken?" the guard asked the stupidly obvious question, but Jack knew why. These guards were insiders. They worked in closely with Azyalae, the doctor.
"Yes," Jack's voice rasped from his throat as he waited for the guards to take him to Azyalae.
The guards didn't worry about the response as they entered the chamber. They saw the body of Myra, but didn't stop. They knew she was dead. Jack let the guards carry him. He didn't have the strength or stamina to argue with them. His body craved warmth, sustenance and rest. The continuous torture was weakening his immune system and slowing his recovery. The pain seemed to be dragged into endlessness. Everlasting in its evasiveness.
Azyalae frowned in sympathy as her friends, the guards, brought Jack into the barn and left him on the straw bed he now knew so well.
"Are you hurt badly?" Azyalae asked. When given the opportunity to talk to Jack, she liked to take it. So often, he was brought to her unconscious or barely coherent.
"No," Jack replied. He hated to be the beast of someone's burden all the time. Especially Azyalae's. She was not his doctor. She shouldn't have had to be concerned with his injuries as often as she was. He hated it.
"That is untrue," the doctor stated matter-of-factly. Being the doctor, she knew she needn't ask her patients whether or not they were hurt badly - they would not have been sent to her if they weren't - but it felt considerate to ask their own opinion.
Jack's own opinion of his injuries was never worth very much to Azyalae, for he always downgraded his pain, as though trying to make less work for her. She was a doctor - work was her life and the outcome of other people's. It was important for her to know exactly what was going on.
"If you say so," Jack said tonelessly. He hadn't the energy to argue with anyone, least of all Azyalae.
Azyalae saw the emptiness in Jack's eyes, and knew something more than just physical pain was taunting him. "Something more," the doctor thought aloud. "Something troubles you."
"I'm fine," Jack lied.
"Why is it you appear troubled?" Azyalae queried. "Something haunts you, please tell me what it is."
"I'm all right."
"Your eyes say otherwise."
A silence began from then on. The mentioning of eyes traveled Jack's mind and the horrible image of Myra's dead body pushed itself in front of him. Her empty eyes, staring up at him. Begging, one last time, for his help. Begging him for help that he was not permitted to give.
Her eyes were so helpless.
"Her eyes were open," Jack murmured distantly. "They left her eyes open."
"Of whom do you speak?" Azyalae asked in confusion. Was this a memory from his past? A dream? A nightmare?
"Myra. They killed her and left her eyes open."
Azyalae gasped. Myra was dead.
"They killed Myra?" she asked, shocked but knowing she had heard correctly. "Myra is dead."
Myra was Azyalae's younger sister. She had not seen her sister healthy in three years. It was always unpleasant circumstances that brought them together. Azyalae's family had been killed, long ago, but Myra was all she had left. When her young sister came to the barn to be cared for, it was hard for Azyalae to contain her emotions, but she was a doctor, she had to. Hearing the news of Myra's death was far too much for the doctor to handle. Emotions had no barriers now.
Tears began to fall from Azyalae's normally bright, blue eyes. She hung her head low and her long burgundy hair fell around her face. She felt unexplainable anger toward Jack in that moment, but inside, knew it wasn't his fault. He had been in that room with Myra when she died.
He should have helped her! Why didn't he help her?!
Jack watched Azyalae for a moment. His own weakness made the situation seem strange. Difficult to understand. Why was Azyalae so upset? She'd seen people die before and never reacted this way. What was different about Myra's death?
"Azyalae?"
The doctor looked up and saw Jack's concerned face. In that moment, her anger towards him was so strong she felt no sympathy for the fact that he had watched Myra die a slow, painful and undeserved death.
"How could you have not helped her?" she spat the words like dirt. How could he have let her die?
"I - I couldn't," Jack was at a loss for words. He couldn't explain the amazing guilt he felt. Azyalae's obvious anger towards him was making the whole thing feel worse. "They - I - I don't know what to say."
"You should have helped her!" Azyalae screeched and like lightning, jumped from her chair and had her hands around Jack's throat in one flashing instant. The shock of her sister's death was blinding Azyalae; she couldn't feel. "She died for nothing! No one helped her!" the doctor cried, tears streaking from her eyes. "No one tried to save her!"
"I wanted - Azyalae, please.I - I can't breathe."
The doctor's hands were gripped so tightly around Jack's neck, demonstrating strength she never knew she had. The shock was controlling her actions, the pain blinding her from seeing what she was doing. Jack began to feel his lungs burning for air. His eyes gathered stinging tears and his face lost the very small amount of color it had left. "Azyalae." his voice weakly rasped from his throat.
In a flashing moment, Azyalae realised what she was doing. Her consciousness came back to her and she looked down to see her hands gripped tightly around Jack's throat. What was she doing? She immediately released her strong hold and listened to Jack coughing for a few moments as he got his breath back. Azyalae's mouth hung slightly open and trembled as she stared into nothingness, taking on board what she had done as well as the death of her sister. After a moment, she began chewing her bottom lip and tears started falling from her eyes again.
"Oh, dear Jack, I'm so sorry," she cried. "I didn't realize what I was doing to you. I really meant you no harm. I'm very sorry."
Jack slowly regained a steady breathing rhythm and sat up. It took every iota of energy he had, but he needed to sit.
"You knew her, didn't you?" he asked Azyalae. She had to have known Myra to create such a reaction to the shocking news of the young girl's death.
"She was my sister," Azyalae replied, her voice quieter than a whisper. "She was my beautiful little sister. Oh, this is so unjust!"
The doctor's tears overtook her instantly and she fell, sobbing, into Jack's arms. He had little strength to hold her, but she didn't notice, nor did she care.
Jack was the only one who could understand.
After a few short minutes, guards came to return Jack to the torture chamber. His break was short lived.
***
Jack got up and silently left Kayla's quarters. He'd been talking all morning; he had nothing left to say.
Kayla sat motionless in her chair for five minutes of silence. She wasn't sure how to feel, what to think. It was easier to help, now that she had this information, but at the same time, it was harder. How could she approach something like this? What could she possibly say?
Yes, she was a psychologist; she was supposed to know about this sort of thing. She was supposed to have been trained to deal with situations like these, and worse. But no one can ever be taught what to do in a situation like this. No matter how much training, no matter how much practicing - no one can ever be taught how to deal with situations like this.
No one.
Kayla paced her room for a time - she wasn't sure how long. It didn't matter; nothing seemed to help. She needed to find something that would help Colonel O'Neill, but what could possibly help? What could possibly make something like what he felt, better? As yet, Kayla had no answers. There was nothing she could think to do. While her brain pounded in her head, she heard an added pound that wasn't in her head. It was at her door.
"Come in," she called weakly. She felt weak as Hell; there was nothing she could do.
"Kayla, you busy?" Janet asked as she opened the door to her friend's quarters.
"It doesn't matter anyway," Kayla mumbled as a reply.
"What's wrong? Is everything ok?"
"Of course, everything is fine."
"Why don't I believe you?" Janet stated, rather than asked as she sat down alongside her friend on the bed.
"Because I'm not telling the truth," Kayla answered truthfully and sighed.
"I didn't think so. What is it? It must be awful to make you seem so worried. I've never seen you like this."
"That's because I don't think I've ever felt like this. Not since my parents died."
Janet frowned. It would have to be very serious to affect Kayla this badly; whatever 'it' was. Janet didn't even remember Kayla being emotional when her parents had died, and even though she wasn't being emotional now, something was plaguing her. It was written all over her face.
"Kayla, what is it? You have to tell me. I know I haven't seen you in years, but we were best friends. We still are as far as I'm concerned. You've got to tell me what's wrong."
"I would, Janet, you know I would, but I can't." Kayla sighed again and closed her eyes. This shouldn't be plaguing her so much. She didn't even understand why it was, but she couldn't help it. It was getting to her on a deep, personal level. It was beginning to haunt her. I shouldn't have let this happen.
"Is it about Colonel O'Neill? Is that why you can't tell me?"
"I can't tell you, you're right. And yes, that is the reason why."
"If you think you can't tell me because of doctor/patient confidentiality, that could be waived for me. I am his doctor."
"But you're not his psychologist. At the moment, I am, and I can't tell you anything we've discussed. Even though you're his doctor, I still can't tell you. I'm very sorry."
"Don't be sorry, Kayla, I'm just worried about you. I'm just being a friend. I know you can't tell me. It's ok."
Kayla looked up to her friend and forced an appreciative smile. She did appreciate Janet's concern, she really did. It was nice to know Janet cared, but there really was nothing she could do to help. If only there was something.
"Thank you, Janet," Kayla said. "I really appreciate it."
"I know you do," Janet smiled and got up to leave. "Just remember you can talk to me any time. I'll be your psychologist, if you like?"
Both Janet and Kayla chuckled. Laughter was an important thing. It would never fail anyone. Kayla watched her friend leave her room and waited to hear the click the door made when it was closed. After hearing it, Kayla sighed deeply and flopped over her adopted bed - one thought still in her mind.
Laughter would never fail.
@
I sat in the darkness of my quarters, a million thoughts rushing my mind all at once. I had just told someone the one thing I promised myself I wouldn't tell anyone. I was going to keep it to myself. No one needed to know. I could pretend that I was getting better. No one had to see the bigger picture. No one needed to know. I was angry with myself for talking about it - for telling Kayla. I should have kept it to myself. I knew I should have. It's on my mind again, now. It won't go away for days. It always stays. It's always there, in my mind. It's like a tumor and it's killing me.
I pulled out a few loose sheets of paper from my desk as I switched on the lamp. If I couldn't talk about this, I needed to write it down. Keeping this all to myself would work, but it would keep hurting. It was always going to hurt.
Always.
After a small search, I found a working pen and wrote the date on my first sheet of paper. I didn't know how I could start writing about this. It was like writing a book, or an essay, or a mission report. Even mission reports were hard sometimes. This was so much harder. So much harder. I allowed myself some thinking time - time to gather my thoughts. It took a long time. I had so many thoughts, and they were so varied, so widely spread through my head. I found something relevant first. Something I tried not to think about, but still did. Something that plagued me.but everything plagued me. Everything I remember, it all plagues me. That's where I began.
Every thought in my mind haunts me with every minute, of every day. My sleep - when I get it - is haunted by my memories. Ghosts of my past, scream in my head, taunting my thoughts - constantly reminding me of their everlasting presence. They're a tumor. The tumor is killing me. Everyone thinks I hold onto everything and remember it. That I make things worse for myself by not trying to move on. What they don't realize is that my memories won't let me. I try - I try so hard - to forget everything that's happened. Maybe I don't even try to forget, but I try to move on. I try to get on with now, and leave the past where it should be. I try so hard to be here, in the now. I try so goddamned hard, but I just can't. I'm weak. I thought I could be strong, I thought I was strong enough to move on from this. I thought I could get past it and make the most of now. I thought I could. I thought I could do so much, but I can't. But the memories won't leave me alone. They won't leave me alone! They're everywhere I go! They won't leave me alone! They just won't leave me!
The pen slipped out of my hand, and I raised my hands to my face. I couldn't get away from it all, even when I tried to write it down and get it out of my head. While writing, my memories still got the better of me. Why was I letting this happen?
I shouldn't be letting memories control me. I shouldn't be letting any of this happen, but I can't stop it. I can't anymore. I thought I was strong, one time. I don't think I am though. I'm weak. God, this shouldn't be happening! I shouldn't be acting like this! I shouldn't be letting this happen to me!
//'All the ones around you
Will be there until the end
They care that you return
For you are a valued friend
Sight should not be lost
On something far away
The people that love you
Will never make you pay'//
I got up with the piece of paper crunched in my hand. I paced my room, back and forth in front of my door. Finally, I let the paper fall to the ground by the door, before I left my quarters. I couldn't stand being in there anymore. I felt restricted, closed in. It was just like the torture chamber on P4C 237. Just like it. I hated it.
@
Sam was beginning to feel guilty again. She hadn't seen her CO in days, and she wondered if it was because she had hounded him so much about wanting to help. Maybe it was. Maybe she was just being paranoid. Maybe she wasn't.
As she passed the closed door of his quarters, she felt compelled to do something. Apologize? Stop and say hello? Offer help once again? What? She didn't know why she had to stop, but she did. Knocking lightly on the closed door, she heard no noise inside the room, nor did the door open. After waiting nearly five minutes in front of the closed door, she turned the handle, to find that the door was unlocked. Suddenly her conscience spoke to her. What if he's in there and wants to be left alone? She asked herself. What if he's asleep? Trying to find peace?
"Colonel?" Sam said quietly as she slowly opened the door and looked inside the dark room. "Sir? It's Major Carter," she continued to whisper and then stepped into the room.
Flipping the light switch answered Sam's questions; Colonel O'Neill wasn't there. Although she felt it was wrong for her to be in her CO's quarters when he wasn't there and could be back any minute, she stayed. She'd never really looked closely at her CO's living quarters. Like all quarters, it was a bland room. Hers were the same. There was very little anyone could do to make them look more inviting than a prison cell. Little personal touches was all anyone could do.
Colonel O'Neill didn't stay on the base often, but he had some personal items around. A small photo of his deceased son, Charlie, was face down on his desk and another photo of SG-1 was framed on his bedside table. It had been taken at a Christmas party from the previous year. They were all standing close together, wearing various decorative items to symbolize the festive season, and laughing. They all looked so happy. So carefree.
They were happy.
A smile crept to Sam's face as she remembered the night. It had been fun. As she looked away from the photo and happy memories, Sam saw a scrunched up piece of paper on the floor by the door. Knowing she shouldn't look, but wanting to, she allowed her curiosity to get the better of her and she picked up the paper. Folding it out, she saw her CO's handwriting on it. Was this personal? Should she be looking at this? Of course I shouldn't be, she answered her own questions. I shouldn't even be in his quarters, let alone reading things he's written. Although she knew it was wrong, she couldn't stop her eyes from falling on her Colonel's writing, and reading it.
Sam felt her mouth open in disbelief as she read her CO's words. How could he keep all of this to himself? She thought. How could he believe those things about himself?
Sam shook her head and pushed the piece of paper into her pocket. He was wrong for thinking those things. No one thought of him the way he wrote. No one thought that. They might guess that he was holding on to some things, but they didn't think he tried to make things worse for himself. They didn't think that at all. Quickly leaving her Colonel's quarters with the crumpled piece of paper in her pocket, Sam headed to her own quarters. She needed to decide what to do about what she'd read. What more could she do? Hadn't she done enough already just by interfering and going into his quarters the way she had? What else could she do?
