AN:
Thank you to everyone who's reviewed so far, especially Kara for
coming up with such a beautifully apt title. All feedback is much
appreciated, and if you've read and haven't reviewed yet I'll
leave you to your conscience!
DISCLAIMER: My plans for
abduction were unfortunately foiled by the FBI, so I'm now in lots
of trouble and under constant surveillance, which means that I have
to be careful for a while. One day, they'll be mine.
SUMMARY:
a slightly random chapter. Carter continues to struggle with his
tortured soul...
Carter was dreaming. Streams of seemingly disconnected images washed through his mind.
He walked through a barren wasteland, the bare grey earth dry beneath his feet, stinging the backs of his legs as the wind blew, blowing shreds of white cloud scudding across a gaudy blue sky.
He was in a scrapyard, a dump where the remnants of lives lay in disarray, old sofas, refrigerators, junk. He wondered about the scenes they must have witnessed. A child's car seat caught his attention, and nearby an old-fashioned perambulator. In the distance the door of a solitary portaloo flapped to and fro in the wind.
The piles of rubbish suddenly dissolved, and he was walking through a Congolese forest, the trees towering above him, sealing him in. And then he was walking along a busy Chicago street, and the street was suddenly filled with screaming babies and young children. He stood as the sea of faces rushed past, their wretched cries deafening. He saw George and called his name, but he just looked back at him blankly, showing no signs of recognition, and floated on past. Now there were parents among them, taking them away. The flow thinned out and slowed as more and more of them were taken by the hand or pulled into their parents' loveless arms. He would love them. He could do better than the disinterested forms that carried them off, faceless heads already turned towards where the road faded to nothingness.
Now he and George were the only ones left, and he could see a man coming to take George away. George's father, not him. Perhaps it wasn't George at all; perhaps he wouldn't recognise George if he saw him. George watched Carter as his father carried him away, and Carter tried to stop them but found that he couldn't move. He could hear George whimpering, and made one last effort, but the image was fast fading and he was left looking at the wet marks his own tears had made on the pillow in front of him, his body shrouded in clammy sweat, and found to his surprise that the whimpers came from his own mouth.
He went to the sink and splashed water on his face. Walked to the shower and let the water wash over him, attempting to purge himself of his memories. He lifted his face to the water, turning up the pressure, it washing away his tears faster than he could produce them. Slowly he sank to the floor where he sat in a shaking heap for a while. He had promised himself he wouldn't think about any of it, would shut it away, and yet here he was again, crying like a baby. He slammed his hand against the wall, and curiously watched the beads of scarlet blood as they trickled down the white tiles to mingle with the shower water until they were all but traceless, the rusty rivulets falteringly joining the floods and running down the drain with nothing more than a watery red hue. His lifeblood flowing away. God, he needed to stop being so melodramatic.
He sighed, turned off the water and, grabbing a towel, went to the kitchen for a glass.