Journal of the Genius's Daughter

Stargate Atlantis

By Teenangel

Summary: The words of a certain scientist's daughter about her life on Atlantis.

Note: This is assuming they're never able to contact Earth. Don't expect a concrete plot or explanations; this is a journal so the character wouldn't assume she'd have to put in the duh stuff. Being that I am not a doctor or a medical persons or a mechanic some things may be incorrect, forgive me.

I only mention the year once, unless it changes.

Disclaimer: Me poor college student using time poorly, me broke ug. Don't sue me, waste of time.

October 10th 13:15

I know I haven't written for awhile, Kate. I saw that look you gave me. I have a good reason, and I might be up to talking about it in a month or two. I've done some searching in my self; I imagine it's what Beckett is usually doing to make the pain in his memory fade. But I needed the memory, even if it was abstract and scratched up by years of constant repression. It was false repression, because I was consciously aware of it. It was like covering up a reminder in order to ignore it. It's there, you know it, but you can't see it.

I didn't realize what today was, until I saw Carson light a candle on his desk. (I was in the good old infirmary for a sliced hand—Damn ancient tech and it's sharp angles) He smiled at the little flame and then, as if it were a daily routine, shrugged it off and turned to my injury.

But there was a hurt in his soft blue eyes. They were bruised inside and the tears were being forced out like drops of morning dew. His vision must've been blurry from it, because he squeezed my hand too tight. I jerked it away; little red drops flew into the air and splattered across Carson's white coat and my pants.

I was caught in the color, in the texture, in the dots it made like Morse code. Then iron came to my tongue and I licked my lips. Once drop had strayed. I was horrified. I looked at my pants and imagined the blood seeping through the fabric and to my skin.

Then Carson had my hand again and was cleaning it up. He had his face down. I noticed shadow spots next to the red ones. Oh god. What is one to do with a soft Scottish man! How can I hold an ounce of my selfish guilt before such a person!

"Oh god, Carson,"

He looked up surprised by the trembling voice and the tears in my eyes, but he couldn't make the connection and assumed I was in a mourning state about my hand. (I am not my father when it comes to pain!)

I looked at the flame, "I was there. I was. I was, when—I couldn't."

I couldn't speak or breath and suddenly I was weeping in the shoulder of his coat, brushing my lips against soaking blood drops and finding myself drowning in the taste. And through the whirlwind of crying and remembering and reliving, I divulged the burden of my childhood.

I was only six. I was down in the city's broken halls, trying to find Shemp in a game of hide and seek. It turned out he had run off back to the city center and I was in the middle of a hopeless endeavor. I was not aware when two wraiths infiltrated the city.

I heard a shallow cry and assumed Shemp had gotten stuck. I pattered down the halls. The floors were slick. I found a crack and squeezed through ripping my black pants. My shoes were engulfed by water and I found my eyes consumed by darkness. Stumbling, I moved towards a glow of light and there I witnessed.

I blended into the corner of the room as the air caught in my lungs at the sight of it, him. He and the woman held by the neck in front of him. Wraith. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't scream, nor would I have wanted too. I can't recall the rest in perfect image. He broke her, somehow, and the blood sprayed out and hit my face and dripped into my mouth. Then he went away and made the room explode (part of their failed attempt at synchronized bombs). The floor sunk down. I crawled to her as the wall cracked away and the water rushed over her legs. I think I tried to pull her arm, I think I tried. But she slipped away and faded into the dark, into the black of the ocean. I panicked as death hit me and I ran away through the crack, to a place beneath the city. It was cold and wet, but it washed the blood away. And no one knew I had seen it, no one knew.

I almost told them, almost.

But then I found out why she had been down there—she had been looking for me.

Carson. I'm so sorry for not telling you sooner.

I'm afraid he might feel guilty, the poor sensitive soul, that I had to see it, that I had to keep it a secret, because I blamed myself. But I don't think I can blame anything or anyone else. It is my fault. It will always be my fault that she died, that Carson lost the love of his life, that Kevin grew up without a mother.

Oh, god. What did I do?

I didn't just cause the death of one person but of two.

October 11th 20:50

Carson told his son, and my father, and my mother. Now, the three look at me differently. I am truly not a child to them anymore; they know I can't take life for granted. But I've been avoiding Beckett. Not that that is hard to do, because you usually have to search for him in the first place. But we seem to have a knack for running into each other.

Right now, I just can't stand to see his face.

It' s my fault he became a ghost.