Katherine "Kissin' Kate" Barlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ikissdhimbck) wrote2010-08-20 01:24 pm
ikissdhimbck) wrote2010-08-20 01:24 pm
OOM: France, 2005
[first OOM]
It's been some weeks since Kate Barlow arrived in France. Here, she feels like a ghost. With all the papers Jasper had given her had come the alias Jane Smith; a simple, wholly unremarkable name, for a simple, wholly unremarkable woman. She'd stared in wonderment when the government seals changed colors and shone in the light; it was a brand new, bona fide identity, in one little, paperback book.
Sometimes it feels like Kate Barlow is still a million miles away, somewhere at the end of the universe.
Most days, however, she feels all too real. A spectre, unfinished business, trapped between realms.
She wears her memories like a soft fur, her regrets and her heartache shackled to her legs like a shadow. Wherever she moves, however she goes, it is always there. Following.
It's late summer in France, days warm and lazy and perfumed with the bloom of crops, a hundred kinds of wildflowers playing hide-and-seek and peek-a-boo in sprawling fields of tall grass and weeds. When Kate can be charmed from the main estate, she goes on long afternoon walks with Jasper and Alice. Milk thistle and dandelion seeds reach for the crocheted blanket around her shoulders, tugging like the fingers of a child at the hems of her dresses. Sometimes she stops
and sometimes she doesn't.
Alice had been right -- France. Good. Away. -- the open spaces and silent, companionable breezes are a salve to her soul. She's never seen anyplace so rich and fertile, so saliently stunning. More and more she doesn't mind leaving the house, letting her footsteps take her hours and hours farther away from anything she knows and recognizes.
The companionship of Jasper and Alice, something sure and solid in a world of uncertainty, keeps her anchored when she otherwise feels like she might drift away; but sometimes she feels like an intruder in moments that should belong solely to them. Spare luggage. A third wheel. Despite her efforts to forget, and their efforts to help her, being with them stands as a reminder that now she's alone. She misses Doc. She has trouble sleeping at night, in a bed that's miles too big for her and so, so empty. She's constantly surrounded by marvels that she wants to share with him. He's not here, and when that realization settles in her gut it's like losing him all over again.
After so many months of never being apart she feels like an amputee, misplaced in some field hospital, still feeling an arm that isn't there -- still putting weight on a leg that doesn't exist. Her whole reality had been focused on Doc since coming back from Colorado. There he was -- like a ghost, a vision she'd seen so many times in her dreams -- brought back to life. And she wasn't about to let some bounty hunter, some villain, some wound or infection change that.
It's been too long. She doesn't remember what it's like not thinking about him.
She blames herself for falling ill. For the nights she'd end up in her bed, not knowing how she got there. For the days of confusion, of restlessness. How long had she wandered, not sleeping at night, eating little, unable to separate a single thought from a waking dream?
Every day she has the same conversation with herself, whether alone or in the company of her friends. While sleeping or waking, morning, noon, or night, always grinding away on the what ifs. And, on the days when she thinks herself sick, Jasper turns to her with those bottomless eyes, fixing her with a softly scolding look. She shrinks under his glare, and Alice will sigh patiently and direct the conversation to the wildflowers, or the idea of town, or make Kate speak her mind until the melancholy passes.
And on those days, for just one moment -- however brief -- Kate doesn't feel sick with blame.
.
It's been some weeks since Kate Barlow arrived in France. Here, she feels like a ghost. With all the papers Jasper had given her had come the alias Jane Smith; a simple, wholly unremarkable name, for a simple, wholly unremarkable woman. She'd stared in wonderment when the government seals changed colors and shone in the light; it was a brand new, bona fide identity, in one little, paperback book.
Sometimes it feels like Kate Barlow is still a million miles away, somewhere at the end of the universe.
Most days, however, she feels all too real. A spectre, unfinished business, trapped between realms.
She wears her memories like a soft fur, her regrets and her heartache shackled to her legs like a shadow. Wherever she moves, however she goes, it is always there. Following.
It's late summer in France, days warm and lazy and perfumed with the bloom of crops, a hundred kinds of wildflowers playing hide-and-seek and peek-a-boo in sprawling fields of tall grass and weeds. When Kate can be charmed from the main estate, she goes on long afternoon walks with Jasper and Alice. Milk thistle and dandelion seeds reach for the crocheted blanket around her shoulders, tugging like the fingers of a child at the hems of her dresses. Sometimes she stops
Miss Katherine! Miss Katherine!
and sometimes she doesn't.
Alice had been right -- France. Good. Away. -- the open spaces and silent, companionable breezes are a salve to her soul. She's never seen anyplace so rich and fertile, so saliently stunning. More and more she doesn't mind leaving the house, letting her footsteps take her hours and hours farther away from anything she knows and recognizes.
The companionship of Jasper and Alice, something sure and solid in a world of uncertainty, keeps her anchored when she otherwise feels like she might drift away; but sometimes she feels like an intruder in moments that should belong solely to them. Spare luggage. A third wheel. Despite her efforts to forget, and their efforts to help her, being with them stands as a reminder that now she's alone. She misses Doc. She has trouble sleeping at night, in a bed that's miles too big for her and so, so empty. She's constantly surrounded by marvels that she wants to share with him. He's not here, and when that realization settles in her gut it's like losing him all over again.
‘I love him. I love 'im so much, Jasper; I dunno what t'do. I dunno what t'do.’
After so many months of never being apart she feels like an amputee, misplaced in some field hospital, still feeling an arm that isn't there -- still putting weight on a leg that doesn't exist. Her whole reality had been focused on Doc since coming back from Colorado. There he was -- like a ghost, a vision she'd seen so many times in her dreams -- brought back to life. And she wasn't about to let some bounty hunter, some villain, some wound or infection change that.
‘You take me with you, next time. When you go, you take me with you.’
It's been too long. She doesn't remember what it's like not thinking about him.
(I watched his bruises heal, his face turn from yellow and brown to a healthy pink again, the hitch leave his step, the power return to his arm; but the haunted look didn't leave his eyes, the nightmares, the restless nights, not wanting to be in the bar proper, I thought he needed time to heal, I thought he needed space. I didn't want to suffocate him but I couldn't stand to be away; Sally said she'd find him work if he needed it, something easy on his arm, something to get him back on his feet; where did I go wrong? Where did I misstep? Make sure he eats, make sure he sleeps, let him talk about it when he's ready, don't push, don't let him out of your sight, don't crowd him, hold him when he needs you, remember how he takes his coffee, remember how he likes his books, spoil Cortez just a little, make sure Nova gets his share, help him with his straight razor when his hand don't want to be still, tell him you love him, I love you, you'll never see the end of a knife again, so long as I'm around...)
She blames herself for falling ill. For the nights she'd end up in her bed, not knowing how she got there. For the days of confusion, of restlessness. How long had she wandered, not sleeping at night, eating little, unable to separate a single thought from a waking dream?
You didn't pay attention. Something changed, and you weren't paying attention.
Every day she has the same conversation with herself, whether alone or in the company of her friends. While sleeping or waking, morning, noon, or night, always grinding away on the what ifs. And, on the days when she thinks herself sick, Jasper turns to her with those bottomless eyes, fixing her with a softly scolding look. She shrinks under his glare, and Alice will sigh patiently and direct the conversation to the wildflowers, or the idea of town, or make Kate speak her mind until the melancholy passes.
And on those days, for just one moment -- however brief -- Kate doesn't feel sick with blame.
.