I spoke with Sue recently about writing another holiday SLA story and
figured, what the hay. Here's the first part for your enjoyment and I hope
to have it completed by Christmas. Comments appreciated as always.
Thanks
Rob
"Be careful what you wish for, you might just get it," Meg said as she looked out the window at the gentle sloped roofs of the city. Every building on the descending street was painstakingly decorated with SLA-mas garlands and winking lights in the shapes of smiling elves and candy canes. There was scarcely a shadow out there and the narrow street glowed like a flickering fire in the failing light. Her stomach knotted with disgust and she turned away to flop onto her bed. God, it was so fake that she could spit.
"The problem is that you people are trying too damn hard to be festive," she said to herself, listening to her voice bounce back from the high ceiling.
She felt empty. Unenthused, irritable, and generally unhappy. Meg knew that she had once wished and prayed to be here, but now that she was, the boredom had set in. The boredom was complete and irresistible and felt like a dark blanket that had fallen over everything. She let out her breath in a hiss like a deflating balloon as she traced the patterns on the sculpted stucco ceiling.
"New Paris. Big fucking whoop," she added.
Oh yeah, New Paris. A year ago, she would have done anything to get here. Anything to get away from that damn polar science station and back into civilization, but the wish had come true and the reality of it wasn't nearly as thrilling as she had imagined. The shopping malls were still big and bright, she was finally round people her own age, and there wasn't a heavy coat anywhere on the planet. But it wasn't enough.
She missed her friends, Cog and Shimmer, who she hadn't seen in almost eight months. Of course Meg still got the occasional short letter, but it wasn't the same as seeing them every day. Besides, the Wraith hated to write and kept the letters so short that they were more of notes instead of correspondence and Cog's scribblings were about as intelligible as a five year old. Nevertheless, they were the only ones who had ever really cared about her and she missed them every day.
Of course her mother had been thrilled to have her come and stay at the "summer" villa (their ONLY villa) and couldn't wait to introduce her to her friends who had daughters about her age. It was more of a society image thing than any real concern and she knew it, but went along and put up with it as best she could. God, these kids were shallow, boring, and so far removed from Meg's views that she could barely stand them and remain civil. If she got one more fake "air kiss" on the cheek, she swore she'd.
.oh yeah, there was that swearing thing too. At "Station Bravo-Echo-Niner", you could say anything you wanted as long as you did your job. The crew of workers and scientists were rugged and cursed enough to make a Stormer blush, but they were genuine, good people and said what they meant. She picked up quite a vocabulary from them and giggled when she thought about the first time she let tear in front of her Mother. The new chef had prepared an exotic Ebon dish for a party that happened to taste just like pig shit and Meg voiced the comparison in true arctic roughneck fashion. Mom was appalled and responded by revoking her country club privileges for a full two weeks and making numerous apologies on her daughter's behalf. Meg giggled again at that -as if she cared about some country club anyway or what any of these golden kids thought anyway.
The best thing about being in the middle of nowhere is you could say what you thought without getting in trouble but this was different because it was a "civilized" world. Just like the lights and tinsel on the streets or the fifteen-foot SLA-mas tree in the living area, everything was about appearance and not substance. It's hard to accept pretty images and pretty media hype as reality when you've seen people die. Too many of these people took everything, including life, for granted.
The stay at the arctic station hadn't been all that bad, but it was the end of her stay that still haunted her. After three long months in therapy, what had to be a couple hundred hours of support group discussions, and careful medication, she had come through it with what they said were flying colors. After all, she was a lot better than some of the people that made it even though the sound of bells still bothered her. She was also nearly over fear of the fat man in the red suit and his gangly little minions, but sometimes her mind went to that dark place again. On the good side, the nightmares had ended months ago but of course it wasn't SLA-mas time then either.
Bile splashed up her throat and Meg rolled over onto her stomach to break her mind off its path and looked at her collection of dolls. Most of the ones that had been destroyed in the "incident" had been replaced, although she had far less interest in them now. She had grown up a lot very quickly in the past year and even though she was only coming up on her eighteenth birthday, it felt like she was really approaching thirty. At least she didn' t have gray hair yet, but then Mom -sorry "MOTHER" could have that fixed just like she did her own. It's all about appearance anyway, not about what' s inside.
There was a gentle tap at the door and Meg sat up and smoothed down her skirt. As her mother said, a "lady" doesn't roll about or laze on a bed. Meg wanted to tell her that a "lady" that doesn't is either
1) a complete fucked-in-the-head-prude,
2) gravely under informed about the joys of sex, or
3) a committed virgin for life which is the same as #1.
Not that she expected her Mom and Dad to ever have done the nasty (not that she wanted to think about it either), but neither seemed to be the kind of person to enjoy a fiery relationship. For that matter, she wondered if there were ANY fiery men in New Paris since she'd been restricted to a particular social circles. Once the latest "house arrest" imposed by her Mother wore off, she'd have to find out on her own."Come in," she said in her best polite voice, sitting with her hands in her lap.
The white panel door swung open quietly at Marie's touch. She was the head maid and best surveillance tool ever bought by her Mom to keep her in line and Meg was sure that the bitch had turned her in on more than one occasion. After all, the woman had no life and seemed to really enjoy shadowing her for "her own good."
"Miss," Marie said, looking absolutely matriarchal with her dark eyes and close cropped bun of dark hair. "A package has arrived for you."
Meg hopped up with excitement and followed. She loved gifts, but would have been happier with a letter from Cog or maybe Shimmer instead of some distant corporate associate of her parent's trying to introduce another suitor. Come to think of it, her friends wrote to her more than her Father did but that was understandable.
"What is it Marie?" she asked, but the older woman just turned and walked out. "Marie? What is it?" she repeated, following closely on the woman's heels. She tried in vain to walk beside her, but he woman's girth and maneuvering made it impossible.
"A SLA-mas present I would presume, dear," she said without looking back. Meg thought it was probably difficult to turn that bulk around anyway, so she didn't mind talking to the back of her head. She was used to it anyway. "It is the season, you know."
Meg nodded, not appreciating the tone of the maid's voice but at least it resembled a conversation. The phone privileges had been cut off three days ago due to another unrelated cultural "faux pas" and left her completely sequestered from the world. Thanks again to the maid and her eavesdropping, she thought. Meg was beginning to suspect that the black and white clad bitch was a minion from Hell.
"Has Mom,-I mean Mother called?" she asked. Her Mother had left for Mort on business and she was supposed to back in time for SLA-mas day. Meg prayed that she wouldn't have to have to spend SLA-mas alone with Marie and Archibald, but she knew that prayers don't always come true. She decided to glance around for the pedigree DAC, but his highness was nowhere in sight. He was off probably humping one of Mother's antique table legs again, as befits royalty and Meg shook her head. At least someone was having some fun around here.
"Yes, she called several hours ago," Marie said in a matter-of-fact tone, again without looking. "She won't be able to return to New Paris until after the holidays, probably after new years day."
Meg stopped and stared after the departing woman, feeling both stunned and hurt. Why didn't Marie tell her that earlier? Why didn't Mom tell her herself?
"She sends her regards," the maid continued as she waddled around the corner without looking back.
The emptiness that she had felt earlier grew stronger and she felt the hope drain out of her. She had been abandoned again, but instead of the desolation of Mort's arctic pole, she was abandoned in a New Paris villa. This time she didn't have family OR friends and she felt a warm spark of tears behind her eyes. The rich wood paneling of the corridor and elegant paintings blurred under the moist wave of heat and she stifled a sob.
"Are you coming dear?" Marie's voice echoed from somewhere around the corner and it was apparent that she had stopped. There was no way Meg would give her the satisfaction of seeing her cry, so she swallowed hard and took in a deep breath before answering.
"Coming," she answered in her most cheerful fake voice, and then dropped her tone to a whisper. "You fucking bitch."
The hall with the elaborate chandelier and polished marble tiles was even more desolate and cold than the tundra where she lost her innocence.
"Oh happy SLA-mas eve," she intoned and walked towards the living room. "I'm in Hell"
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