Title: From Across The Room
Part 8: Memories
Rating: PG-13
Author: Alse
E-mail: alsepang@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: I will not insult anyone's intelligence by 
claiming that *I* own BSSM rights. I mean, *really*!!! 
As if you would believe me...


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

LATE NOVEMBER

     The clock's hands pointed to nine fifty-
six and a little bit.

     On the sofa in the living room, sprawled 
across it, his feet dangling over one arm, 
was a very handsome, dark-haired young 
man. He was staring at the ceiling and 
there was a deep sadness in his wistful 
dark blue eyes. One hand, folded on his 
chest, clasped a single card to his black 
turtleneck sweater. Outside, the weather 
was very cold, but in the apartment, the 
young man took no notice, for he was 
far down memory lane.

    Once upon a time, a little blond girl had 
come at a time when he had felt so incredibly 
hollow and lonely that he could have cried. 

    Once upon a time, he had been fast 
asleep outside the principal's office, 
about to get into trouble again, and worn 
out with his life in general. Then he had 
opened his eyes and found that someone 
had left him a note of warmth and 
encouragement. He could lift his head 
again.

    Once upon a time, he had realised 
somehow that the little blond girl and 
the kind stranger behind that note were 
one and the same person. He had no 
evidence-- he just knew. 

   His belief was corroborated by the card 
she sent him on his birthday many years 
later-- the same card now clutched to his 
chest. She had written about her 
memories of him and the handwriting 
matched the one on the faded rose-scented 
note from five years back. There was a change, 
from girlish writing to the mature, gracious 
hand of a woman, and it made his heart quicken 
at the thought. 

     He saw her in his dreams every night. 
Strange as it might seem, he had never 
seen her face clearly. She was a hazy, 
cloudy, girlish figure which grew over 
the years from child to girl to woman. 
He remembered golden hair and big blue 
eyes, and he could make them out in his 
dreams, but even those features were 
unclear. She came to him every night 
and he could feel warmth, love and 
concern radiating from her-- all for him. 
Over the years, the boy's dream became 
the man's dream, and he was determined 
to find her. In his secret heart of hearts, 
he called her his angel. He was sure that 
she was waiting for him somewhere out 
there-- as sure as he was of the fact that 
the sky was blue and that the moon 
circled round the earth. 

    Sometimes, he felt as if she was near, 
and he looked around, hoping to see her, 
but she was never there. He could not 
identify her positively, but he knew that 
he would be able to recognise her. 
Something seemed to link her to him, 
something deep inside the recesses of his 
soul. He would recognise her 
anywhere-anywhere at all.

    *Ah, but would you admit that it was 
her?* asked a little voice inside him.

    There was another girl he remembered, a
summer waitress at Andrew's café. He had 
seen her from across the room the first day 
he had walked into Andrew's café that summer. 
For a moment, she had brought his angel to mind. 
She had golden hair and blue eyes, just like his
dream girl, but she was not his dream girl. 
She was different. He could tell.

    'Serena...'

    Yes, that was her name.

    She was sunshine personified, with just a 
little bit of cloudiness to remind you that 
she was human. She was peace and serenity; 
anger and gloom seemed to ebb in her wake. 
She was gentle. She would listen to anyone, 
from the tired old man who had told her the 
same tales about his childhood over and over, 
to the three ladies who lunched their every Monday 
and ripped apart the state of politics in 
the world, to the giggling girls whom she 
had been so friendly to that they spilt all 
their secrets to her. The boys liked her 
too, because she was so pretty and 
friendly. Her friendliness was not the 
flirtatious, eyebrow-wiggling type, but an 
open and innocent manner. She even 
spared cheerful smiles for him and he 
remembered her laughter. She laughed a 
great deal.

     *But she doesn't laugh anymore,* 
whispered the little voice. *Don't you 
remember? She doesn't laugh any 
more...*

     He knew why. 

     One evening, he had been at the café as 
usual and had taken the chance to snatch 
a few winks when something-- he didn't 
know what-- had woken him. He had 
opened his eyes in obedience to that 
summons and he saw the most beautiful 
girl in the world looking back at him. 

     For a long, breathless moment, all he 
was aware of was *her* as his heart 
caught in his throat. She was beautiful, 
but it was not just the beauty that moved 
him. It was the promise. He saw it in the 
depths of the startled, sparkling blue eyes, 
in the flush of her cheeks, the slightly 
open mouth, the softness in her 
expression...he saw it in every feature, 
every line of her. Something in him 
seemed to flare in answer to her promise 
and his heart leapt, doing a wild jig.

      Then she dropped her eyes-- *tore* her 
eyes from his, still blushing-- and the 
spell was broken.  She didn't see his face 
whiten as blood drained from it. He had 
betrayed his angel, the girl who was 
waiting for him somewhere out there, 
the girl who had been waiting for him all 
his life. Without a second thought, he 
fled from the café, nearly stumbling over 
his own two feet in his haste to get away 
from the only other person in the world 
who could hold his heart in the palms of 
her hands.

     He thought for three long days. He 
walked the floor of his apartment, 
barefoot in his dismay and bewilderment, 
and got rug burn on his soles for his 
pains. His heart-- all of it-- belonged to 
his angel alone. He didn't really know 
what to do. All he knew was that somehow, 
some way, he had to tell the girl that she 
could not love him-- that she had to stop 
loving him, because he would not be able 
to return it. It shook him to realise that he 
was just as sure of her love for him as he 
was of his angel's love for him.

    So he deliberately broke the other girl's 
heart.

    He watched her change and felt the pain
as keenly as if it were his own. He would 
not look directly at her, because he did 
not dare to, but he would steal glances at 
her now and then, and he saw that there 
was pain in her every feature, in her 
every line. She didn't do anything 
dramatic. She did not faint. She did not 
cry. She was not jealous and she did not 
hate him. What she did do was to stop 
laughing. 

    She became frozen and pale, a faded 
maiden from a dusty old painting. Her 
eyes, once the clear, serene blue of 
mountain lakes, now held a strange and 
opaque quality in place of the old 
transparency and lucidity. Her face, once 
so expressive, was now blank and about 
as emotive as an empty sheet of paper. 
She was wearing a mask and he recognised
it, because he had worn so many such masks 
before.  

    He shut his eyes to turn away from the 
memory. He had known that what he 
was doing was wrong, very wrong, or his 
heart wouldn't have screamed itself 
hoarse at him. He tried to recall the joy 
he had felt when he saw that rose on his 
doormat, and the package next to it. He 
wanted to erase the pain, but instead, it 
just seemed to ache all the more.

    "Where are you?" he wondered wistfully, 
and he didn't know any more if it was to 
his angel he called out to, or to the other 
girl.

     Then the telephone rang. He let the 
answering machine pick it up. It could 
be for his apartment-mate, Kunzite, who
was out that night on a date with 
someone he described as the goddess of 
love and beauty. For a practical, cool, 
down-to-earth man, Kunzite had been 
turned topsy-turvy by this new girl of his. 
Imagine the mechanical-minded Kunzite 
describing his girlfriend as a goddess! 
And of love and beauty, no less.

    "Darien, I know you're there. You gotta 
pick it up, pal. This is important. It's 
about your dream girl-- you know, the 
one with the roses--"

   He lunged for the receiver and fell off the 
sofa with a crash, nearly twisting his ankle 
and spraining his back in the process, but his 
ear was glued to the receiver, his lips 
practically performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation 
on the mouthpiece. "Here!"

    "I've got news for you, but I need to tell 
it to you in person. I'll be over in fifteen." 
Andrew's voice was uncharacteristically grim. 
"I think you had better brace yourself."


(c) 2001 Copyright original storyline by 
Alsepang

Did you know?

One reason why Japan so easily became a G-7 (now G-8)
nation and one of the world's most important
economies, even after the devastation of the Second
World War, was because America poured cash and economic
know-how into it.

You see, Japan was to be the first in a line
of defences in East Asia against communist China.

What's interesting is that Mao Zedong (or Mao
Tse-tung to some) apparently offered to be friends
with the US immediately after WWII. This was quite 
amazing, considering that the US had aided Chiang
Kai-shek against Mao. The US refused the offer,
worried about communism in *any* form.

It probably wasn't evident to the US that Chinese
and Soviet communism are different. Besides, Chairman
Mao, as he was known, had been censured several times
by a furious Soviet Comintern (Communists International)
because he refused to follow them to the letter. 
In his view, the 'advisors' they sent were more 
concerned with forwarding Soviet interests and 
controlling China than with helping the Chinese communists.

This was proven when Chiang Kai-shek agreed to 
a referendum for independence for Outer Mongolia 
in exchange for Russia's refusal to help the Chinese 
communists. Outer Mongolia is the Republic of Mongolia 
that we know today. 

What would have happened if the U.S. had accepted the offer?