I sat there in uncomfortable silence, watching him grab a glass as if my kitchen was home turf--I watched him. The strangest thing about men--any of them, is the way they can just...*do* things. Fetch water for the fainting female. Be protective, comforting. Duncan is one of the good ones. I haven't met a lot of them, but I know them when I see them.
He handed me the water, and I held the glass, but couldn't drink from it. I finally found the words for what I was--something I had joked about before--joked, but it isn't funny. It isn't. It happened in October of 1993, and I never even acknowledged it--until now.
I'm dead. I died, and I spent the last seven years (Jesus, god, how did I spent seven years, walking around dead like this?)living with my family, having friends, keeping my own name alive-being me. But the simple truth is that I died when that knife got pushed into me. I died, and not my beating heat or breathing, or anything else I ever do will change it.
"I can't go back," I whispered. "Never. My parents are going to find out I'm..." And that just about killed me. I'm the only one. Mom couldn't have kids...she was pregnant once, but it's a long story...anyway, they always put their hopes in me. And they're going to get the message--my mom will know what the message means. "I mean...Duncan, what I did for a living...before...the people I knew...I ended it... Christ, but I ended it."
"You're in trouble?" A look of concern--dead serious. There is no way he could have done anything but guess what my business used to be. A girl as familiar as I am with guns and explosives, and with my mouth--anyone could guess I've had some bad associations.
"My folks...they're getting told I'm dead. I had to...I am. I am dead to them. I can't..."
I looked into his eyes, and remember. It happens to all of us, eventually. You realize you can't go home. It happened to him, too. It was clear, looking at him, and I didn't want to say anymore than I already had. I didn't know how he left his home, back in the day, but I knew it had to be the same--terrible.
I'm kind of funny about memories, now. I don't want to stir them in anyone. I'm only just learning how powerful they can really be.
"Joe said..."
I smiled at him, knowing what my Watcher must be saying. I don't envy anyone who gets assigned to me. Watching me must be like--watching a train wreck. What I've done could get people sent after me. Except that they'd be following the cold, cold trail of a corpse. There was a dead body in a cabin outside of State College, Pa. Red hair. Face smashed in with a hammer--no possibility of identifying her from the dental records. Don't ask me...just don't ask me. No, I didn't kill her. Everything but kill.
"They don't think..."
"No, they knew what you did...but it hit the papers..."
I swallowed hard. It was over. I was officially murdered. It might be a few years late, but I was finally gone.
"Steve's a widower. I guess I'm not getting any alimony," I said, shrugging.
"Genevieve, how much of this has to do with what happened with you and Methos?"
I stared. I sipped a bit from the glass and wished it were bourbon. How much did it have do do with Methos? I couldn't answer that question. Nothing? Everything? I fell in love with the second-worst person I could fall for--Kronos being the first? I killed an old, old adversary? I realized how long our memories really are...his, and mine. We--I mean, Methos and I, started looking at each other as if our eyes hurt...what do you say to that? How do I answer that question?
"Duncan, I have..or at least, I think I had, a bottle of a very good wine under the sink...a Gewurtztraminer...twenty years old..."
He didn't ask anymore questions' he only looked for the bottle.
I know, I know. You'd think I'd prefer Chianti, or one of those. Or with my lousy taste, Thunderbird. Ripple. Mad Dog 20/20. But not, I like a nice, sweet white, every now and again. Reminds me of Sprite...with a kick.
Posted on Apr 27, 2000, 7:54 PM from IP address 171.219.191.150