Consequences
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Consequences I: No More I Love You's free porn video
Consequences I: No More I Love You's
By Myria
Looking back it seems like it was all simple fate. If I hadn't had so much
paperwork to do that I stayed well past my shift, if I hadn't decided to take
the bridge across instead of my usual route home, if the moon hadn't been
shining so brightly, if... If so many things hadn't conspired to come together I
never would have even seen her.
There's something about winter nights that can be almost exhilarating. The
way the cold air can be so crystal clear, the way the snow hides the grime of
the city beneath a blanket of white, the way sounds seem to travel for miles.
Even though it was almost three in the morning and I had been working since
noon, I felt awake and alive; the beauty of the empty streets giving me hope
that tomorrow would be better. You see so much ugliness in this job that it's
easy to become jaded, hard, to see only the bad. I see it in some of my fellow
officers all the time and I've always sworn to myself that I wouldn't let that
happen to me. You have to take in the beauty when you can, where you can find
it, try and balance things in your soul.
The Cross Street Bridge is an angular rust-and-green monstrosity designed
by the college back in the early sixties. Originally a project to give some
engineering students some real-world experience and to help the city during a
somewhat painful growth period, it was supposed to be a temporary construction,
there only until the city could afford to replace it. Its temporary nature had
long since been forgotten except by townies who liked to jokingly refer to it as
the "temporarily permanent" bridge. I don't usually go home that way, even in
the late evening the traffic across it can be annoying, but given the empty
streets I figured it was a better bet then following route 13, with all it's
twists and curves and generally icy nature this time of year, up the river.
If I hadn't been trying to look over the bridge at the icy river below I
never would have seen her. As it was, it took a moment for my brain to confirm
that I had seen what I'd thought I'd seen. I slammed on the breaks and jumped
out of the cruiser. If I'd been thinking I would have called it in right then
and there, but I didn't. I was reacting rather than acting, a terminal flaw of
mine.
She didn't seem to even notice me as I walked up, though there was no way
she could have missed the sound of my brakes screeching. A petite blonde, she
was dressed far too lightly for the cold air, standing on a beam on the outside
of the bridge, her back turned towards me.
"What are you doing?" I demanded, the words sounding stupid and hollow
before they were even out of my mouth.
She slowly turned to face me, smiling as though I'd just told a bad joke
that was somewhat in poor taste. She was a very pretty girl, perhaps even
beautiful when not in such a disheveled state. Tiny, perhaps five one at most, I
would have been amazed if she'd weighed even ninety pounds soaking wet. Large
expressive eyes, petite nose, pouty lips, and the most unusual silver-blonde
hair. She looked almost like something out of an anime. The cold didn't seem to
be affecting her; despite the thin white blouse and short pleated gray skirt she
wore. She'd obviously been crying, he makeup smeared, her blouse torn, her
stockings nearly shredded. It terrified me to realize she was wearing pumps,
between those and the way the wind off of the river kept blowing her long hair
around I knew her perch out there couldn't be very stable. This was serious,
deadly serious.
"I'm going to go call for help," I said hopefully, "okay?"
"Don't bother," she replied, her voice was surprisingly husky for such a
small woman, "I'll be gone before you get back."
Her words froze me in my tracks, abruptly cutting my options from one to
none. The sadness in her voice telling me that she meant it. I cursed the fact
that I changed out of my uniform at the station house; if I'd still been wearing
it I would have had my walkie-talkie.
"Can I ask you you're name?" I said, hoping she was at least willing to
talk.
"My real name," She asked with a smile, "or what I'm called now?"
What in god's name was that supposed to mean? "Whichever, I just want to
know what I should call you."
"I don't know my real name," she replied, and I could see she was almost
ready to cry again, "my name now is Pamela."
"Okay, Pamela, would you like to tell me why it is you want to jump off a
bridge?"
She stared at me a moment, it was as if the question had truly surprised
her. "You're a pretty woman," she said, seemingly out of the blue.
I nodded, not sure how to reply.
"It must be hard being a pretty cop. You are a cop, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"So is it hard being a pretty cop?"
"It has its advantages and disadvantages, just like everything else," I
said with a shrug.
"So you like being a woman?"
Good lord in heaven, she was insane. This did not bode well. "Yes, do
you?"
She laughed, an almost hysterical giggle. "I used to."
"Would you like to come in from there so we can talk about it, Pamela?" I
asked hopefully. "The way that wind is blowing is making me nervous."
"I'm trying to kill myself... What is your name, anyway?"
"Sharon."
"I'm trying to kill myself, Sharon, don't you think a little wind is
beside the point?"
"Can't we at least talk about it?" I pleaded.
She thought about it for a second. "You sit down."
I brushed away some snow and sat facing the guardrail. It was amazing how
with all the adrenaline I wasn't even noticing the cold. And her, in that flimsy
outfit you would have thought she'd be hypothermic by now and have ten types of
frostbite besides. Yet she didn't even seem to be shivering.
"Good, now if you make any kind of move I'm going to jump, okay?"
I nodded.
She turned and slowly walked back along the beam with a grace I had to
envy. Grabbing a cross-member, she sat down on the beam, flinching a little.
Even through that short wool skirt that steel had to feel so cold it would burn.
She was now less than five feet from me; if I reached across the guardrail
I could grab her. I briefly wondered if I could get up and reach over before she
could jump. Not a chance, too risky.
"So why is it you used to like being a woman?" I asked.
"What if I told you I didn't used to be a woman?" She replied, watching me
carefully.
"You mean like those people on Springer?" I asked, instantly regretting
saying something stupid like that.
She rolled her eyes. "The people on Springer are fakes, actors, don't you
know that?"
I shrugged; I'd never even seen Springer, just heard people talk about the
shows.
"You're wondering if I'm a transsexual. No, I'm not." She paused for a
moment. "Or maybe I am, I don't know." She shook her head. "Not the way you
mean, anyway."
"So what do you mean?"
"Are you married, Sharon?"
"Yes."
"Do you love your husband?"
What kind of question was that? "Yes, of course."
"Any kids?"
"Yes, two daughters."
"I bet they're beautiful."
I had to smile at that, as absurd as it seems in retrospect. "They're
gorgeous girls."
She nodded. "Just like their mom."
"Are you married, Pamela?"
"Yes, no kids though." It was obvious from her tone that this was a great
sadness for her.
"Do you love your husband?"
"Very much so, that's the problem."
"I don't understand, why is that a problem?"
"You know, Sharon, until a week ago it wasn't. Until a week ago I was the
happiest woman in the world. I had a loving husband, a beautiful house, and a
great life. I was so happy."
"He left you," I said, seeing all of the pieces fall together.
She shook her head. "No."
So much for that theory. "Then what?"
"Did you know my husband used to keep journals?"
"No." How could I?
"Neither did I until I found them. They were in this box in the attic; I
found them when I was doing some cleaning. The box was locked, but the lock had
rusted through. I saw those bound journals inside and I just had to read through
them."
"What did they say?"
For a long moment she didn't say anything and I didn't think she was going
to tell me. Finally she sighed. "It seems my husband wasn't very happy in his
college days. He was a great student, did great in his classes, but he was a
loner, isolated. He couldn't get any dates, didn't have any real friends, it
sounded almost like he hated everyone for the way he was treated."
"A lot of people go through something like that in high school and
college, Pamela."
"I know, but my husband decided to do something about it. He found this
book of spells. You know, magik."
"Magik isn't real, Pamela."
She laughed. "That's what I used to think. It's real, believe me. There's
more on this earth than you know, Sharon."
She really was truly whacked. "So what did he do with this book?"
"It was a really old book, I don't know if he still has it hidden
somewhere or what. He spent almost everything he had on it because there was
this particular spell in it that was very important to him. Even then it took
him six months to get everything he needed together before he could use it."
"What was the spell supposed to do?"
"Bring him everything he wanted. Love, wealth, fame, happiness. And it
worked, god did it work."
Fame? A glimmer of recognition sparked off the back of my brain. "What's
your last name, Pamela?"
"Stuart."
Oh crap. "And your husband is John Stuart?"
She nodded.
Christ, I should have recognized her from the beginning. But who would
expect to find a senator's wife about to jump off a bridge? "So you think your
husband used a magik book to make himself famous, get all his money, and make
you love him?"
"Something like that."
I took a deep breath, wishing someone, anyone, would drive by and see us.
But that time of night it wasn't likely, I was on my own and I had no idea what
to say next.
"I'm not crazy, Sharon, I know that's what you think but I'm not. I
thought it was crazy too, but then I started digging, and remembering. This is
much worse than you can imagine."
"What do you mean?"
"Do you know how he got his money?"
"No."
"I didn't know either. The day he cast that spell his parents took out a
huge life insurance policy for no reason. They weren't even that old. A week
later they both died in a boating accident and he got over a million dollars."
"That's unfortunate, but it doesn't prove anything."
"Yes it does!" She practically screamed. "Sharon, he may as well as have
killed his own parents with that spell. Do you remember his senate run?"
"Yes." It had only been a year ago.
"And what happened to his opponent?"
I thought back. "He dropped out of the race or something, didn't he?"
"Not exactly, he had a heart attack and then pulled out of the race. He
died three days later. Every time John has run for office, from city council on
up, something has mysteriously happened to his opponents."
"Okay," I said, "that still doesn't prove anything. What about you? You
believe your husband made you fall in love with that spell?"
She shook her head. "It was much more than that. That spell made me who I
am today."
"I don't understand, Pamela."
"I didn't believe it, couldn't believe it at first when I read it. I
thought maybe it was a story he'd written. Or maybe a fantasy, I don't know. I
used to be a guy; I used to be John's college roommate. The only thing even
close to a friend that he had."
I tried not to laugh. "That's impossible."
"I can't remember anything past about five years ago when we met. I don't
remember my childhood, I don't remember going to school, and I don't remember my
parents. Before I was nineteen it's like I didn't even exist. How could that be?
Why is it that I never even noticed? So I did some checking and everything I
thought I knew about myself, everything he had told me, it was all a lie. I
couldn't find any records of me anywhere, nothing. Before I met John I didn't
even exist. That spell changed me, made me into who and what I am today. It's
not impossible, Sharon, it's the truth. Everything in those journals was the
truth."
"Okay," I said, deciding to take another tact, "let's say for the moment
that it's all true. So what? You said that you were happy, is that so bad?"
"Don't you understand? It's all a lie!" She paused for a moment, taking a
deep breath. "The man I love more than anything, he used me like I was just a
thing. He took from me everything that I was, nineteen years of my life, and
made me what I am just so he could be happy." She sighed. "I love him so much. I
love being me, I love being a woman, I love these silly clothes, I love being
pretty, I love my life. But it's all a lie. How do I even know that anything I
feel is real? Is anything I am even real? Are my thoughts even mine? I'm just a
marionette and that spell has been pulling my strings. And you know what the
worst part is?"
"What?"
"I can't have children. I want to have his babies so badly, but I can't.
No matter how much we try I never get pregnant. Is that the stupid spell too?
It's revenge on me? That spell has cost everything. It killed his parents, it's
hurt or killed so many other people, and it's turned him into what? A murderer,
that's what he is even if he didn't kill them directly. And it made me, created
me from someone else."
"And that's why you want to kill yourself?"
"It's the only thing I can do that I know would be my decision."
"How do you know this isn't the spell too?"
"Don't, Sharon, please..."
"Have you talked to him about it?"
"I confronted him about it."
"And?"
"He didn't deny it, just got angry because I'd read his books and said I
was being hysterical."
"Maybe you are Pamela, have you thought about that? Even if everything you
say is true, why kill yourself? Why not leave him. Spend some time on your own,
get some help, try and find yourself, who you are?"
"I know who I am, I just don't know who I was. Can you imagine what that's
like, Sharon, to know that you were ripped out of your life and put into another
against your will?"
"No, I can't imagine."
"It's horrible to know that you aren't who you once were, that everything
you know and feel is a lie. How do I know that he wouldn't change me again?
Would I even know? But I can't leave him, Sharon, not even now and not ever. I
love him too much, but I can't ever trust him. I can't ever trust anyone again.
I can't even trust myself." She held up her left hand, one of the largest
diamonds I'd ever seen glinted in the moonlight. "It was a beautiful wedding,
the most wonderful day of my life."
"I'm sure you were a gorgeous bride."
She smiled and slipped the engagement ring and wedding band off her
finger. "Was it me or was it the spell that said 'I do'? I guess I'll never
know." She tossed the rings. "No more I love you's."
If she hadn't thrown the rings I might have missed the motion as she
started to push herself off the steel beam. I sprang up faster than I would have
thought possible and lunged over the guardrail to grab her. I almost missed,
even as fast as I'd been, but I caught the shoulder of her blouse, hanging on as
tightly as I could. She was so light, for a moment I thought I had her. A
nanosecond frozen in time when I thought everything would be all right. I would
pull her up slowly, wrestle her to the cruiser if I had to, and get her to the
hospital. They could help her, it would all work out.
The sound of her blouse tearing was her funeral dirge. One moment I had
her, and the next I felt the slick silk of her blouse slipping through my
fingers. She was looking up at me as she fell, not making a sound. No fear in
those beautiful eyes, only sadness. I turned away before she hit, a loud thump
as her body impacted on the frozen river fifty feet below.
I sat down, my back to the guardrail, and cried.
+++
It took almost two hours to recover the body; they didn't want to send
anyone out until they were sure the ice was safe. It didn't matter; there was no
doubt in my mind that hitting the ice had killed her.
Given that she was a Senator's wife, the investigation was more thorough
than would usually be the case for a suicide. Not that there was much to
investigate, it was all pretty cut and dried. There was the inevitable media
attention and an inquest. I told the entire story to my Captain; everyone else
got a highly edited version. No reason for people to think she was even crazier
than circumstances already made her appear.
In the aftermath I only met the Senator once, he came up to me after the
funeral and thanked me for trying to save her. But he was very odd about it,
asked a lot of questions, wanted to know what Pamela might have said. I lied,
I'm not even sure why. He should have been the one person I could tell the truth
to, but I didn't. I'm a suspicious person by nature, and the way he was acting
was making me even more suspicious.
After that I became obsessed with her story, as crazy as it was, I had to
know the truth. What was it that had really happened? The local paper had her
biography on file and was happy enough to give me a copy. It wasn't hard to do
some checking from there.
She was telling the truth, there were no records of her prior to five
years ago or so. No birth records at the hospital she was supposedly born in, no
one had heard of her parents or knew what had happened to them, none of the
schools she had gone to had heard of her, there had been no Pamela Lynn Anderson
at BC when the Senator had supposedly met her.
She was right about the Senator, too. In every single election he'd ever
been in something had mysteriously happened to his opponents. It was all
perfectly normal stuff, if unfortunate, until you looked at the bigger picture
and saw the pattern.
A Senator's wife with no past and a Senator whose opponents kept having
bad things happen to them or dropped dead. Why hadn't anyone noticed this
before? Especially in this day of bulldog and scandal journalism? It didn't make
sense.
I "accidentally" ended up with a copy of the coroner's report on her
death, and with that I had her fingerprints. There were no records for her in
any of the databases that I could find, no big shock there, but I could run a
search and see if any other matches came up. The search took over an hour to run
and even though some part of me had started to expect it I was shocked by the
results. Compensating for size, the computer did find a match, a Lawrence
Anderson who had at one point been in the ROTC and who had mysteriously
disappeared over five years ago. I already knew from my researches that Lawrence
Anderson was John Stuart's roommate in college.
It was true, it was all true. I was shaking uncontrollably as I left the
station and headed home to my husband, my daughters, and my life. I realized
that nothing could ever be the same again. If it could happen to her, what about
the rest of us? Could any of us ever be sure of who we are and who we were? It
couldn't be common, not with so many trails left behind for anyone to follow if
they knew where to look. Perhaps she was the only one in the world this had ever
happened to. But who knew? And what could I do about it? Confront the Senator?
Expose the truth? Ludicrous, no one would ever believe it. I would just have to
live with it, and wonder.
But I know that no matter how deep I bury it, it will, like the lasting
image of those sad beautiful eyes looking up at me as she fell, forever be the
stuff of my nightmares.
Fin
Copyright 2000 By Christina Myria Kenyon
Alma
- 23.11.2021
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