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The Visitor / Monica's Diary: Friday, July 14 free porn video
The Visitor / Monica's Diary: Friday, July 14
I awakened this morning just after three o'clock. I got up to go to the
bathroom, but when I did, I heard noises coming from the direction of the
kids' rooms. I immediately changed course and, listening as I went,
drifted into the living room. The sounds were coming from Timothy's
bedroom.
I could hear his voice through the door, mumbling. My first thought was
that in addition to Dr. Van Norfleet's diary, Rachel had supplied him
with a cell phone with which to keep FPS apprised of his whereabouts,
activities, and treatment. It took me only a second to realize that that
couldn't be the case. There wasn't any reception out here.
I stepped closer to the door and listened.
"No. Oh no. No, no please," was all that I could hear, and he repeated it
over and over.
We had driven home from the airport yesterday in silence. Timothy had
withdrawn into himself in a very obvious way. He sat silently, head down,
eyes closed for the duration of the trip. When we got home, he went
straight to his room, slammed the door, and refused to come out, even to
eat. And now this.
I opened the door to his room as slowly and quietly as I could, but only
enough to peek in. He was clutching at the bedspread covering him and
rocking and twisting from side to side. Since we are not in a
neighborhood with street lights, the only ambient illumination came from
the moon and stars, which were visible tonight and which made his
writhing look like that of some poor creature caught in a web.
I watched him for a few seconds and remembered how in the hospital, the
darkness had seemed to make his condition worse. Indeed, his mumbling was
at that moment increasing in volume. I stepped into his room, closed his
door, and turned on the light. Through squinting eyes, I could see
Timothy wake up almost immediately. In the instant after that, he sat up
in bed, his face wet with perspiration and his hands shaking as he
clutched his cover.
"Thank God, I didn't assassinate the President of the United States!" He
sounded perfectly normal and immensely relieved.
"What?" I asked. Timothy's head jerked toward me as though he had been
completely oblivious to my presence or to the fact that the light in his
room was on.
"I had a nightmare," he said. I noticed he was out of breath, as though
he had been exercising long and hard. He wiped his forehead and rubbed
his fingers together feeling the moisture.
"Did you say you assassinated the President of the United States?" I
asked.
"It was Garrett's idea...I think." Timothy scooted himself back until he
was propped up against the headboard. I could see he had been frightened
and was willing to have some company for a while.
"Garrett again, really?"
"Yeah, well, you know how it is in dreams. It's your reality, and
everything makes its own kind of sense because you're there and for good
or bad, that's your universe."
"What happened?" I sat down on his little desk chair.
"I don't know where I was, but I was inside some building somewhere.
Maybe it was the boys' ranch." At this point Timothy drew his legs up,
knees under chin, leaned forward and wrapped his arms around both legs.
"Garret walks in and tells me, 'okay, it's on.'"
"What's on?" I asked.
"He didn't say, but somehow I knew that we were connected to some secret
organization that was going to kill the president. Garrett knew some
people in the group and had been the one to suggest that we apply, and we
had. In my dream we had been waiting for some time to see if we would be
assigned a key role as part of the plot."
"I had no idea you had such feelings," I said.
"That's just it," Timothy said. "I'm not political about anything. Once I
get myself worked out, maybe then I'll worry about politics. Right now, I
just don't care."
"Okay, so then what happened?"
"He gave me the date and time we would pull it off. I don't remember
exactly when, but it was at least a couple of weeks away, maybe a month.
Whatever, he said we had to get all our affairs in order and be ready to
run, because once we did this, there would be no turning back, and it
would be forever."
"What did he mean by that?"
"He didn't say. He left me alone at that point to get myself ready."
Timothy stopped speaking. He looked down at his bed clothes. His brows
knitted together. His hands clenched into fists.
"What did you do?" I asked softly.
"Nothing," he said. Again, silence.
"It didn't sound like nothing from my bedroom," I said.
"You heard me?" he asked, at once surprised and frightened.
"The people at the hospital said you went in and out of coma several
times. They said you screamed out in the darkness for Garrett, for your
mother, your father, and even to God. That night I spent with you, I
experienced it myself. When I heard you a few minutes ago, I was afraid
the same thing was happening, that maybe you were having some kind of
relapse."
Timothy shivered and pulled the coverlet up over his shoulders. "It
wasn't like that, not exactly."
"So, what did happen, exactly."
"I remember going to my closet and getting clothes out to pack. That's
when it hit me that I wasn't going on some kind of trip, you know, not on
a vacation. I was leaving everything forever."
Timothy looked up from his bed and turned what I could see were very
frightened eyes toward me. I nodded as though I understood.
"I began thinking that if it all didn't go according to plan, I could get
killed; we both could."
"Yeah, you could," I said.
"That was scary enough, but then I thought, what if we did succeed? What
if we really killed the President of the United States? They--the Secret
Service, the FBI, the CIA, all the police everywhere--would be after us.
And they would never stop looking. It would be like that Bin Laden guy
they chased for years and years until they finally located and snuffed
him."
Once again, all I could do was nod. I could see Timothy was becoming
agitated.
"That's when I realized we couldn't stay in the United States. We would
have to leave and live in some foreign country forever. We'd have to
learn a new language and new customs and live under a strange government.
We'd be poor and starving if we couldn't learn to make some kind of
living. And if the US found out about us, we'd have to flee to another
country and start all over or die."
There were tears flowing down his cheeks now. I got up and sat on the
edge of his bed. I took one of his hands and held it. He closed his eyes
and took a deep shuddering breath.
"I also realized that I would never see my mom again, ever, or my dad, or
anybody that I had ever known. I would be totally, completely cut off
from everybody and everything forever."
If you have ever heard a child try to talk and cry at the same time,
that's what Timothy sounded like. Every phrase was punctuated by those
little sobbing breaths.
"And then, finally I would die. I would be killed or executed or just
die, and then I would face God, having murdered the President of the
United States."
Here Timothy stopped and looked straight at me. His face wrinkled up like
a child's.
"I was afraid!" He screamed. "I was afraid!" He broke down weeping.
Of course, I took him in my arms and held him. After a few minutes, his
weeping subsided, and I returned to the chair.
We sat in silence for another minute or two, and just as I was beginning
to think about returning to bed, he looked up like he had one more thing
to say.
"I think I messed up," he said.
"Oh?"
"Yeah, after what Rachel said about my mom, and the way she threatened
everyone, I got mad at her. I didn't want to talk to her when we were
walking toward Old Muddy. She said that was fine and photographed my
diary. But when she got me into the car to follow you all to the airport,
she told me that lack of cooperation on my part was an indication to her
that I was not adjusting to my new role. She said my transgender
condition might have to be reevaluated and treatment delayed or
discontinued until or unless I felt comfortable working with her."
"I've never seen a problem with you writing down or talking to Rachel, or
anyone else, about what your life has been like here," I said.
"It's just that..." Timothy seemed confused, like he wanted to say
something but didn't know exactly what.
"What?"
"I agreed to cooperate with her, I mean I had to you know. Nothing
against you or your husband, but if I didn't tell her what she wanted to
know, what was going to become of me. But she wouldn't let me just talk.
She would ask me specific questions or ask questions about the same thing
over and over again phrased a little bit differently each time. I felt
like I was testifying in court or something."
"Skyla," I said, trying to sound reassuring. "We feed you, clothe you,
and provide shelter and transportation for you. We take you to church on
Sunday. Our conscience is clear. You can say anything to anyone you
wish."
"Okay," he said. "I just hope nothing bad happens to you on account of
me."
"Don't worry about us, Skyla. The LORD is my rock, and my fortress, and
my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust; my buckler, and
the horn of my salvation, and my high tower."
I did go back to bed after that, and the day that shortly followed was a
very easy, very normal day, much appreciated following as it did upon a
very hectic week.
Mei
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