With the revenge wars and mess going on, I decided to write one more part
to my story; I suppose you could say that this is where I was through it
all. I think it's a fitting end, and certainly has some bearing on my own
life.
Schism
A revenge-fanfiction finale by Douglas A. Reeves
<CHANGE BACK THIS INSTANT!> the decidedly male voice in Stormy's mind
roared. <I've had enough of your stupid games, and I don't have time for
them now!>
<No.> she shot back. <You never let me have any fun!>
<Oooohhh, you are so childish!> it seethed. <You abuse your power, you
make a fool of us in front of any-and-everybody, and you don't even have
the common courtesy to give me my body back when I ask for it!>
<Your body, Douglas?> she raised a mental eyebrow. <It's mine, too, you
know.>
<That does it!> the voice had seen enough. Concentrating with all its
might, it slowly wrested control over Stormy's body, forcing her right arm
to reach for the hot water knob. With great force of will, it coerced her
to turn it, and the shower's spray turned ridiculously hot.
"YAAAAH!" it suddenly screamed aloud, leaping from the bathtub. A quick
glance in the mirror confirmed both maleness and a nasty scalding. Still,
it was better than letting Stormy have her way.
He shivered at the thought. Of late, his cursed form had been possessed
of a mind of her own, and he was sick of it. He had some measure of
control, but even that was becoming weaker with each passing day. He
wondered how long it would be before she was completely autonomous.
<There must be something I can do,> he thought. <I can't take this much
longer.>
<Just learn to share,> "her" voice taunted.
He sighed. It had started so subtly, he'd hardly noticed it.
* * *
Shutting down the computer, Stormwalker sighed. More and more of late he
had noticed that he responded differently to people over the Internet than
he did in person. He was often less reserved, more fiery, and even a
little playful at times. It wasn't like him at all, and it bothered him
slightly.
<Oh, well,> he sighed, pushing such thoughts to the back of his mind.
<Nick was telling me something about using an alias, and having it take on
a personality of its own. I guess that's what is happening here. Maybe I
should drop it, and just go back to being "me".>
<Are you sure you want to do that?> another part of his mind asked.
<Don't you like me?>
He stopped. Sure he'd debated things in his mind before, even discussed
them with himself . . . but this was different somehow. "Don't you like
me?" the voice in his head had asked; it was as if it had granted itself a
separate identity.
<No, this is going too far,> he thought. Switching the computer back on,
he opened the file marked "signature.txt" and made a few alterations.
<There. Much better.> No response was forthcoming from the mysterious
voice in his head, so he assumed that the debate was over.
* * *
If only it had ended there, he sighed. Denied that outlet, the side of
him that had come forth as "Stormwalker" had found another. After all, the
form of "Stormy" was much more suited to it's wilder, less reserved
personality anyway. It had begun with strange impulses . . .
* * *
<Ah, a good rain can be so refreshing,> "Stormy" thought as she stepped
into the house, immediately headed for the bathroom, <Still, I'm not
spending any more time in this body than I have to.>
<Aw, why not?> a voice in his head asked.
She shivered. That was not a thought she wanted to be thinking.
<Sure it is . . . admit it, you like this form. At least, a part of you
does.>
<No, no, no, no, no!> she protested, trying to push the voice back into
whatever dark corner of her mind it came from. Starting the water running,
she stripped from her thoroughly drenched clothes while it warmed to a
suitable temperature.
She was unable to resist the urge to examine herself in the mirror; truly,
she was beautiful. <Better looking than your other form, no?> the voice
prodded. <Why not stay this way for a while?>
<NO!> she mentally screamed, tearing her gaze from the mirror and stepping
to the shower. With an effort, she stepped inside. The change was
immediate and welcome, restoring his natural form and pushing aside the
troubling thoughts. He stood in the shower for a long time, savoring the
comfort it brought.
He slept with difficulty that night.
* * *
The disturbing voice had not been content even with that; the urges grew
stronger, and before long he found himself behaving differently in his
cursed form. The difference wasn't huge, of course; it was still a part of
him in control. Unfortunately, it was a part of him that he preferred not
to have dominant.
Eventually, it reached the point where there were distinct differences
between "Douglas" and "Stormy". Truth be told, it seemed almost that they
were two separate people. "Stormy" had developed a great deal of control,
adopting the cursed form as her own and bending its behavior to her will.
"Douglas" could still exert himself over her, but it took great effort and
became more difficult with each passing day.
<Am I going insane?> he sighed, despairingly.
<Oh, no,> she teased him. <I just want equal time, and I'm going to get it.>
He groaned. Good thing it wasn't supposed to rain today.
That night, he dragged himself back into the house, mentally exhausted.
Why his friends had seen fit to throw him in the swimming pool--they knew
about the curse, blast them--was beyond him, but "Stormy" had had a field
day with it.
<Wasn't it fun?> she prodded, and he could almost see her sticking her
tongue out at him. She'd put on quite a show, all right. Fortunately,
he'd managed to arrange for a hot shower before coming home.
As he trudged back to his bedroom, he wondered how much of the distinction
between them others could see. Probably not as much as he, but there were
definite differences in behavior between the two. What would they think?
He shuddered at the thought.
Deciding he needed to sleep, he took off the still-wet clothes and climbed
into bed.
* * *
He was running, running as fast as he possibly could, with the flood
constantly on his heels. If he let up in the slightest, it would have him.
"Why is that such a terrifying prospect?" Stormy's too-familiar voice
taunted him. "The water's not deep . . . you can swim, after all . . . ."
"NO!" he shouted. "You can't have me!" He tried to run faster, but to no
avail. It stayed right with him, just waiting for him to stumble, or to
slow down. Dread filled him; he knew he couldn't keep running forever, but
he couldn't--wouldn't--let the curse have him again.
"You can't evade me forever," the mocking voice sounded again.
<Where is that coming from?> he looked around, and didn't notice the
computer cord strung in front of him. He fell, and the flood took him . . .
Suddenly, he found himself at the beach, watching the tide roll in. It
was a beautiful sight, one he took great pleasure in. He was just out of
its reach, he knew, and could therefore enjoy it.
Looking down at the sand, he watched the way it changed as the water
washed over it, taking on a new consistency and form. Not entirely unlike
himself, he realized. Douglas and Stormy were merely different
manifestations of the same substance, so why did he dread her so?
One word : control. All his life he'd worked for it, developed it, prided
himself in it, and she threw it to the wind. She was reckless where he was
cautious <or am I just timid?>, outgoing where he was reserved <or is it
shy?>, she wielded power where he shunned it, and she cast his precious
barriers off like an old, worn-out cloak.
"So, you do understand, after all," her voice spoke, no longer ethereal as
it had been, but with a definite direction. He whirled to face it, and saw
her walking toward him.
"I am so much of what you wish you could be," she observed, for once with
no hint of arrogance in her voice. "Perhaps the curse had a purpose for us
. . . I will not be with you much longer; perhaps you needed to see me to
see yourself."
Douglas hung his head. "I . . . cannot be you. I need the control you so
flagrantly disregard."
"It's not the control you wish to leave. It's the fear." she asked, her
voice soothing. Reaching out, she placed her hand under his chin and
raised his gaze to meet hers. "You fear people, and you fear failure. You
let it stop you from being you. Don't."
He bit his lip. "I try . . . ."
"No!" she quoted, smirking, "Do, or do not. "There is no try."
He had to smile a little at that, and at the same time she had a point.
"I have to go now," she sighed. "I'll see you soon enough, though." With
those words, she began to fade. "Take care," she whispered, and she was gone.
He stood on the beach for a long time before a growing roar drew his
attention. Turning to face the sea, he saw a towering wave approach; to
his own surprise, he didn't turn away as it came crashing over him . . .
* * *
"YAAAAH!" two voices screamed, and two bodies sat bolt upright in their
shared bed. For a moment they were silent, breathing heavily, then a
common realization struck them.
"YAAAAH!" the scream was repeated, as they shrank back from each other,
and then another stunned silence fell.
"Douglas?"
"Stormy?"
"Oh, my Lord," they breathed simultaneously, eyes wide with shock as the
reality of the situation sank in. After a second, Stormy snapped the
comforter up in her hand, pulling it up in front of her naked chest, and
the spell was broken. Both began to laugh, and the laughter grew in the
sharing of it.
"Get dressed," Douglas prodded, averting his gaze.
"Uh, right," Stormy replied, still laughing. Rummaging around for
something her size, she finally found an outfit and quickly threw it on.
"Ok, your turn."
Once they were dressed, they again sat opposite each other on the bed.
"We've got a lot of explaining to do, I think . . . ."
"You're telling me?" Stormy grinned. "Guess it's a good thing Nene
established an legal identity for me."
Douglas shook his head in amazement. "This should be quite an adventure .
. . sister."
"Yes, indeed, brother," she grinned. A familiar glint shone in her eyes
as she added. "It'll be fun!"
Epilogue :
Music cue : "Luke and Leia", from Return of the Jedi : Special Edition
<Not entirely gone from my thoughts, are you, Stormy?>
She shot him an amused glance. <Not at all; we are linked, evidently.>
He grinned. "Nice to know I still have some unique power left. You took
all the others."
"Not like you ever used them," she retorted with an impish smile. "Some
storm elemental you were."
He sighed wistfully, "I suppose that's true. The storm is wild and
unrestrained, in a way that I can never be. You, on the other hand, are
that exactly."
Her grin relaxed to a thoughtful smile. "I gave you some advice in that
dream we shared. Take it."
"I shall," he nodded. "Though it will take time."
"Well, you'll have me around to prod you, brother. That I can guarantee."
"And you'll have me to keep you in check, sister."
"Fair enough." For a moment she was silent, and they both turned to face
the setting sun. Yellow, orange, and red painted the sky a stunningly
beautiful image of passion as the day gave way to night. "It is an
ending," she whispered, "and yet a beginning as well."
**************
Fin.
21 June 1997, 15:51 PM
Author's notes : There are no notes, because the story says it all, save
for one. If you don't have the soundtrack to Return of the Jedi, I highly
recommend it. It contains some excellent pieces to inspire writing, as
well as to be truly beautiful in and of themselves.
I hope you enjoyed the tale, as it has a great deal of meaning to me.
*************************************************************
Douglas A. Reeves <dougreeves@earthlink.net>
Storm Warnings - http://web2.airmail.net/a0011387/
Fanfic Archive - http://web2.airmail.net/a0011387/fanfic.html
-------------------------------------------------------------
"Well, they are lucky. Let them be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that dying is what, to live, each has to do."
from "Curiosity", by Alastair Reid