This is Lizbet's fault. I'd been meaning to write this story for a while, but she gave me the final writing idea that helped put it all together; as well as discussing enough psychology with me to point me in the direction needed to get it right. The fic my friends make me write... is on several web pages around the Net. (sighhhhhhh) :> Thanks, Plague. Thanks to Dianne for the title, and both Dianne and Lizbet for beta-reading assistance.
And no, the writer is _not_ Victoria, just to reassure you.
Due South and its characters are the property of CTV, CBS, Paul Haggis, Alliance, etcetera et so on. This fanfic is strictly not-for-profit, and can not be reposted without the author's permission. Unless you're offering me a job in Toronto....
Constable Benton Fraser
Canadian Consulate
1515 Essex
Chicago, IL 60640
Dear Constable Fraser,
This is a very difficult letter to write. I would suppose that you haven't forgotten me in the last two years. Maybe you don't want to receive any communication from me, but there's a great many reasons why I have to send this, whether or not you actually want to get it.
The first and most important reason is to apologize to you for what I did. I don't know if you are familiar with the basics of most 12-Step programs, but one of the most crucial requirements is to try to make amends for any harm you've caused others because of your addiction, and to take responsibility for your actions. My actions.
I'm trying not to distance myself from what I did, but it's hard. I'm not sure you can understand. Or maybe you can, maybe that's why this is so much worse than the letter I had to write to my former colleagues.
I lost my medical license before my case even went to trial. I couldn't argue with the AMA decision; I knew that I had no business practicing medicine in my emotional condition. It was almost a relief. Sometimes, I think of the patients I might have hurt if I'd continued to act as a doctor and it gives me nightmares. One wrong diagnosis, or misunderstood symptom, and I could have killed someone because I was under the influence.
Someone else, I mean.
I can't blame my actions on the morphine, though. I wish I could. But I know now that the worst the morphine did was exacerbate my disease. My fear. Feeling like a fraud. I started taking the junk in order to stop feeling, but the hour I got out of detox all these emotions I'd been avoiding were waiting for me: fear and guilt and shame and anger and the damn loneliness.
That was the worst. Feeling like I was alone, and completely incapable of ever belonging anywhere, or being truly loved.... That's why I tried to kill Michael, after all. He gave me this beautiful, wonderful gift, of being connected to someone, being special, and then he took it away like it had all been some kind of joke....
Did that happen to you? Is that why you understood?
My husband and I finished divorcing shortly after I was incarcerated. Neither of us could pretend that we were going to work things out, so we filed for legal separation almost as soon as I was indicted. There was our daughter to consider, too. They're living in Seattle now. She calls me, sometimes. It's so hard.... I can't forgive myself for what I put her through. I hear the guilt and the resentment in her voice every time, and I hate myself for the effect my actions have had on her. All the humiliation of having a mother who is a murderer, of not having a mother who can be with her when she needs one... it's the worst thing I've had to accept, that I've hurt her deeply and I can't make it right again.
Sometimes I can still come up with pathetic justifications for killing Ramirez. Or cheating on my husband. Trying to kill Michael. Taking the drugs in the first place... and every other rotten thing I did after I started shooting up. Ramirez and Michael tried to blackmail me, they had it coming, my husband never _really_ loved me, my colleagues were all against me... the list goes on forever. None of the excuses are enough, but there are moments when I can convince myself they are. I can almost tell myself it wasn't all my fault they got hurt, or that it wasn't really me that hurt them. But I can't find one good reason for doing this to Emily. She's the most innocent victim of my addiction, the one I harmed the most who understands the least.
You and Detective Vecchio are the two other people who I hurt with the least cause. I'm writing to your friend
as well, and apologizing for shooting him. It's a shorter letter. I really didn't mean to hurt him, so it's a much simpler apology to make. He was an innocent bystander who wouldn't have gotten hurt if I hadn't been trying to kill you.
I was, you know. Those last few seconds before I pulled the trigger, I went from aiming at Michael to aiming at you. I hope you can forgive that, and forgive me for shooting Detective Vecchio instead. I can't justify it, I can't rationalize it; and it is the single action for which I feel the greatest shame.
You were trying to help me, and to keep me from making the situation any bloodier, and I tried to kill you for it--- and for telling me the truth. You scared the hell out of me, actually understanding why I was acting liked a crazy person. I couldn't bear having you look at me with such perfect comprehension when I knew what a worthless mess I was. The second the gun went off I knew I'd done a terrible, unforgivable thing. I was *glad* the other detective shot me and spoiled my aim, and that you weren't hurt. But I was sickened that I'd hurt your friend. The look in your eyes when you knelt down next to him, after he was hit---I will never forget it, ever.
I'm sorry. I'm so very, very sorry.
I've been clean and sober one year, five months and fourteen days as of today. That was another reason I wanted to write this letter; to let you know that I'm making progress. I threw away my career, my family, and my freedom because of the drugs, and I'm determined to stay off them for the rest of my life. Of course, it's easier to stay clean here. My life is regimented and planned out, with less stress, no decisions to make... and nothing left to lose. Even though I could still get the stuff if I made the effort, I don't need it as much as I used to, when I was always afraid and pretending not to be.
It's just the loneliness that tempts me now.
I shouldn't even ask this. I have no right to ask this; but I wondered about you, those months while I was going through rehab, and waiting for trial. Please believe it's not idle curiosity that makes me ask.
How did you deal with it? You looked at me when I was ready to kill Michael, and you understood the betrayal. You knew why I wanted him dead, and you knew, you *felt* what my reality was like right then. You couldn't have done that if you hadn't been there. Here. I'm still there, sometimes, in the hospital courtyard, watching Michael and Ramirez laugh at me, splitting the money... There are women in here who understand, who had to kill someone they loved or feel like they would rip themselves apart. Some of them are even sorry for what they did, like I am.
But you didn't do it, did you? How did you stop yourself? How could you understand that much pain and not kill someone? Not kill yourself? They had me on suicide watch for two weeks after I was arrested... I nearly took the easy way out, then.
I wish I understood how you lived with the hurt. I might be able to face getting out, if I did. I won't be eligible for parole for another eight years, but sometimes I still think that's too soon. I don't know if I'll be able to make it on the outside, without the drugs or my medical prestige or the respect I used to receive, even if I didn't deserve it. I don't know if I'll even find a reason to want to.
But you did. You got through that betrayal. And you were kind to me when I was acting insane, kinder than I deserved or anyone could have expected you to be. Maybe the way you did it wouldn't work for me. But... could you tell me this? Not who, or how or why or when, but just... does it get better? Or are you still living with it?
I've written and re-written this letter five times already. I'm not going to do it again, or I won't ever send it. You don't have to answer that last question. You don't have to write back at all. This letter is for my sake, as much as yours, and you don't owe me anything. I already owe you; for stopping me for two critical minutes when I almost killed Michael, and for understanding everything without me having say any of it.
That was the last reason I had to write. To thank you. Thank you for distracting me when I was about to kill Michael. Thank you for giving me some hope that there's way out.
Yours truly,
Ellen Carter
#30002578
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Comments welcomed with enthusiasm at vqrw76a@prodigy.com
Christina Merc * DueSer * PWFC * SunS }|{