About this story quickly: I don't know why I have been thinking about Victoria lately (I am not her biggest fan), but I have. And I think about how we put people in boxes to save ourselves and think "that person can never change" and we throw them away. And while it is often true that people won't change, sometimes I wonder if we could make a difference simply by believing in the good that does exist in everyone. I've seen enough people change, and felt enough joy from it, that I even wonder about Victoria sometimes (even though she is fictional). And I remember the quote:

Never Give Up on Anyone. Miracles Happen Every Day.

by Dyany

She gripped the rim of the bowl tightly as her body heaved, tryingto rid itself of the poisons within it. Over and over her body spasmed until there was nothing left and she sat, trembling and damp with sweat,next to the toilet and rested her head against the cool, white tank. Oh, how she wished she were drunk. Closing her eyes didn't stop the burning, rinsing her face with ice water from the sink didn't cool the heat that tormented her. And through it all, her mind raced beyond her control, a running engine behind the fire. She had been running since the spring, since that whole mess in Chicago. Damn him. Damn him damn him damn him and damn herself and her stupid weakness for him. /Why/ did she have to try to find him? Why did she make herself vulnerable to being found by Jolly and losing the moneyand being caught, just to find him? And why couldn't she get him out of her mind? Hot, sticky tears began to run in unbidden torrents down her cheeks.

It didn't help that she was stuck in a cheap motel room in the pit of Texas in the dog days of summer. She had done nothing but run for months, as far south as she could, to get away from the cold and the mountains and everything up there that would remind her of Alaska or Canada or that blizzard or him. What little cash she had scavenged from tainted bank money had quickly though carefully been spent, and the three measly gemstones that had tumbled into her bag, almost unnoticed, had also been quickly sold and now that money, too, was almost gone. But she couldn't find a good scam, a decent hit, anything. Every crime she could concoct or come across seemed sour to her. So she kept running. Running because she was angry at the thought that his ghost seemed to haunt her and make the crimes seem so acrid. Running because she didn't want to go back to jail. Running because she had no place to be, and running from all the memories that she did not want to face. But now this flu had laid her low, and she couldn't run; the memories caught up with her. It was more than the fever that burned inside her head now.

Every time she closed her eyes, his face was before her, blood draining from it, his soul crying from those eyes silently while that shot rang, deafening, still in her ears. That shot that had been meant for her.

She could see him still, lying motionless, lifeless on that platform, the pool of blood growing even as the image shrank as the train pulled out. Her ears rang and her own blood soured and curdled at the memory; her stomach heaved again even though there was nothing left to purge. The memory got worse, and did not lessen with time like it should have. Why wouldn't he go away?

The answer always came too quickly to her mind: because he had died for her. That thought came back again and again and her body shook as she sobbed openly now, clenching and unclenching her fists as she tried to collapse in upon herself, hide from the misery. Ten years of festering in that prison. She had hated him, with all her soul she /hated/ him, how could he /do/ that to her? After all the others and being treated like crap and getting dragged into that whole bank job, he had seemed different. A cool breeze in the hellfire that was her life. But he had betrayed her, same as everyone else, and as her freedom was taken away, so was the last hope she had in anyone. Never would she trust again. Soon revenge obsessed her. For the misery and shame and fear of living behind those bars. For the loss of her youth, watching her days and months and years pass away, never to return.

For the loss of that little child's hope that had died when he took her into that tiny police outpost. Hatred and revenge ran in her veins like an acid that burned, a burning that fueled a twisted desire. It coloured, tainted everything. She could not see past it. But now as the pained memories haunted her, there also came the memory of lying in his arms in that tiny apartment of his, of his skin against hers and the peaceful sensation of being in a place where she was loved, loved entirely and truly for what she was, and for that brief moment she had felt safe. For that brief moment she thought she felt a tiny spark of hope that really had not died, but had only been hidden. That was the last cool and peaceful memory that she had.

But she had chosen to focus instead on the flame of the physical passion and the slow burning desire for revenge instead, blinding her to the sweetness.

It came back to her now, to twist the hot knife of the image from the train. What had she done? The revenge was not nearly so sweet as she had imagined. She sat there for over an hour, till the heat from her body had overcome all of the coolness of the porcelain and she could draw no more comfort from it. So she got up and moved into the bedroom, checking one more time that, yes, she had the cheap window air conditioner turned as high as it could go. She simply could not escape the heat from within her or around her, and she longed to be cool again.

Exhausted and weary, she collapsed upon the bed, trying to think cool thoughts, trying to rest her mind as she lay perfectly still. Her eyes stared straight ahead, burning too much to blink, staring at the cheap veneered night-table beside the bed and the phone on it. As she stared, her body cooled slightly; as she began to focus on the sticker of emergency numbers on the side of the phone, her eyes began to rest. "Police," the sticker read. She could see it from here. That number offered coolness; it called to her as much. Coolness and rest. She lifted her hand and let it rest upon the receiver....

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