Steps    Author's Notes on "Steps": 

 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.... 

 Steps by Christina Kamnikar
 copyright 1997 

 Joliet Women's Correctional Facility  August 3, 1997 

 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 

 * 

 Comments welcomed with enthusiasm at vqrw76a@prodigy.com 

 Christina Merc * DueSer * PWFC * SunS }|{ 

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