Gargoyles Fan Fiction ❯ Of The Night ❯ Veronica Lewis Speaks ( Chapter 7 )

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Of The Night

Seven

She could hardly believe he was asking these questions, and even more so, she was surprised at herself for answering. Her past, after all, wasn’t a very calm thing, to say the least. She wasn’t shown much thought or kindness growing up, she couldn’t remember ever feeling loved -- or wanted, for that matter -- and she taught herself to trust no one. It was how she’d survived for so long, learning to rely only on herself, because she was the only person she could trust would be there.

Considering Brooklyn to be a friend actually counted him in on a very short list, and one that hadn’t been used in a long time. If she thought about it (which she had), then she owed him answers, regardless of how he learned about her. She had told him very little about her past during the talks they’d had before, even though he’d told her just about everything he could think of -- about himself, the gargoyles here, their clan from a millennia ago, their learning experiences and all the people they’d met, human or otherwise.

And so, she owed him a story: the story of Veronica Lewis. She invited him to ask whatever he wanted, steeling herself to answer them all. It was a very sensitive subject, one that required a lot of trust; she wondered if she trusted him that much, then asked herself what he could possibly do with that information. The answer was easy: next to nothing.

His first question, as it turned out, was the very beginning of her story, small though the question was.

“You were adopted?”

She nodded. “I was two months old, or so they told me. My biological mother died in childbirth, and no one ever knew who my father was. Either my mother didn’t know, or she never told anyone.”

“So who adopted you?”

“Donald and Diane Lewis.” She had to snort. “I was a replacement girl, as it turns out.” At his confused look, she explained, “Diane had just finished recovering from a miscarriage that took the life of her baby girl. From what I heard, the baby was just a month early, but somehow she didn’t make it. I guess Diane was devastated, which is why she sought out another daughter.”

Brooklyn looked solemn. She wondered what he was thinking, having trouble reading the expression of someone like him -- not just that his face was shaped different, but those eyebrows, too. . .He always looked so serious, like he was measuring you up. “You,” he said, after a long pause.

She gave a sad smile. “Yeah, me. Donald should’ve known better than to let her go nuts like that. Hell, nobody should replace a dead dog with a new puppy, let along doing it with human babies.” She grimaced, once again thinking what a horrible decision Diane had made.

“It sounds like she would’ve spoiled you, though,” he pointed out.

She shrugged. “I don’t remember much from the first five years or so, but I do remember getting along with Jake. Ah, he’s their biological son, four years older than me,” she explained quickly. “But I don’t remember ever being. . .happy,” she confessed. It was a peculiar emotion in her mind; how did one know when one was happy? Sure, a smile was supposed to be a dead give away, but did that mean every smile was a happy one?

It seemed that last comment bothered Brooklyn, for he swept on quickly. “How did things go sour?”

Now that was the part she was dreading. She could feel the emotion leaving her face, flexing her jaw as her memories sifted through the things she dared not think about for too long. “It started in first grade.” In a sudden curious moment, she asked, “You know how human school works, right?” When he nodded, she said, “Good, then I don’t have to worry about explaining that.”

She didn’t want to continue, but that didn’t change the fact she felt obliged to. So she went on, “I started getting bullied in first grade. Within the first week, I was pushed off the monkey bars and had to go to the hospital with a broken leg. Diane and Donald looked really pissed about the whole thing, and -- geez, I don’t know what they were thinking,” she laughed, feeling irony set in. “I guess they thought it only logical that I pay for the hospital expenses.”

From across the table, she thought she heard a quiet growl from Brooklyn. If nothing else, he showed displeasure by dropping his feet from their reclined places, sitting more aptly to attention.

“Before I entered Junior High,” she continued, “I ended up being sent to the hospital seven times -- I almost died twice, even. I don’t think the bullies ever knew how badly they were hurting me, but hell, you’d think the teachers would’ve berated them once or twice.” She chewed her lip. “It definitely strained things back ‘home.’ Diane especially was distant with me. I even remember coming home from school once to find that my room had been changed to the ‘Den,’ and all my stuff had been moved to the attic.” Right then, she remembered again the incredible pain and rage she’d felt, coming home at fourteen to find her whole safe haven had been moved.

“. . .And then?” Brooklyn prodded.

Silence now. Compared to moments before, when her emotions rioted with memories of past wrongs, it seemed everything in her went quiet. Peaceful, even; and she could consider leaving that home being the most peaceful time of her life. No chaotic school, no bullies, no strained silences at home. . . The moment she’d gotten that apartment, it had been peaceful. After all, no attention was better than negative attention.

“And then I learned,” she answered. “I figured the bullies would never stop coming, so I started learning how to escape, how to run. God knows a little person like me could never fight back well, but I’m built little enough to make it where bigger people wouldn’t. I used that. Between running and studying, though, there was little time for anything else. It’s a damn good thing I have so much energy,” she finished with a laugh.

Thinking she should explain a bit more, she kept going. “In school I managed such excellence that I skipped grades six and ten. As soon as I graduated, I wanted out of that house. I didn’t want to depend on those parents or see my brother ever again,” she sneered, feeling disdain well up inside her. “It wasn’t difficult getting Don and Diane to sign the papers to get me removed from the family registry. I don’t think they even knew what it was about.” She took a moment to gather her thoughts as Brooklyn asked more questions.

“Didn’t they miss you at all?” He seemed concerned, the silly guy. “They should’ve feared for your well-being, being sent to the hospital so many times. Did they even say good-bye?”

“It’s good you brought up the hospital,” she pointed out. “No, they didn’t miss me. No, they didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t, either. And this might’ve been a stupid thought on my part, but I had them sign over the hospital bills to me. There was a quite a bit of money racked up,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Wait,” he snapped. “You took the bills? Meaning you’ll have to pay them off?”

“Am paying them off,” she corrected. “At the time, it made sense. I didn’t want them to think about me anymore, didn’t want them to be able to say I didn’t pull my weight. At the time, I wanted everything that was my fault to be my burden, to take care of as I wanted.”

Disbelief was written across his face. “It was their job as parents to take care of you,” he disagreed. “If they were your guardians, then legally --”

Something on her face must’ve stopped him short. She knew exactly what he was saying, what he was trying to reason into existence. The problem is that the past was the past. Those people never loved her. If anything, Diane probably hated her -- hated her for not being the daughter she’d lost. But then, Lydia was fairly certain that Diane was clinically insane. If nothing else, the woman needed some counseling. She hadn’t dealt with her grief right in the first place (who the Hell replaces a stillbirth baby with an adopted baby, anyway?); she never should have passed the screening all potential surrogate parents had to take.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she told the gargoyle across from her. “Believe me, I tried reasoning the same thing before. But I was a ghost in that house, never given a thought or care. I can’t even remember the last time I was called down to dinner or woken up in time for school. Diane never washed my clothes or cooked for me. Any toys I had to play with I had to find first.” At an unwanted memory, she shuddered. “That. . .house was no more a home than a personal hell.” Or that’s what it was for me, she added silently. I bet Jake had a grand ol’ time.

“Surely you had friends, at least. . .” he tried again.

This talk was only depressing her. She replied, “You didn’t hear a word, did you? No, I didn’t have friends. The best I was treated was with indifference. But I made a lot of waves in school, devoting so much effort to it. All the kids hated me, in their own ways.” Her eyes dropped. “I’m used to being ignored or hated, and between the two, I greatly prefer the former.”

It was becoming more and more clear that he couldn’t believe her -- at least not fully. “No one’s life is that. . .unlucky,” he started. “Something good must’ve happened.”

Abruptly she found herself wishing to hurt him. If nothing else, it might clue him into the bitter way she’d lived. With a glare in his direction and sarcasm in her tone, she blurted, “Oh sure, maybe the good thing was being able to see all the happiness going on around me. No, that didn’t inspire jealousy about everything I didn’t have and wouldn’t ever get. Good god, the life of an orphan is the best ever!”

From a look, she couldn’t tell if he was more shocked or offended. Maybe both. “I was just trying to shine some light on your life,” he defended himself. “You graduated two years early, right? Isn’t that a silver lining?”

She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice as she replied, “Yeah, really sweet. Nothing like being hounded to motivate you.”

“Lydia --”

“Don’t even try!” she snapped, slamming her hands down on the table. She didn’t often have a fit of rage, but she was losing this battle. Brooklyn jumped, startled at the move, even as she swept on. “You don’t know how lucky you have it, do you?” she sneered. “Regardless of whatever peril you run into, whatever dangers you face, at the end of the night you always have a place to return to, with people waiting, happy to see you!” Tears were coming dangerously close to the surface, though she didn’t notice them right away. “At the end of the goddamn night, you’re wanted and loved and have a fuckin’ family!”

Lord, she’d exploded. She even heard the accent in her own voice at the end -- an accent she didn’t like much, but she was raised with it, so it was always just beneath the surface. In times like this, when she got really pissed, it comes rushing back as her control slips. Being raised in Brooklyn had that effect (and she was fully aware of the irony of Brooklyn’s name).

Judging by said gargoyle’s expression, she had completely stunned him. With a scoff aimed more at herself than anyone, she stalked from the room, wanting a few moments to cool down. She didn’t care where she ended up in this castle or the building it was part of, as long as she could be alone there. It was the only ay she’d ever calm herself.

She should’ve seen this coming, she realized, descending a staircase with quick steps. Even thinking about her time in that house put her in a bad mood, of course she’d lose it by talking out loud about it.

Hate? No, that was never the governing emotion. She didn’t hate the house or the people in it, or even all the time she’d felt was wasted there. If anything, it depressed her. She had more bad memories than empty ones, really -- all of which were because she’d sought attention and found none. She’d been completely ignored from the time she was a child, shown thought only when it couldn’t be avoided.

Like when she was sent to the hospital, which she was sure only served to infuriate Don and Diane. Why did we adopt such a kid? her mind mocked them. All she does is cost us money. The tax write-off isn’t worth this.

Now she was further depressed. Leaning heavily on a wall, she stopped where she was. It would never do to go on thinking about this. Like she always did in times like this, she started counting what she did have -- which wasn’t much right then, but she was still a step above the homeless, in her opinion. She had people she could talk to. . .well, gargoyles she could talk to. Right now she didn’t have her apartment or anything within its walls, but she had a pretty prison she could play in. She had sketchbooks and tools, thanks to a certain nosy guy who apparently went and got them.

“Lost, Miss Lydia?” a voice said, in a cool drawl.

She recognized Owen by the tone alone. Knowing what she did about the man made it hard to keep from snickering around him (she’d read A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream, after all), though she was good enough with expressions to put on a blank, unimpressed one for him.

“Probably,” she answered. “Any insight into where I am?”

“This entire level is mostly only visited by Mr. and Mrs. Xanatos,” he told her. “This is the floor they consider their living quarters.”

She knew he was being stiff and sophisticated out of self-amusement, but it didn’t stop her from feeling a little primitive in comparison. Whatever happened to those aced reading and writing classes? “Well, I followed a staircase down.” Slanting a look at him, she asked, “Am I trespassing?”

“Your criminal record would suggest trespassing is but a small hurdle for you,” he pointed out, the words somehow not sounding offensive. Damn, but he was talented. “No, you are not trespassing. Not until you start entering locked doors.”

“Because I can just wish myself through,” she added sarcastically.

A cocked eyebrow was her response, making her wonder if she’d amused or annoyed the trickster behind the man. “As it turns out, Mr. and Mrs. Xanatos were wanting to speak with you soon.”

God, his height irritated her. Then again, most everyone’s did as well. “Where are they now?” she asked.

“I believe they’re finishing a match as we speak.”

“ ‘A match’?” she echoed, eyebrows raising.

“Yes. The room is this way -- and it’s not off-limits,” he added, gesturing the direction with a sweep of his arm. If nothing else, he certainly had the ‘butler’ routine down flat.

“Lead on,” she all but sighed, trying to keep from laughing outright.

After a few turns and a bland conversation, they were at double-doors, which Owen knocked lightly at before throwing wide open. Lydia found herself staring at a very wide room that was exactly what would be seen at a dojo. Mats on the floor, dummies on one side of the room, and two people in the correct garb, both wearing black belts. If her memory served her right, the clothes were called a ‘gi.’

She saw Fox throw her husband over her shoulder, who rolled with the landing and in turn tripped his wife. Both were back on their feet quickly, but it seemed that ended the ‘match.’ They turned their attention to the two standing in the doorway.

“Might I announce Miss Lydia,” Owen said, bowing slightly to the couple.

“Yo,” was Lydia’s own introduction, lifting a hand. As it turned out, she wanted to talk to these two as well. She clasped her hands behind her back as Owen excused himself, leaving just the three. More than what she wanted out of this conversation, she wondered what they wanted from her.