Season of Terror
by Tigger
Copyright 2002, All Rights Reserved

Chapter 7: Lessons Learned Hard

Anything, Victoria told herself, any distraction at all was better than listening to by now repetitious drone of the talking heads on the television and radio stations.  "Ms. Thompson said you'd help me with my face?" she prodded the older woman after Marie's attention had slipped away yet again.

"Your face?" Marie asked quizzically in the absent tones of distracted.  

Frowning, Victoria resisted the urge to snarl. *Like I really want to play this game anymore,* she thought before pointing to the starkly rendered highlights on her eyes, cheekbones and lips.  "Remember? According to Ms. Thompson, I, uhmm, was a bit too colorful for the breakfast table this morning," she added with what she hoped was a self-deprecating grin.

"Oh. . .OH, I see," Marie finally managed after following the student's gesture and recalling Jane's use of the special deep-dying cosmetics.  She gave Victoria a more careful examination and then nodded in understanding.  "Yes.  You tried to paint pastels over the brighter colors, didn't you?" she asked.  At Victoria's nod of admission, the Frenchwoman smiled gently.  "Full marks for trying, dear, but you can't cover up such intense colors with lighter ones, anymore than you could cover up dark colored walls with plain white paint - you make just the tiniest mistake and the dark shows through like a sore thumb."

"So what SHOULD I have done?  Would any of this stuff," and Victoria waved her hand over the tube-and-pot-covered vanity table, "have done me any good this morning?  Or was this just another of those unpassable tests of hers?" 

The sharp edge in the young person's voice brought Marie back to her role in this drama directed by Jane Thompson - that of apparent guide/companion to the student.  "No such thing," she retorted more briskly.  "You simply needed to take a different path to achieve your goal.  Instead of hiding the color, you need to use more color to shade, blend and ultimately tone-down what you already have on.  That way, any mistakes are not so obvious.  Like this."  

Almost operating on automatic now, Marie stretched her hand out to make her first selection only to freeze in place when yet another announcer began yelling over the radio, announcing the catastrophic collapse of the second World Trade Tower and conjecturing on the potential loss of human life.  It was the last straw for the very softhearted woman, and she broke down into wracking sobs. "I. . . I can't do this," she finally whispered.  "I just can't."

With a gentleness that would later surprise both of them, Victoria reached up and took the hand that still hovered over the ornate vanity table.  "Why don't we let this go until another time?" she asked, her own voice cracking with emotion. "I don't think I'd remember much of these lessons anyway."

Suddenly, the two were locked in a tight, grief-sharing embrace; offering and accepting comfort in ways that neither would have believed possible mere hours ago.

When they finally broke apart, both knew that something fundamental had changed between them, although neither could quite describe how or what.  For several more moments they regarded each other through tear-damp eyes, their hands gripping the other's forearms, their bodies still close, as they sought to maintain that comforting physical and emotional contact just a while longer.  "Well," was all Marie could manage as she finally broke eye-contact with Victoria.

"Why?" the young person managed to get out.

"Why what, dear?" Marie asked.  "Why did I fall apart?"

"No. .. no, not that . .  I mean, why did whoever did that. . .," and her eyes went to the radio before coming back to stare starkly into Marie's own dark ones, "Why did they do such a horrible thing?!?"

Marie sighed.  "I don't know why," she admitted.  "Some might say they have issues with the United States and that justifies them striking at us anyway they can."

"But they didn't strike against the people who make the decisions, or who they have issues with," Victoria replied.  "The people in those towers were . . were just ordinary folks. If they wanted to fight us, surely they could have picked a better target."

Marie's eyes flashed black with anger.  "Ha!  They're not after a fight, they're after fear.  They know they can't really fight us because they'd lose and they can't allow themselves to appear weak.  Other people's fear makes them SEEM powerful, makes them FEEL powerful, but the truth is that they're just cowards. That's all they are - coward, plain and simple.  They think that someone has hurt them, and okay, so maybe that is true. Perhaps by not giving them something they wanted but did not really deserve - whatever - but they are too cowardly to strike back at the ones who have 'harmed' them, even by their own idiotic definitions of 'harm'.  So they strike at the innocent and helpless instead. 

"But . . that makes no sense."

"Who said something this. . . abominable has to make sense?" Marie snorted.  "Someone, I think it was Stalin, said that the purpose of terrorism is to terrorize - to make ordinary people more afraid of the terrorists than the terrorists are of the ordinary people. They seek to make the normal everyday life too frightening; they want to deprive their victims of something they value in order to elevate themselves and their cause."

"But you called them cowardly," Victoria countered.  "They - the ones who flew the planes into the buildings - they just died for their cause, didn't they?  I mean, they had to know they would die when they crashed the plane directly into the buildings, right?"

"Phaugh!"  Marie gave a derisive toss of her dark hair. "Suicide has often been considered the 'coward's way out' and for a very good reason.  A quick death is a *lot* easier for THOSE types than truly working to solve the *real* problems we face.  Those animals didn't suffer, and knew they wouldn't.  Don't tell me that showed any courage." 

"Still. . . " 

"Still, nothing, child," Marie interrupted firmly.  "I don't care if they all want to kill themselves.  But taking out their anger at someone THEY fear, by committing mass murder on defenseless third parties just because those people are easier targets, well, that's just plain cowardice."

"I. . . I see," Victoria finally managed to grit out.  Swallowing hard, she eased further back from Marie, at last letting go of the other woman.  "Ummmm, Ms. Thompson said I was also to help you in the kitchen - for lunch preparations."
Marie considered that, and then shook her head.  "Let's take a pass on that for today, Victoria.  I need some time by myself for a bit, and besides, lunch is going to be very simple today.  I'm not up to preparing anything more complicated than Campbell's soup and a sandwich."  At the surprised lift of the younger person's brows, Marie felt a grin twitch. "I'll tell Jane it was my idea.  You try to rest until lunchtime.  I think we'll all need some time to deal with this. . .this horror."