Keepin' it Together
04 Aug 2016Kyndi the Badass Space Chick
I had that dream again. The one where I wake up and the sheets are soaked in cold sweat.
The one with Mom and Dad.
It's not even a bad dream, not really. It's just Mom, Dad and little me, exploring the galaxy in the Asp that was my childhood home. But there's no happiness in being there again. I know what's going to happen. I can't warn them. I can't save them. It's just me, trapped in a "good" moment, knowing how shitty everything is fated to become. And the worst part? The big, fat, fuck-you reminder of how things used to be.
Before the solitude. Before the strange men and the shady deals. Before the steady o-head habit.
Before all this.
It's kinda fucked up, you know? Here I am, in my own spaceship, cruising the bubble, free to do whatever I want. I'm strong. I'm independent. I'm successful.
I'm what parents say that they hope their daughters will become. Ain't that some shit?
And I'll admit: I like being me. Hell, most days I love it.
But then the dreams return.
I've given up trying to figure out what triggers them. They've happened after three joints, and they've happened after a week of sobriety. They've happened after a sweaty, exhausting night of love, and they've happened when I'm the only human around in a one-hundred light year radius.
Sometimes I go months without them. Sometimes they're back-to-back.
And the head doctors I've seen? Please. They all say the same thing: trauma from my youth, take these pills, get counseling. Blah, blah, bullshit blah. It's the 34th century, and we still don't know what makes us tick. Even the doctors. Especially the doctors.
Can I tell you a secret, doc? Everyone's got problems. Everyone. They lost a relative. They were hit as a kid. They got fat after settling down. They're unlucky in love. They hate their jobs.
Everyone's got their own sack of bullshit to carry. This just happens to be mine.
Doesn't even bother me most days, honestly. I'm busy, except when I choose not to be. I've got it pretty good. Sometimes, just because I can, I park my ship next to some beautiful scenery and light up a fat ol' joint. Most people can't just do that. But I can, and it's never once gotten old.
But then the dreams return.
Oh hell. This is what happens when my contact is late. I sit in my Cobra, the blackness of space fills my view, and my thoughts drift to the maudlin.
Ugh. Pull it together, Kyndi Jane. Some operator you are.
See? There he is, jumping in a few clicks away, still flying that beat-up Adder, and still making the same excuses as always. Nice to see that some things never change. Yeah, yeah. Just scoop up the merchandise and transmit the payment already.
And... there it is. The chime of fifty grand hitting my account. Time to pack it in and call it a day. Maybe I'll pamper myself a little. Gregor at the Bear Den does give a good shiatsu...
... and I did just score some primo Panem leaf...
Aw, hell with it. I think I'll head to Novitski, say hi to Dan and Monty, and check out from the 'verse for a night. If there's a better way for a girl to clear her head, I don't know what it is. I'll drift off to sleep in the middle of a giant pad in a private room, my body relaxed from the massage and the o-head, my thoughts blissful and serene. It's my cozy little sanctuary in a crazy, messed-up line of work, and it's never let me down. There, I'm safe, I'm among friends, and everything is A-okay.
But then the dreams return.
