(OM) 11. Apologies Never to be Given
Whom do you owe an apology?
Her name was Melissa Keres.
She was my manager, my amanuensis, my right hand, my friend. She handled all the promotions, presentations, accounts and other business arrangements for my scent design firm, freeing me to create. She had a husband and a six-year-old son. She was thirty-three years old.
She was supposed to be on that transport. Not me.
Melissa had originally made arrangements to travel to Canceron herself, to handle the presentation and discussion at the Trias Neurological Institute, who were looking to contract my services. She was well prepared, thoroughly versed in my techniques along with scent psychology and physiology. The presentation would have been a walk for her.
Then, at the last minute-- almost literally the last minute, only two days before her scheduled departure --some mucky-muck at Trias decided that the assistant wasn't good enough. He needed to hear from The Woman Herself. I'm ashamed to admit that, when Melissa broke the news to me, I engaged in a bout of artistic temperament. I never blamed her, as such, but I made it crystal clear that I did not appreciate having my plans for the next five days pitched out the window.
But the contract was lucrative, the work very important, and we arranged to transfer the tickets to my name. When she took me to board the intra-colony passenger liner, I spoke little beyond necessities, still frustrated with the whole situation. She was her usual easygoing self, and promised to look after my cat and my plants while I was gone.
While I was gone. It's been three years now.
The Cylons genocidal attack on the Twelve Colonies destroyed almost everyone on the planets' surfaces and trapped the handful that survived. Those in space were trapped as well, forced to flee in what faster-than-light ships were left, lest we be mopped up by patrolling Cylon raiders. Forced to leave behind everyone and everything we knew, including my family, my children, my cat ... and Melissa.
Three years. All that time and I've never been able to decide: Do I owe Melissa an apology for that last snit, for tainting our final meeting with my attitude? Or do I owe it for not pitching a bigger snit, for not contacting Trias and making it clear that Melissa would be handling that presentation? Do I owe her for not making sure that she was one of the survivors?
I still don't know. But I sure as hell owe her something.
Muse: Kia Holtz
Fandom: OC from Battlestar Galactica '03
Word count: 419
Her name was Melissa Keres.
She was my manager, my amanuensis, my right hand, my friend. She handled all the promotions, presentations, accounts and other business arrangements for my scent design firm, freeing me to create. She had a husband and a six-year-old son. She was thirty-three years old.
She was supposed to be on that transport. Not me.
Melissa had originally made arrangements to travel to Canceron herself, to handle the presentation and discussion at the Trias Neurological Institute, who were looking to contract my services. She was well prepared, thoroughly versed in my techniques along with scent psychology and physiology. The presentation would have been a walk for her.
Then, at the last minute-- almost literally the last minute, only two days before her scheduled departure --some mucky-muck at Trias decided that the assistant wasn't good enough. He needed to hear from The Woman Herself. I'm ashamed to admit that, when Melissa broke the news to me, I engaged in a bout of artistic temperament. I never blamed her, as such, but I made it crystal clear that I did not appreciate having my plans for the next five days pitched out the window.
But the contract was lucrative, the work very important, and we arranged to transfer the tickets to my name. When she took me to board the intra-colony passenger liner, I spoke little beyond necessities, still frustrated with the whole situation. She was her usual easygoing self, and promised to look after my cat and my plants while I was gone.
While I was gone. It's been three years now.
The Cylons genocidal attack on the Twelve Colonies destroyed almost everyone on the planets' surfaces and trapped the handful that survived. Those in space were trapped as well, forced to flee in what faster-than-light ships were left, lest we be mopped up by patrolling Cylon raiders. Forced to leave behind everyone and everything we knew, including my family, my children, my cat ... and Melissa.
Three years. All that time and I've never been able to decide: Do I owe Melissa an apology for that last snit, for tainting our final meeting with my attitude? Or do I owe it for not pitching a bigger snit, for not contacting Trias and making it clear that Melissa would be handling that presentation? Do I owe her for not making sure that she was one of the survivors?
I still don't know. But I sure as hell owe her something.
Muse: Kia Holtz
Fandom: OC from Battlestar Galactica '03
Word count: 419