The PKSP Archive - Sins of the Father by envoy (envoy@mjc1.demon.co.uk) --- Disclaimer: 'They' aren't mine, okay? (The story is though) --- Am I being self-centred? I ask myself that a lot. All this me, me, me; all this complaining about what I am not, what I did not do and what I cannot do. Things that I cannot undo. I know that I have had things a lot easier than most of the crew; I shudder at the tales of Maquis hardship and I am shocked by the violent recollections Tom has of his paternal relationship. At least I try to be, *when* he tells me. Sometimes we talk about our parents; he smiles and teases me about mine. He accuses me of being 'the perfect son'. But perfection is subjective and all too false. "Ensign!" The Captain's voice breaks in. They are all staring at me: Tom amused, B'Elanna sardonic, the Captain irate and Chakotay giving me that impenetrable gaze which makes me uneasy. He always seems to look at me like that. The Captain is waiting, her irritation growing by the minute, and I can feel myself blushing- how long has she been calling me? "Captain, uh, ah, I'm sorry," I stammer. "Try and pay some attention, Ensign," she reprimands Yes, Mam! It could only happen to me; I am sure she has something against me, because for all the responsibility she has given me she refuses to give me that little bit extra to prove myself. Because if I proved myself she would have to reward me? Maybe the difference between the 'paper' Ensign Kim and the one she got is too much. So sorry to disappoint. Again. Sometimes I think she regrets the responsibility she *has* given me, and it all goes back to one point; the wormhole. The excitement, the anticipation, the renewed hope it sent through the crew and I. Only it wasn't to be. The Captain spent weeks trying to re stimulate morale. She wasn't successful. And I blame myself- for convincing myself and everyone else that we would be going home. I failed. I failed everyone. But the unbearable part is falling short of my standards. I guess I just answered my question: I *am* self- centred. "Dismissed,". If only it were that easy. I rise with the rest of them and notice Chakotay making a beeline for me. I want to get away, but it is too late- he has made eye contact and he has made his purpose clear. Chakotay is the self-appointed counsellor on board: how are you? You're acting a little strange, is everything alright? Would you like to talk about it? Talk about *what*? My inferiority complex? My lack of confidence? That I am not the person I am taken to be? Take your pick- just keep your spirit guide and mystical melange away from me! Not that discussing it would be of any help- I could not change. If I were to I would be altering the dynamic. No, it is because I am selfish; too scared to change, too scared of how people would react. "Ensign, can you and I talk?" It sounds like a request, but how can it be when the first thing he throws in my face is rank? I nod and step into line with him. "I noticed you were distracted in there. In fact, I've noticed it quite a lot recently. I want you to know that if there is something bothering you, you can talk to me about it,". I am so tempted to say something, to let him know what is wrong, but I cannot. It would not be right, and how could he understand? He would tell me not to be stupid and to get on with it. "Thank you, Sir,". I blank him off and walk on. I don't know where I am walking to until I arrive: the Brig. Here I am alone; here I am myself. I pull my fingers along the bare wall until I reach one of the bunks. Here I lie down and stare upward- I would say stare into space, but for my already being there. I wonder what it would be like to be the kind of person who could not leave the Brig as he wished. Imagine the reaction; imagine the murmuring comments: 'such a sweet guy', 'i never would have thought..'. Imagine the failure and reprisals. Imagine the failure. Hell. I want to scream everything away; I want to feel something instead of the nothingness of duty. Has it come to this? Too weak to risk alienating people and too weak to put a stop to the weakness. I want to feel something instead of numbed emotions and dictated actions. I slap myself for being so stupid, so petty and so self-absorbed. Look at Tom! Listen to the awfulness of his life! Think how lucky you are. Lucky enough not to be hit or shouted at. Just stabbed by silence. "I got nineteen out of twenty, Father,". "What happened to the other mark?" And then the silence of disapproval and disappointment; the silent look telling me I have failed *him*, I have failed the family, I have failed *him*. My mother is quiet and pretending in the other room. "I expect more of you, Harry,". So soft, so soft. So deadly. Gentle reproofs which wormed their way to my core: not good enough, not good enough, never good enough. What the Fuck do you want? Blood? Would you like me to rip my heart out? I never said that. I should have. "We have given up so much for you, son,". We? Or you? It was never about me; it was about you. It was always me doing what you had not; it was always me doing what you could not. I should have said that too. "Father, I got full marks,". A look; a stern look. And then the silence. It was the silence which was killing me; the knowledge that I could not rely upon you. "Of course your Father loves you Harry, it's just..,". It's just. As much as I love you, mom, you were the willing collaborator. Remember the music? A danse macabre; for him the studies and for you the music. Back and forth without rest. And even here I cannot escape you; the music still plays. Each day of my life it plays, through every word I speak, through every sentence I think. It makes me who I am. I wish I could change the tune, but when I try to I see your face; so soft and disappointed. And it rips at me. I cannot hurt you. I play on. I hope you're happy, mom. Duty and honour. Just like you taught me. Mom. Respect and perseverance. Just like you wanted. Success. It's too hollow. But now your perfect son is dead. And *I* am here. I should be able to be who I want to be. I should. But I am unable, because of duty and honour and respect and perseverance and the importance of success. What of the importance of happiness? You perfect son is dead. Without him so am I. "Mr. Kim,". The controlled monotone of Tuvok interrupts. I wish I could be like him; controlled, able to quash my emotions to concentrate on the job. Some people say he is cold, but he isn't- he is a Vulcan. The strange thing is that of all the people on board he is the only one I could talk to; he is the only one who would be objective. I envy him the logic he brings to the illogical. He is waiting for me to acknowledge him. He is probably curious as to why I am here, but he doesn't let it show. He never lets it show. I stand up and he continues: "The Captain would like to see you,". He leaves the rooms and I follow his example. "I'm waiting, Mr. Kim,". So are we all. Her voice is hard and disappointed; her eyes are steely and tinged with revulsion? I guess I couldn't blame her. "Do you have an explanation as to *why* you were in the Brig when you should have been on the Bridge?" What can I say? Not the truth- it is too close and she would not be interested; she is the Captain and 'must retain a certain distance from the crew'. How can I explain? I can't even explain it to myself- why do I let these irrelevancies control me? Why does my Father's censure continue to mean so much? It should not. "I'm sorry, Captain. I've been having a few difficulties lately. I..,". "I'm aware of that. Harry. The Commander and I have discussed this," she sighs "I'll let it go this time, Ensign, but I will be keeping an eye on you. I suggest you sort yourself out,". I incline my head and she indicates that I may leave. I turn my back and then she speaks softly and deadly: "I expect more of you, Harry,". --- The End