Disclaimer:  
	By now you should all know that I'm not Ikeda and will not
be any time soon, which means that this character isn't mine (*darn*)
sadly just like Oscar--I will just have to deal with it.



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Dealing With It
by Aria(crune@coqui.net)



 
  	I stared at the crimson stain with loathing that I reserve for my

 worst enemies.  Why me?, I ask why me?   
 
    	But no one answers.  That doesn't surprise me, no one ever does.  This is

 my pain and my cross and I bear it alone. . .like a man. 
 
    	That never failed to induce sarcastic laughter on my part.  Facing a 

woman's trouble like a man--somebody *somewhere* had to be laughing as well. 

Perhaps the resentment came from my childhood.  I look back nostalgically to

the days of not knowing or caring about my sex. When the word 'boy' and 

'girl' meant next to nothing. 
     
    	Ah, but nostalgia is yet another weakness of my sex, another weakness 

for me--of many. 
 
    	Granny told me the meaning of the stain long ago.  I can't recall exactly

 her word, but something along the lines of having babies.  Babies...I almost

don't know what to think.  I  managed to remain naive until I turned about 

thirteen or twelve and even then, I had never understood or even cared about

'matters of adults' as Granny called them.  Father kept me sheltered, and I

could say my innocence was lost watching a mare give birth.    
 
    	It scared me.  A lot.  I remember whispering to Andre: 
 
    	"How terrible". 
 
    	He had a weird look and said: "No it isn't, it's actually beautiful". 
 
    	I looked at the mess and shuddered visibly. 
 
    	He sensed this and said: "Look at it a foal, a baby".  There was a 

sort of wonder in his voice. 
 
    	"I dunno", I said not understanding, he was always more sensitive 

than I. 
 
    	"Life", his eyes glittered, "to create life is. . .amazing.  You can

do that you know", he said.  Was it me or was there a twinge of envy? 
 
    	I stretched: "If it's anything like that I don't want to". 
 
    	"Don't be a baby", he said, clearly irritated. 
 
    	I shrugged.  "If you want a baby, you go through that". 
 
    	"I would if I could", he said and stood up ready to leave the stable. 
 
    	Now he had my attention.  "What do you mean by that?"  I asked. 
 
    	"Nothing", he mumbled and began walking away. 
 
    	I couldn't let him of the hook that easy, so I chased him yelling  

at him to tell me, stooping as low as actual blackmail. 
 
    "I'll tell Granny about the cookies you stole", I said smugly. 
 
    	Andre blached visibly, probably feeling already Granny's strong 

fingers on his arm. 
 
    And so he told me.  Blushing and stuttering, he told me all he knew of 

making and giving birth to a baby.  The birth, I had seen,  but the rest, you

 could say, made quite an impression, so much that I chose to forget. 
 
    	Until I received the 'crimson visitor' three years later.
 
   	It became unavoidable to remember what Andre had said then.  I wished

 that I had never forced him to tell me.  I really _didn't_want_to_know. But

there it was, once a month a reminder that yes I was a woman and all that it

implied.  I had no problem with women in general, I just didn't see myself as

 one of them, I didn't want to be one of them--all I knew was: they were 

weak, superficial and subjected to the worst rules. 
 
    	And babies--the thought of actually giving birth was terrifying and I

felt oddly detached from it, as if the matter was unrelated to me.  With 

time, I accepted it was just like falling in love--something that was not 

meant to happen to me. The summer of my seventeenth birthday Granny said: 
 
    	"So Lady Oscar you will leave heirs to the Jarjayes family right?" 
 
    	I thought about my sisters--they had made enough heirs for everyone,

 I didn't see why Granny would ask that question. 
 
    	Laughing, I stated the obvious, "Well someone's going to have to 

marry me first and I don't want THAT coming anytime soon".  
 
    	Her eyes clouded and she left the room murmuring about making the 

house presentable for guests.  I stared after her, wondering, why she had 

left so suddenly and why she seemed so gloomy all of a sudden.  Andre had a 

similar reaction, when I narrated the event, which only puzzled me more and 

still does.
 
    	What I do is simply resent the crimson stain.  Resent what it implies, 

resent the pain it demands of me--my unavoidable burden.  Then again being a 

woman and acting like a man is a burden itself, so I do the same thing for 

both:
 
    	I deal with it.
 
    
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