DUNNE, nathaniel alexander

TAKE WHAT IS LEFT OF ME

AND MAKE IT A BEAUTIFUL MELODY

NATHANIEL ALEXANDER DUNNE
YOU'D BE MY REMEDY

nineteen ,.,., cia ,.,., high school graduate / spy ,.,., alex pettyfer
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He dreamed.

He didn't know what was going on, but he knew he was laying down. There was a voice talking to him, one that sounded just a bit too young to be a parent, or someone of that sort. He felt himself giggling, and reaching his arms out toward the voice.

"It's all right, Natey, I've got you."

--

This dream was a bit clearer. It was almost like a bit of the fog had been removed, but not by much. He couldn't differentiate between deeper voices, just that they were loud and they didn't seem to be happy.

He wailed.

"Nate! Nate, please, stop crying, please."

It was that voice again. It sounded tired. Nate stopped crying. The voice breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you. You're okay, you're safe. If they would stop arguing, maybe I would be, too."

He didn't understand, but he snuggled closer, and warm arms wrapped themselves around him. Home.

--

Now, he could make out eyes. Blue, the clearest blue that Nate had ever seen. When he saw those eyes, he knew that everything was okay. It was a pair of eyes, a feeling of warmth, and a voice that he clung to.

It was the voice that sung him lullabies and kept him calm that he remembered the most. Remembered, dreamt, he didn't know the difference anymore. Either way, he held onto it as strongly as he could.

"Hush little baby don't say a word, momma's gunna buy you a mockingbird," the voice would start out, but Nate would interrupt, he would always interrupt.

"Momma?"

"She's not here. But she loves you tons," the voice would say, and he'd be satisfied, and he'd shut up, and the eyes would smile.

--

"I love you, okay Nate? Never forget that, little man."

And then - the voice, the eyes, the warmth - was gone.

Dear Voice,

This is sufficiently awkward.

I don't really know who you are, or even if you really exist. But, um, desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

My therapist said that I need a "release", and that I need to "practice being open". Well, this is how I'll be open. With someone whose name I do not know, whose identity I have no clue[or proof] of, and who I don't know. Plus, you might not even exist.

I don't think this is what Dr. Michaels had in mind.

Oops.

Crap, didn't really introduce myself.

Nate. My name's Nate. Well, actually, it's Nathaniel, but that's just a mouthful. That I hate.

So it's Nate.

I'm an only child. "Adopted", according to the government. My dad works for the CIA.

Bombshell - so do I.

"But you're only sixteen!" you must be saying. Most normal people would, if they knew. But the thought of age sort-of starts to get old after you've been here for nine years.

My dad's the "throw you out into the ocean and see if you sink or swim" type of guy. Obviously.

Needless to say, I swam. Unnaturally well, actually. Turns out I'm pretty good at things most kids that aren't in gangs don't think about. I don't know if that's creepy or cool.

I've basically got to fill up this notebook, so this will turn into a regular thing. None of this will be sent, since I don't exactly know what your address is - or if you exist.

Still kind-of stuck on the existing part. Ignore me.

Hopefully, you're patient. And understanding. Being a good listener would be cool, too.

That's ... it, for now, I think.

- N

Dear Voice,

It really annoys me when people insult Irish people. Not even for something legitimate ... but just for being Irish.

You'd think that after half of the country shipped it out to America to avoid dying via famine, they'd get respect for choosing the land of the free and home of the brave.

Apparently, that's not how it works.

I'm Irish. Dad said that he knows, for sure, that I'm a first generation kid, too. Well, through my mom. My biological mom was Irish, and my biological dad was American. Dad says that he doesn't know exactly what he was. Not that it matters.

I recognize a few Irish words here and there. Like they were said to me when I was really little, and I just don't know how to speak them, but I understand them.

It's weird.

I was never good with languages. I don't really have a good memory in general. Dad says that that's good, because I don't remember life before him. He said it's safer that way. It's kind of weird.

Then again, what isn't weird around here?

Even classes today were weird. I bailed on math because I had to be briefed on an op that would send me, with Dad and another woman, into California for about two weeks. It was kind of stupid. I wished I'd been pulled out in English, instead.

Shakespeare is not only boring, but pointless. And you can tell him I said that myself.

It's odd how things work here. When you disappear from one of your classes, no one asks about you. It's like you weren't even there in the first place. Everyone's a little too accustomed to people disappearing - or in worse cases, dying - to question when someone is privately called to speak with some sort of higher up.

I've never liked the higher ups. They wear these starchy suits and they look like they're constipated all the time. It's almost like they're robots trying to be human, and failing. Err, maybe that's what they actually are. I've never seen them eat or drink anything, and there's no proof that they sleep.

I'll think on that on the plane ride to SoCal.

- N

Dear Voice,

Today was my seventeenth birthday and it kind-of really seriously sucked.

I didn't have any lessons or anything today, and I didn't have any ops or paperwork to do or anything - I actually had the day off.

So I wandered around Manhattan, by myself, and didn't really do anything.

Close friends don't exist in my world. There's no one you can really call "close", or anyone you can really trust. At least, that's what we're taught. Days off aren't really days off because most people don't have anyone to spend them with.

The CIA life kind-of means you're choosing to be alone. I mean, look at my dad. All he's got is me, and I was adopted. What does that say about how good he's doing?

Not that he really cares about me.

Or cares about anything in general.

... I don't want to turn into my father. Even if he's not genetically mine, the one that is genetically mine can't be much better if I was adopted.

My Dad tries to tell me that my parents loved me at some point. He says that sometimes, things just get in the way of how life should go if it were perfect.

I think this is the one thing I don't believe him on. Seventeen years ago on October third, I was born. At seven, I was adopted.

How could they keep me for seven years but not love me? It's not like I was given up as a baby. I was given up at seven. How can you get attached to a child and then give up them up seven years later?

There wasn't any love there. I'm glad I barely remember it. I'd probably be more screwed up than I am now if I did.

- N

Dear Voice,

Her name is Zaria.

She's twenty. She's in college. We're dating.

And she is kind-of sort-of maybe a civilian.

I know, I know - stupid. Foolish. Reckless. I'll be putting her in danger. I get it. I've told myself the same thing a thousand times over.

But the thing is ... I really like her. She's genuine. She's sweet. She actually cares about what I have to say, and doesn't just brush me off. She's easy to talk to. She's ... one of the best people I know.

I don't think I'm going to ruin it just because of my paranoia. I can protect her. I'm not a child.

Right?

- N

Dear Voice,

Eighteen should feel a lot different than seventeen, except it doesn't.

I didn't really get a happy birthday from Ari. It was more like she started to panic because I'm an "air sign" and she's an "earth sign" and they're apparently "extremely incompatible".

Someone alert the presses.

I think she actually takes stock in that zodiac crap. But it's not like that's what's going to destroy our relationship. Things haven't been okay for a while.

Chicks are complicated. You try to be a gentleman, they say that they're independent. You try to open the door for them, they say they have rights and that they can open the door for themselves, but when you try to give them their rights, like not paying for a coffee that they ordered, you're being a jerk. I don't get it.

Dating shouldn't be this difficult.

But for her, this relationship? It's more like she's glad that she has someone's arm she can hang off of. I've been shown off like a trophy to all her friends, and they all ooh and ahh and I think it's total crap because I'm not something that can be won. I haven't shown her off and she gets irritated because she hasn't met my friends, but it's not like I can tell her why I don't have friends and even if I did have anyone to show her off to, I couldn't, because I shouldn't be dating.

If I tell someone I have a girlfriend, it's in passing, and they never care enough to ask. Thank God.

Things are slow. A little too slow. My therapist says that's a good thing. I guess I'll have to see for myself.

- N

Dear Voice,

The weirdest things always happen to me after a long-term undercover op, and despite sleeping with her, my girlfriend now thinks I'm gay.

It's been a long time since I've written to you, Voice. Well, then. I'll catch you up to speed.

I'm nineteen now. Ages sort-of blend together now and birthdays seem stupid, but that's okay. Isn't age only a number, anyway? How do you act nineteen?

But that's besides the point.

Now that I'm over eighteen, however, I'm being sent out on bigger ticket operations. Not that I mind. Things kind of get boring when you're done with school but still live at home, no matter how little supervision I get there.

I've always thanked anyone that was listening for the creation of cable.

I've been searching for my own apartment. I don't really want to live at home anymore, not only because Dad's being really weird lately, but because he was talking about moving to Virginia. Now, I don't really get too attached to things[what spy does?] but New York is my home. And I'm staying here.

It's not like I don't make my own money. It's not like I don't have money saved up. I could make it on my own.

I haven't told Ari yet. I wasn't really planning on doing it at all, really.

Speaking of Ari, I met her father. I didn't realize that he was the type of man that walked around in a suit and talked about business on a cell phone all day, but it explains a lot about her. Even if I'd met him by accident, being at her place when he got home, she still looked completely embarrassed by his behavior. I wanted to say something, because she would never get a chance to meet my father, not in a million years, but I thought that ignoring it might have been a better idea.

I've figured out that sleeping together and calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend is pretty much the extent to which our relationship goes. Which is ... I'd like to say that it's only disappointing, but ...

How could she think that that's all I'm good for? And if she's only interested in a physical relationship and someone to show off, why did she have to choose someone that was obviously interested in more than that?

Now it's more like I stay with her because it's better to have someone than no one at all. Even with the people I can call "friends" now, Ari and I have been together for two years now. I know her better than anyone. Maybe she doesn't know me better than anyone, but ... isn't that what a spy is supposed to do? Act?

It sucks. I'll be the first one to admit it. All the glory that James Bond gives off in the movies, the Jason Bournes of the world, they'll all be very serious when they say that it isn't all it's cracked up to be. People at the CIA like to pretend that they're happy with their lives, and maybe some of them actually are, but there's nothing to be happy about when all you do is constantly lie to the people that you love.

... My therapist isn't seeing this one. Nope.

That's not even all. One of the weirdest things happened to me recently, and I really don't know whether to think of it as a good thing or a bad thing.

You see, usually after an op, I'll do my debriefing, finish all the paperwork needed, and then pass out for one to two days. When that's done with, usually I'll hang out with Ari, or something to that effect. When she'd asked me to come to a Starbucks a little bit too close to her house for my comfort, and I'd already been waiting there for thirty minutes, after calling her three times to see where she was and if she was okay but getting her voicemail three for three, a man walked over.

The minute I saw him, I could tell that there was something familiar about him. I still haven't placed what it was, either. He asked if he could join me. Figuring that there was no harm in it, I said yes. He sat down. He introduced himself as James.

For once, I actually introduced myself to someone I didn't know as Nate.

And we begun to talk. For no apparent reason.

This sounds completely insane. Probably because, well, it is. I can't explain what happened or why, but I connected with this random guy. Explaining it to anyone else, I learned, was a stupid idea.

When he said he had to go, he left me with his personal number. A number, he said, that I could call if I needed someone, was in danger, or even to talk. He seemed ... hopeful? That I would actually use it. It went in my phone immediately, and the napkin was ripped up.

When Ari finally arrived, an hour and a half after she was supposed to meet me, I explained to her what happened.

She assumed that I was completely lusting over this man, and that I was gay, something that she "had always known". I think that was the first time that I ever got up and walked away from her, and ignored her calling out after me.

I have the number, still. It's been two weeks, and I still haven't called it, because ... what if I'm completely delusional? What if this man is trying to kill me, what if he's a part of some assassin's ring or something? I didn't get that from him, but ... I don't know. I'll have to think on it, Voice.

I wish you actually existed. You'd probably give the best advice.

- N