No rest in sight.

Dearest Diary,

Sometimes I honestly wonder why I decided to become an ICC agent. I have almost no time to myself. No spare moments to take a leisurely jaunt to Macy's. No extra minutes to run over to the local spa and let them luxuriate me with haircuts, manicures, pedicures, and massages. No relaxing dinner hour to grab Sam and head to the local sushi bar.

Instead, I order my clothing on-line. I buy home manicure/pedicure kits to make sure my nails remain in top condition. I snip my split ends on my own, with the aid of several excellent step-by-step websites. I nibble at the food my men bring around, and I sigh at the absence of high class waiters. I haven't found the substitute for Jean-Luc, my masseus in Atlanta. Perhaps it's time I taught those men how to unknot my muscles. Think they'd fight over who got to knead me first?

I am no longer the typical Southern belle, heart of my hearts. By typical, I speak of Scarlett O'Hara. Of COURSE I've seen "Gone With the Wind," dear diary. All of us Southern gals have. We strive to emulate the image of the dark-haired, petite beauty. Strong, witty, and beautiful...even in the face of starvation and war. Now, granted, she had a few less than admirable traits. Her tongue needed a good smacking, she pined after a married man, and she refused to admit her feelings for a man she knew she loved from the moment she saw him. I'm nothing like her in that respect.

Or am I?

Oh, keeper of my secret thoughts...I am like her. The words that flow out of my mouth, though schooled, disciplined, and cultured can sometimes be as cruel as Scarlett's. And though I've never pined after a married man, I honestly wouldn't put it past myself; though not in my current state of infatuation to one Agent Miyagi, whom I didn't acknowledge having feelings for until those feelings almost crushed my heart with their intensity.

I'm passionate, stubborn, fiery...I'm selfish. I want things and I'm not afraid to go to dire means to get them, including lying and using that ability to lie to my advantage. But just like Scarlett, I care about people. I have a Southern heart, and I stick to my promises.

All of these traits make me Sari. And even if the ICC takes me away from the luxuries that I'm used to, it will never change who I am...or who I aim to become.

I won't let it.

Spoiled child.

A To-Do List for Miss Seraphim "Sari" AnnaBelle Mitchell

-on this, the night before her sixteenth birthday-

1. Convince Daddy that letting me go on the Caribbean Cruise with my bestest girlfriends over Spring Break is a good idea. After all, how would he explain my absence to their fathers? Would he tell them he didn't have the money, or that he didn't trust his only precious child in the company of THEIR daughters? I think not.

2. Explain to Momma that owning 22 pairs of Prada shoes with matching purses should never prohibit me from owning more. I mean, good GLORY...just think of all of the outfits I'll be getting from my friends tomorrow at my party. How can she expect me to just use the shoes and purses I have to match them?!

3. Whisper the notion into Hank's ear that just because we're not going steady doesn't mean he can't give me jewelry. Heavens to betsy...a girl has to have diamond earrings for every day of the week, right? And I just couldn't live if I didn't have my sparklies. What's his Daddy's paycheck for if it isn't for pleasing lil' ol' me?

4. Sweet-talk Mr. Brenner into letting me write a make-up report rather than taking the test next week. The usual bribing with brownies and his favorite coffee is seeming to wear off. I'll need to change my tactics. I wonder if I could seduce him, make him kiss me, and then blackmail him into changing my grade? ...Oh rotten peaches. I can't be that evil.

5. Wear all of the outfits my friends get me tomorrow once, return them, and then buy new ones (with them coming on the shopping trip of course). I'll need to be extra-doodly careful with those garments. Or make Miss Jessie take them to the drycleaners. Accidents do happen, especially at those parties on the West Side.

That'll do for now. I may add more later. But I'm already late for my all-day spa appointment to prepare for my party. Daddy sprang for it. Lana is probably downstairs waiting for me as I write this. I wonder if he added the seaweed wrap? I'll check on my way out. Ta for now, checklist of mine.

Sewing class.

So apparently, dear diary, my lovely body was built for conversations, love-making, and research. It was not built to withstand bullets. We already learned that it definitely doesn't like mind-driven, green, lightsabre-like blades. Bullets, not-so-much either.

We got into a confrontation at Langston Shipping, you see. I attempted to sweet talk the man at the front desk, but unfortunately, it didn't work out this time like I'd planned. We got information, but the information came with a heavy price. When we knew we were going to get into a fight, I immediately took cover away from what I assumed was going to be the main battlezone. Unfortunately, I'm not invisible, and those blasted men with guns saw Trance and I behind the desk. All my boys were death angels in combat. I thank sweet potatoes that Leon wasn't seriously injured with the flashbang...I could see in his eyes that he felt guilty for my wounds, but they were no one's fault but my own.

I did pull beads on two of them. One...I could've killed, had it not been for Sam's quick medicinal miracles. And speaking of that, that boy must've taken some sort of sewing class when he was younger...because Lord Almighty if he didn't stitch me up so delicately that I know my scars will be minimal. Maybe that's why Momma made me enroll in embroidery. So I could eventually stitch up people in combat. I'll have to pump that boy for information. If I'm going to get hurt in every situation we're in like this, I should at least understand how to stop my own bleeding. Such weakness and reliance upon others isn't suited for a Mitchell.

We head out soon to sea to a gunfight that won't be as small as this one. Give me strength, heart of my hearts, to stand next to these men of mine and take the blows that are dealt me.

Fanciness.

Some people think that the "fancy" South has died. Well, pardon me, darlings...but I beg to differ. And differ strongly.

I grew up in a fairly new suburb of Atlanta by the name of Peachtree City. It was developed in 1957 when Flat Creek was dammed to create Lake Peachtree (by which our lovely little town got its name, of course). We didn't get our own zip code until 1972, and it took two more years for our first library to open. But by 1975, this humble Georgian town had already been named one of America's Best Suburbs in the Ladies Home Journal. McIntosh High School, my alma mater, opened its doors in 1981.

And you know that somewhat popular film Sweet Home Alabama? It starred that SCRUMPTIOUS man Josh Lucas. And that goodie-two-shoes Reese Witherspoon. Thank goodness she came to her senses at the end. Any man who kisses you when lightning strikes...is the man you need to marry (and stay married to). But I ramble. It was, of course, filmed in Peachtree City.

And who did Money magazine rank as the #8 Best Place to Live in all of America? Peachtree City.

I'm quite proud of my roots, dearest diary. Now, Peachtree City has its own little villages...five of them to be exact. There's Aberdeen, where Hank was from. Braelinn, which is where I learned how to play golf. All Southern gals know how to play golf. Glenloch, which has the most beautiful recreation center. And quite a few swimming holes tucked into its little pockets. And of course, there's Kedron, where my Daddy built his gorgeous plantation. The most recent building is taking place in West Side, which is where all of the well-to-do famous people reside. I've been to several parties over there, of course.

I digress from my original topic...this notion that the "fancy" South has diminished. Well I, along with nearly every beauty in my high school, was brought up right and proper in the debutante way of life. I know how to wear a girdle, and how to suck my breath in just enough so that I only see stars for a small portion of the evening. I know how to wear a bustle, and how to ballroom dance in the dress that goes over said bustle. I know which silverware to use at what time. I know how to get that last bit of soup out of my bowl without making a fool of myself and slurping it everywhere. I had so many etiquette lessons that I could almost teach etiquette myself.

And yes. I can walk across a room with a book balancing on the top of my head.

So if anyone tries to tell you that us "fancy" Southerners don't exist, please direct them to me. I'd be glad to...persuade them into changing their mind.

Late night wanderings.

It's past 3a, dear diary, and I can't sleep. I sit here at the hotel suite's desk, writing to you on my laptop that's been through so much and still, somehow, functions for me. The white fluffy robe is wrapped tightly around me. My knees are drawn up to my chin. My hair is caught up in that messy-yet-incredibly-sexy state that most men go weak-kneed for. The small glass to my right bears a paste of mint leaves and sugar, the only remnants of the drink I thought might help relax me. It didn't.

And through your speakers, a Southern songbird sings words to me that I've set on repeat. This is at least the tenth time I've listened to them...and I think it's helping. For in this song, she describes the man lying in the bed just behind that open bedroom door. The man that threatens every ounce of control I've ever had over my heart, and over myself. The man that I know, from the depth of my being, I could lose myself in. I don't know him completely. I don't know that I ever will. I see the past hurt and the broken spirit in his eyes; yet I also recognize the light in them that burns each time it sees me. And each successive time that light gets a little brighter.

Do I try to heal him? Can I hope that my love will somehow change him? I don't know that I have enough faith in myself for such things, heart of my heart. How do I take a risk on someone when I don't know if I can take a risk on myself? He's so close. So very, very close. He knows how I work, how I function. I can't hide from him. Can't lie. Can't have my mask. Can't push him away like all the others...

The tears flow so easily now. It's been...since Hank that they've come like this. And as I stare at his silent, sleeping form...so peaceful, so beautiful...I am torn. Help me now, dear diary. I don't know where else to turn.

He drowns in his dreams,
An exquisite extreme, I know.
He’s as damned as he seems;
And more heaven than a heart could hold.
And if I try to save him,
My whole world could cave in.
It just ain't right.
No, it just ain't right.

Oh, and I don't know.
I don't know what is after.
But he's so beautiful,
Such a beautiful disaster.
And if I could hold on
Through the tears and the laughter,
Would it be beautiful?
Or just a beautiful disaster.

He's magic and myth.
As strong as what I believe.
A tragedy with
More damage than a soul should see.
And do I try to change him?
So hard not to blame him.
Hold on tight.
Baby hold me tight.

Oh 'cause I don't know.
I don't know what is after.
But he’s so beautiful,
Such a beautiful disaster.
And if I could hold on
Through the tears and the laughter,
Would it be beautiful?
Or just a beautiful disaster.

I'm longing for love and the logical,
But he's only happy hysterical.
I'm waiting for some kind of miracle.
Waited so long.
So long.

He’s soft to the touch,
But frayed at the end he breaks.
He’s never enough,
And still he's more than I can take.

Oh 'cause I don't know.
I don't know what is after.
But he's so beautiful,
Such a beautiful disaster.
And if I could hold on
Through the tears and the laughter,
Would it be beautiful?
Or just a beautiful disaster.

He’s beautiful.
Such a beautiful disaster...


I want him, dear diary. All of him, broken as he is, even. Heaven knows, I do.

When I knew.

Throughout my childhood, I was always known as the one who'd "do anything." I was fearless. Unafraid. Arrogant, even. I was the first one to swing out on the frayed rope over the hole of muddy water. The first one to lay her pennies on the nearby train tracks (and always the last to leave before the train zoomed by). I took dares by the dozen. Protected my friends. And I always managed to come home with my hair as neatly styled as it had been, my clothes in place, and my face cleaned of any traces of dirt. Mother would've had it no other way. (I had stashes of extra clothes and cleaning supplies hidden all over the grounds of our estate.)

Not much has changed since then, dear diary. I still think I can do anything, and if I doubt it in the slighest, I push the envelope until it bulges and almost rips. I learned the value of tempering my arrogance during our last mission. That doesn't mean I won't jump at the next opportunity to risk my own neck for some hairbrained scheme that I (or my team) comes up with. It just means I might...pause before doing so.

But there was a specific moment when I realized that my life would forever be about almost dying. For that's what we're doing, heart of my heart, isn't it? Yes. We're alive. But every day we live, we edge treacherously close to our death. Why not walk that tightrope? Why not challenge it? Why not live through touching death? Strange words, I know...especially for someone as young as I am. But like I said. There was a moment that I knew that's how it would be.

I was 12. It was summer. And that week had been particularly hot and muggy (though heat and mugginess are quite typical for us Georgians). I was sitting on our old front porch with my best friend, Misty. We were drinking lemonade and weaving magnolias into crowns for each other to wear to the Magnolia Festival that evening. Each of us let out occasional giggles as we discussed which boys we would or would not be dancing with that evening (I was an early bloomer, remember?).

And then I heard an odd sound. It was some sort of a mixture between sandpaper rubbing together and air being released through a small pressure valve. Hissing. Rattling. I saw it then, rearing up mere inches from Misty's exposed ankle. Without thinking, I shoved her out of the way as it was striking and winced as its fangs sunk deep into my arm. And then my wince bubbled up into my throat as I let out a strangled scream. It was still embedded in my arm, its beady eyes glaring hatred at me. With a sneer, I wrapped my other hand around its cold, muscular body and tore it out, flinging droplets of blood across the porch. I smashed the snake again, and again, slamming its head into the wooden floor planks...until all that remained was a pinkish mass of gore.

The venom took its effect quickly, and the last thought I remember having is..."Does Misty know how to suck?"

Vulgar even then, dear diary. Though I didn't know it. The point is, I risked my life for her. I continue to risk my life today for others like Misty...and others who I don't know.

I just hope I don't have to face a snake in this lifetime. Ever. Again.

Continued.

I’m back, dear diary. Did you miss me? I’ll attempt to stay as far away as possible from the previous line of thinking. I don’t think you or I could handle another thought train like that. Neither can my stomach. But I’m all better now. Snuggled up on my pillow-top bed with my stuffed animals around me…that suede comforter Mom bought me a few months ago tucked under my chin. Coffee on the nightstand. And my fingers gliding across your keyboard. Surely YOU have to be happy.

So where was I? Ah, yes. Simon. When Hank died, I vowed to myself that if I ever fell in love again…that man would know everything about me. He’d accept my penchant for wanting to get myself killed. He’d understand that though I was extremely skilled in human manipulation techniques…I was trying to use those powers for good. And he would also know that although I COULD successfully lie to him…I never would.

A high price of acceptance for any normal male, I know…realizing and supporting the fact that your lover heads off to a job every day where she’ll possibly die. And honestly, heart of my heart, that acceptance is almost all that I’ll need from him. Physical qualities mean next to nothing to me. I don’t outwardly show that, especially to the group I’m with now. Let them think that I only get off on hot and muscled men with accents. All the better. That’s not what I want, or need. He’ll make me laugh. He’ll make me feel safe. He’ll let me be weak…and he’ll understand when I need to be strong. And that acceptance. It’s always about acceptance, isn’t it?

Simon had all of that. As I mentioned in my previous entry, I met him in Red’s Criminology class. He was the quintessential geek…aside from the fact that he looked like Tarzan personified. The very first day, he marched into the classroom with his laptop slung over his shoulder and sat down at one of the tables closest to the front. He pulled the computer out of his pack, set everything up, and proceeded to put everything he thought he might need in neat little piles on the table. A new, shiny, stainless steel travel mug. (Filled with green tea – Simon thought coffee would kill him.) 3 mechanical pencils (because one wasn’t enough, two was just plain stupid, and four was too many). A thick pad of paper. Paperclips and post-it notes. A highlighter. And a Snickers bar (because although coffee could kill you, chocolate, peanuts, caramel and chemically goodness could not).

He ran his fingers through his shaggy brown hair and then finally looked around the classroom. When his hazel eyes settled on me and the amused look I must have had, an unrecognizable emotion crossed his face…but it was immediately followed by the strongest, hottest flash of desire I’ve EVER seen for me from any male. I was anchored to my chair, stuck like glue to those hazel eyes…and then he turned away. As my quickened breathing returned to normal, and the flush receded from my cheeks, I puzzled over this strangely handsome and geeky man that provoked such a reaction in me. Things went quickly from there.

As the quarter stumbled on, as quarters often do, Simon and I grew closer. He applauded my intelligence. Rewarded my risk-taking with support and understanding. He brought me gifts…he had better taste in jewelry and flowers than most gay men I know. And that’s saying a LOT. My failure with Hank receded from my brain. I could do this with Simon. He was it. He fit. We fit. We were right…when I was with him everything was right. I made that both frightening and exhilarating realization in the middle of a math class I was taking. I got up and left right then, because I knew he’d be at my apartment waiting for me. I wanted to tell him…wanted to explain to him right then and there what I planned to do with my life. Wanted to tell him I needed him in it.

I almost skipped every step of the way. And we Southern girls do NOT skip, dear diary. Knowing that he typically took a nap in the afternoons (a side-effect of working late into the night on whatever thesis he was tackling), I put my key in the lock and quietly let myself in. I set my bags down on the counter, failing to notice the large roll of duck-tape sitting out on my dining room table. I tiptoed to the bedroom door, which was closed. And that was when my brain finally registered that something was odd. Simon never shut the bedroom door. Even when we were in the bedroom together.

My heart immediately leapt into my throat, and I watched in almost a dream-like state as my hand reached out and opened the door. And as I stared at my naked boyfriend thrusting into a gagged, handcuffed, and sobbing Melinda duck-taped to the bedposts…my best friend…in my bed…on my sheets…it fell into my stomach. And then everything in me hardened. Simon never saw me coming. But I’m sure he felt me as I ripped him off of her and threw him against the wall. And I’m sure he felt me even more as I beat the living snot out of him. I don’t think his dick will ever get rid of the kink I gave it. Of course, the only people he’ll get to use that dick on for the next several decades will be his fellow inmates.

So why remember Simon? Why go back to echoes of that pain? Why bother with past failures? Why even think that I can possibly try to trust another man?

Because unfortunately, darling diary, my heart doesn’t always listen to the warnings I give it. It’s decided, of its own volition, that love is still possible.

And I’m frightened. So very, very frightened.