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I don't exactly understand why I like to break Sam Carter into little tiny pieces.
I think in part it's because I just do not believe any woman could ever go through what she's gone through and remain whole. (This may also be why I loved Scully, why I love Sydney Bristow. I like my female heroines broke'd.)
Yeah, Sam's strong, but when I write her, when I watch Stargate or think about what she's been through (lost her mom, estranged from brother and dad, breaks off her engagment, (however that went) possesed by alien, dad becomes alien, kills alien lover, gets liquified, (almost) looses best friend/brother-type figure to radiation posioning, looses best friend / brother-type figure to planetary politics yadda yadda yadda, and let's not forget going to another planet on a daily basis whilst being the formost expert on the device which sends her to these other planets (and knowing exactly how easily that thing could malfunction) and, right, anytime she lays one on a guy he dies (Pete excepted. Though not is some of the shippers have their way) and as if this isn't all bad enough, she has a really hot boss who she can't jump.
And y'all know I mean Hammond.) I figure she is thisclose to cracking up completely. And I want to see it.
And now, for something marginally different.
[][][]
When she wakes up she doesn't know where she is or who has taken her and it's not entirely clear exactly who she is (she must be someone for them to have done this to her.) Her throat is a little scratchy like she's just getting over a cold or maybe has been screaming, long and loud and from the gut. She's not sure. She remembers both from before, but not much else.
Sits up on a bed made with cool white cotton and waits for her head to swim (her head should swim) but it doesn't, so she puts her feet on the cool wood floor and stands, steady (she shouldn't be steady; she knows this.) Knows where to go to find the toilet and uses it, splashes water on her face and then looks in the mirror and doesn't recognize herself.
This doesn't surprise her.
She doesn't like it, doesn't like this person looking back, doesn't know her, but this woman doesn't surpirse her.
Walks to the kitchen, trails fingers across the front of a fridge that was new when avacado was acceptable for appliances (how she knows it's avacado when she doesn't recognize her own face doesn't bother her as much as she thinks it once would.)
Short steps to the only other room, living room furnished with white wicker. There in the middle of the table, white paper, unfamilar cursive.
You are Samanatha Carter.
She agrees, because it seems to be the easiest thing to do.
[][][]
And the new blink 182 song is beautiful. I know!
Where are you and I'm so sorry
I cannot sleep, I cannot dream tonight
I need somebody and always
this sick strange darkness
comes creeping on so haunting every time
will you come home and stop this pain tonight
stop this pain tonight
Don't waste your time on me you're already
the voice inside my head (I miss you, miss you)
I think in part it's because I just do not believe any woman could ever go through what she's gone through and remain whole. (This may also be why I loved Scully, why I love Sydney Bristow. I like my female heroines broke'd.)
Yeah, Sam's strong, but when I write her, when I watch Stargate or think about what she's been through (lost her mom, estranged from brother and dad, breaks off her engagment, (however that went) possesed by alien, dad becomes alien, kills alien lover, gets liquified, (almost) looses best friend/brother-type figure to radiation posioning, looses best friend / brother-type figure to planetary politics yadda yadda yadda, and let's not forget going to another planet on a daily basis whilst being the formost expert on the device which sends her to these other planets (and knowing exactly how easily that thing could malfunction) and, right, anytime she lays one on a guy he dies (Pete excepted. Though not is some of the shippers have their way
And y'all know I mean Hammond.) I figure she is thisclose to cracking up completely. And I want to see it.
And now, for something marginally different.
[][][]
When she wakes up she doesn't know where she is or who has taken her and it's not entirely clear exactly who she is (she must be someone for them to have done this to her.) Her throat is a little scratchy like she's just getting over a cold or maybe has been screaming, long and loud and from the gut. She's not sure. She remembers both from before, but not much else.
Sits up on a bed made with cool white cotton and waits for her head to swim (her head should swim) but it doesn't, so she puts her feet on the cool wood floor and stands, steady (she shouldn't be steady; she knows this.) Knows where to go to find the toilet and uses it, splashes water on her face and then looks in the mirror and doesn't recognize herself.
This doesn't surprise her.
She doesn't like it, doesn't like this person looking back, doesn't know her, but this woman doesn't surpirse her.
Walks to the kitchen, trails fingers across the front of a fridge that was new when avacado was acceptable for appliances (how she knows it's avacado when she doesn't recognize her own face doesn't bother her as much as she thinks it once would.)
Short steps to the only other room, living room furnished with white wicker. There in the middle of the table, white paper, unfamilar cursive.
You are Samanatha Carter.
She agrees, because it seems to be the easiest thing to do.
[][][]
And the new blink 182 song is beautiful. I know!
Where are you and I'm so sorry
I cannot sleep, I cannot dream tonight
I need somebody and always
this sick strange darkness
comes creeping on so haunting every time
will you come home and stop this pain tonight
stop this pain tonight
Don't waste your time on me you're already
the voice inside my head (I miss you, miss you)
