THE LAST ENEMY

Margot's Diary: for 'Living In Hell'


I hate buses. I hate cities. I hate their smell. Their filth. Their lights. Their lifelessness. Their indifference. Their noise - vehicles, people, their 'music'. I hate them. And their people. Cold. So cold. So lonely. So predatory. Feeding on the weak. Like ... me. Like I was. There. Unicorn. I'm shaking, just thinking about it. I feel cold. Scared. Small. Lost. Cold to the core.

I'm so ashamed. How can I ever look any of the family in the eye ever again? They know what I was there. What I did there. How can I talk to dad? I thought I could talk to him about anything. Not so, it seems.

And why? Why did they - whoever 'they' are - do it? Who hates me - us - so much? What did we ever do to this 'Council for Victory'?


The old me would have been incensed. "Vengeance," she'd have though. But she's dead now. And I'm just scared. Scared they'll get me again. Put me back there, in that hell. Unicorn, no. No. I'd do almost anything. Anything not to be put back there.

It feels like I'm all broken up inside. All the jagged edges scraping together. Hurting. I want to go back. Back to the old, innocent, fierce, free, Margot. But as I say, she's dead, and I'm just the new Margot that grew out of her corpse. Little, and scared.

Why am I writing this? I just want to clarify my thoughts, and in my head they are too confused, too disjointed. Perhaps putting it all down on paper here will help me order it all in my mind.


When I had to visit a city like that in the past, I'd look down my nose at them. The pimps and the whores. I was too good to even notice their insignificant lives. And I think ... I feared them, too. Feared that if I stayed there too long they might ... infect me with their terrible lives. But now I understand them, though, Unicorn, how I wish I didn't. Necessity. Poverty. Hunger. Force. Fear. They drove me. It drives them, too.

And now even the thought of a fight, holding a sword, terrifies me. Being so weak, so vulnerable, so ... human. Remembering what happened when I tried to fight there. The punishments. No. I can't think of that now. My mind recoils. My hand shakes too much to continue.

I tried to fight. Be a princess of Amber. But it didn't work. Nor did running. I only got hurt. More than I could bear. And so I ... submitted.

I cringe at even the hint of a blow, now. I can't seem to help it. Too long, too weak, on those streets. Oh, old Margot truly is gone. She would never cringe like that. Fear like that. Had never had to learn to. Will I ever unlearn to?

I never thought ... mere ... physical violence. Physical pain. Would ... hurt so much. Affect me ... so much. I though I'd been hurt before ... in training, in real combat. But not like that. Not when I was so ... weak. So ... vulnerable.


I hated - hate - the enslaving drugs that Damien - false Damien - made me take. How I hated them. But ... I ... loved ... them, too. As much as I didn't want to. Ugh. False pleasure, false escape, but oh! I craved even that, I admit it, after the first few times. I begged for them. Did ... other things ... for them. Like a starving man might eat even rotten food. Anything for escape, however brief. For pleasure, however hollow, however transitory, however bad the withdrawal afterwards. Anything to take me out of it, out of the cold, the fear, the degradation, the loneliness, even for a little.

Does this mean that next time things go wrong, I'll dive into the bottle, or the syringe again? I hope not. But, oh, I fear ... fear so.

I always used to look down on people who drank or used drugs as weak (even dad, a little). Now? How, now, can I? I know how ... essential ... they can be. What a necessary shield from things ... too much to bear ... un-blunted.

The worst day of my life. When I realised what I would do, what I would sacrifice - honour, principles, virtue - in favour of simple - it seemed simple at the time - survival.

And now I know. I'm no better than shadow folk. No more able to abide by honour or principles when my life is on the line than they. No less willing to do whatever it takes, whatever the cost, no matter how foul, to survive.

And now they know, too.


And how I hated the rich, with their big cars, nice homes, their power. Who used ... me ... and the other girls ... other ... whores.

Is this hate ... what other people feel for ... us? For the Royal family of Amber?

Would I flee ... those streets ... if I found myself there again? I think ... I probably would. See the brave and mighty princess of Amber. See her run. See her sob. See her tremble and weep.


Unicorn! How did they know so much about me? All my fears and dreams, laid bare and turned on me. Oh, why?!

I just want to curl up in a ball and have it all go away. But it won't.

I'm scared to stay in Amber. Scared to go. Scared of what'll be said, what people will think. Scared of what might happen out there, on my own.

I want to run, to hide in solitude, in the wilderness or the woods. But I fear the solitude too. Being alone with my thoughts. Where they may lead me. I need ... distraction. Something to keep my mind occupied.

But I can't stop crying at all kinds of things, little and big. Things I would never have cried at before ... this. Things that remind me of there. Things that remind me of here.

And lurking in the corners of my mind, I feel a darkness. It's waiting. A smothering blackness, which has grown ever since I was there, in ... that place. So that when it was strong I couldn't think, couldn't act without being made to . Didn't care. Like my mind was smothered.

Will this blackness - this depression - go away now I am out of that hell? Or now it's here, will it stay until I forget? And I cannot forget. How can I ever walk the Pattern again if I need to?


I've got to get over this. But how? Should I talk to someone? But who? One of the family? Dad? How can I? I feel ashamed enough as it is, without revealing that shame. Revealing how dirty I feel inside, as if the grime of those streets will never wash off me.

I've got to ... face it. There must be - are - an infinite number of other women suffering like this, even women here in Amber, I suppose. Why should I be so special? Because I had further to fall? But why should the thought of others in my situation be comforting? Why should the fact that I have company in ... this misery ... make me feel better? I don't want to be here. I very much doubt they do.

I don't want to be alone. Left alone. I want ... sympathetic people around me. I want ... I want the society of people who care, even in the Family way, for some ulterior motive. I suppose ... I want to ... socialise more. With my ... peers?


After a while there I began to think that Amber was all a dream. Princess Margot a lie, a fantasy, a dream that Margot the whore, Margot the junkie, Margot the slave, made up to escape - to let her think she could escape her hell. That the streets were not her only reality. How glorious it was, when the Trump call came. To lift me out of there, tell me I really was that princess, that Amberite. That the streets were a lie. But now. Now. How can I go back to Amber, now? How can things be as they were?

And they told me I had only been gone a couple of days. It felt like months. Most of a year. In there. What was it for? What would I have been after another day or two in there, Amber time?


I ... had never ... had sex before. I never ... found anyone ... I loved ... enough to do it ... be ... with. Mr Right. I suppose, physically, I still haven't. But inside? Where it matters? Yes. There, there I have, and it can never be undone. Never ever, ever again.

And I didn't do it in love, as I had dreamed it might one day happen. But in the worst way possible. The worst ... I'm shaking again. It won't stop. Will this ever go away? Will the old Margot ever come back? I'm not sure she can.

The old Margot - so proud, so fierce, so free, so brave, who dreamed of romance with Mr Right - is gone. And I'm humbled, timid, and feel so trapped, now.

The old Margot dreamed of Mr Right. But now. Now I think there is no Mr Right for me. Only Mr Wrong, now. I ... just don't even ... want to think about it. Sex. Now. Now ... the very though. I'm feeling nauseous. Trembling again. I can't write any more...

I think ... Ibrahim might have ... thoughts of being my ... Mr Right. I can't. Can't let him be. Not now. Can't let anyone be. Even if it hurts him. I think it'll hurt ... me ... more if I do. I hope. I really, really hope, he doesn't force the issue. I don't know ... what I'd do ... then. My hand is shaking. I must stop.

And perhaps I would have wanted Ibrahim as Mr Right, eventually. But not any more. Mr Right is dead.

Even so, I think, perhaps, I could become close to Ibrahim, now. He let Caine put me in here, in him, to save me. Selfless. Not many of the Family would do that, I think. And Caine's compassion. How unexpected that was, from so unlikely a source. I should thank Tamarind, too. His risking himself was what got me out of there, and such a risk is not really what I would have expected from him. But what if Ibrahim wants more? Sex? I can't. Not now. Not ... yet. Perhaps ... not ever.


I don't think I can be daddy's favourite daughter any more. I'm not the same as I was ... before.

Before, I knew I was beautiful, even if it wasn't something I ... considered much. Now. Now, I don't feel beautiful any more. I feel ... ugly? Or repelled by my own looks. Afraid of them. Of what ... they might bring to me again...


And what ... of Damien. He has gone to rescue Esmée now. I suppose I know ... that he wasn't the Damien in that place. I ... should hate him. But he terrifies me now. Just his face. His actions. His smile. His fists.

I'm not sure what will happen when I meet the real Damien. Cringe? Freeze? Weep? Run? I don't know. I don't know.

I hate this fear. I hate this doubt. I hate this trembling and sick fear when I think of ... certain things.


I wish I could talk to someone. Telling Ibrahim helped, but I want to talk to another woman. Mum. Flora. Beltaine. Esmée even. Someone who will be able to talk to me about it. Someone who might understand. Not that I'm even sure they will. But Ibrahim is there at the moment, and Amber has a crisis on its hands. How can I burden anyone with my personal problems when Amber needs their help more than I do?


Perhaps I could have stood it better had there been a sight ... a smell even ... of green, of living things there, even if only occasionally. Something to let me feel some tiny link to home, to nature. But no. Even that tiny solace was denied me. Nothing. I ... I suppose whoever it was ... made it so. To ... hurt me ... more.

Even seeing the sky now and then would have helped. Just a hint of blue sky. But even that ... was denied me. Just those hideous polluted clouds, and the helicopters, and the burning rain. That was all. All there was.

Had ... it ... gone on longer ... I think I would have done ... anything. Even more than ... Damien made me do ... to get out of that hell. And not just endured, but inflicted. Done whatever they wanted. Turned on whoever they wanted me to. Anything. Just to get out of there.


And even when I tried to run to the police there. They just laughed and handed me back to Damien. Eventually ... To ...

Must stop. Can't see for tears.

Corrupt. Corrupt, the entire place. No shred of honesty or charity. Nowhere. So hateful. I hated it. But ... I feared it more. And now, how can I ever look at a guardsman or watchman in the same way again?


And what will happen if I'm here, in Ibrahim's head, for too long? Might we merge, become one? I hope not. Once I'd have said death was preferable. Now I know better. That, for me, survival comes first. But on the other hand, what if Ibrahim's mind rejects me, like a shadowite rejecting a transplanted organ? What would happen then?


I was, if not happy all the time, content in my old life as dad's second in command. A soldiers life. Honour. Duty. Service to a good cause. Obligation. Responsibility.

But those things didn't protect me. Stop the assassin in the dark. Stop me being ... taken. Not by honourable combat, as the old Margot might have wished. But by stealth to ... what she considered a fate worse than death.

Then what use the soldiers path?

And what use the sorcerers path? It didn't protect Esmée, alas. Or the path of sloth? It did Caleb no good. Or even kindness? Charity? Dad and Tristan ... and ... Damien (Why?! Because he and Esmée had a thing going before? I ... really hope ... she was worth the hell he'll be in now) ... tried that. And now they are in hell in my place.

And though I'm loathe to say it, I think that only Power counts. Power alone. And those without the compunction to use it, or stop others using it, or, I suppose, ally oneself with those with the power, are surely hell-bound.

I never had any desire for power, really. Just to do my duty. To serve. Protect Amber. But now? What of duty when power can destroy it - destroy me - so easily, so quickly? What, again, what of anything but power?


If I live as long as Benedict - as long as Dworkin. Become as powerful as Oberon. I don't think I'll ever forget this time. This humbling. This terror. This nausea. This trembling.


Go to the Notes for 'Living In Hell'.

Or go back to The Last Enemy Page.