Hate
By
Denise
There wasn't a lot in this world that Sam Carter would say that she hated.
Wet boots, cold MRE's, sleeping on the ground. Those all fell under the 'really don't like' category.
Ten mile hikes from the gate to whatever Daniel wanted to study – just a pain in the ass.
Long hours, short nights, misogynistic aliens, she didn't really HATE any of them.
She couldn't even say that she hated being captured and locked up in alien dungeons. In an odd way, their bouts of captivity were more like adventures than anything else.
Except for that trip to hell. That had sucked in a lot of ways. Although she couldn't say that she hated it. After all, they'd been able to rescue her dad.
No. There was really just one thing that she could say that she hated.
Her hand crept to the back of her neck, exploring the lump of alien flesh under her own.
A shudder ran down her spine and she pulled up her knees, holding them close in an attempt to feel warm.
It wasn't that bad, she told herself, closing her eyes.
The ripping sound of her own flesh tearing.
She remembered playing dead, pretending to be unconscious. Part of her had hoped they'd wait. The goa'uld liked to do that. They got off on the fear of their potential victim.
Victim.
She'd played it wrong. She'd played the whole damn thing wrong. She'd underestimated them.
Pushing pressure, forcing her body to submit. She refused to even think about the other metaphor.
She should have realized that they weren't your run of the mill egomaniacs. It wasn't about individual power or glory. They were all about the mission and the goal.
And she got in their way.
Her body betraying her as the goa'uld took over. Paralysis. That's what it was like. Being paralyzed and only her mind could work.
She wished she could say that it wasn't as terrifying the second time.
But it was.
She wished she could say that it was easier to handle when you knew what was coming.
But it wasn't.
She wished that she didn't feel violated and disgusted and sick to her stomach.
But she did.
She wished she could say that she didn't remember. That she'd blacked out.
But she couldn't.
She wished that she could forget. To block from her mind the dark and sinister thoughts it'd had.
But she couldn't.
Her hand rubbed the lump under her skin, morbidly unable to leave it alone. It was in her, a part of her. She was changed again.
Different.
It hadn't just taken her over. It'd left her tainted. Marked.
She didn’t like that, being different. It wasn't the simple act of being different, rather the attention she attracted.
She hated that the NID had dibs on her body if she ever died.
She hated the memories and dreams Jolinar left behind.
She hated – not that she could detect the goa'uld – but that they could detect her.
She hated the looks, the whispers, the quickly hushed comments when she entered a room.
'Oh the poor thing.'
'Did you hear?'
'Hammond's a fool.'
'Careless.'
'Ain't letting her watch my back.'
'Can't trust.'
Yes, there was just one thing in a dozen worlds that she hated.
Herself.
~Fin~