Raymond Shaw
By Midge Wood
Disclaimer: This story is based on the 2004 film, The Manchurian Candidate, written by Daniel Payne and Dean Georgaris. The 2004 film was based on the 1962 film, The Manchurian Candidate, written by George Axelrod. The 1962 film was based on the novel, The Manchurian Candidate, written by Richard Condon. Thus, if anyone wants to sue me, I am four decades deep in trouble. No profit is being made off of this story, and it is being written without Payne/Georgaris/Axelrod/Condon/Paramount Pictures/whoever-else-Machurian Candidate-base-are-belong-to's permission.
Author's Notes: I am doubtful The Manchurian Candidate will generate much of a fandom; however, Raymond set his bunny on me the moment I left the theater and let it stare at me until I doctored up the few sentences that became the fic you see here. Therefore, I was compelled to write this.
And now here is the complete, non-fragmented version. Thank you, thank you, a million times thank you Kaliska Vanka and Aurelia Priscus for reviewing this. Hadn't you reviewed, I might have given up on this. But your reviews let me know that someone's reading this. Thank you a million times!
Contains spoilers for the 2004 The Manchurian Candidate. God Bless and enjoy!
You returned to your hotel suite late in the morning. Your clothes were wet. You didn't know why. The television was off for now, but you were a politician. Information was key. You would watch the news as soon as you changed your clothes. You took off your coat and hung it as far as possible from the dry clothing in the closet. You selected another suit to wear: a nice one, one that wasn't wet.
You didn't know you had been for the past thirteen hours. Why were your clothes wet?
Must have been another blackout. You should have stopped those. You could have tried.
The remote lay on the bed, where you had left it the night before. You pressed the red button, placed the remote on the drawer beside the bed, and retreated to the bathroom to change as the news buzzed on. You didn't pay attention.
What had happened today? Why were your clothes wet? Where had you been for the past thirteen hours?
You shouldn't have found out. You shouldn't have listened. You shouldn't have turned the television on, or heard it as you buttoned up your dry shirt and reached for your tie. Senator Thomas Jordan was dead. And so was Jocelyn. They were both found dead outside their home. Drowned.
Why were your clothes wet?
You were the last person to make conjectures. You accepted things as they were, no questions. There wasn't a drop of imagination in you. There had never been, though perhaps once as a young and foolish boy you had dreamed up adventures of escape. And you did escape. Fifteen years ago. In Kuwait. It was necessary; you had no other choice. To stay at home meant to stay under her dictation. So you joined the Army, instead of bumming off your father's money. It was like running away to join the circus.
Except the circus wasn't so fun once you were in the Desert.
No matter how much you convinced yourself you were doing the right thing, your heart longed for home, and Mother. You almost wished she were there to con you out of fighting. But Mother wasn't there; you were there, under the commands of a man who took his commands from the government. And no matter how much you prided yourself in working with the men your father merely represented, your fellow soldiers didn't care much for you. They called you a momma's boy and a spoiled brat, questioned your skills as a soldier and tried to undermine everything you did. Yeah, so you worked hard. You won the respect of your superiors. But Bennett Marco saw straight through you.
Bennett Marco, who said you had been brainwashed.
There were black holes in your memory that you had no access to. You did not have the right codes, the right clearance. You were a low-level government employee whose access to the system allowed you to do only what you were told to do by your superiors.
And why were your clothes wet?
Mother hated your competition as much as she did hers. She wanted you to be successful. She wanted you to be more successful than your father. She was only looking after your best interests. You understood this. Mother only loved you.
You knew Mother never liked Jocelyn. In truth you knew she was jealous of her, that she had never liked a single girl you had been interested in before and after Jocelyn. It displeased mother to see another woman at your side. A woman she had not handpicked. She did not like anything you did that she did not have a hand in herself. Ever since you had returned from Kuwait she had treated you like her pet project. Her own creation.
Had you ever been interested in politics? Did you ever confess to your friends that you wanted to follow in the footsteps of your father? Why had you, on returning to Kuwait, so suddenly pursued a political office? Fifteen years ago you were a young man about to seize life and pursue happiness. You ran away from politics when you joined the army. Come to think of it you never really were interested in politics to begin with, though Mother insisted you follow your father's footsteps by pursing a career in politics as she had. But you were not your Father, nor were you Mother.
Mother, who had insisted you follow in your father's footsteps.
Mother, who only looked after your best interests. Mother, who only loved you.
She must have done something to eliminate the competition. But it was you who killed Jocelyn and Senator Jordan. That's why your clothes were wet. That's why you didn't know where you had been for the past thirteen hours. Mother had used you to kill the Jordans. Mother had brainwashed you. Mother had made you into her own creation.
Where have you been for the past thirteen years, Raymond Shaw?