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The Things we Remember Part 4.
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Disclaimer
This is a work of amature fiction, no contravention of copyright is intended and no profit is made from this endeavour.
I look at the carnage wrought by my hands Illya and I shudder. It’s as if someone else has acted within me, giving way to the beast I know lurks in the heart of all men. But this, this is beyond reason, this was rage and rage knows no boundary, no love, no humility only our desire to hurt. Hurt as you were hurt, to cast them down into the flames to consume their hearts and bodies, to char them for all eternity till there is nothing left. And then erasing them from the annals of our memories, can people such as these be mourned? Will they be missed or loved? Do I look any different from them as I fight the eternal war ? Can reason return and leave me so untouched as I am by all of this?
This plane is taking for ever.
I’m sudubed now, as if it were all a dream, but I know I killed in terrifying reality and sooner or late moy droog it will come crashing down on me. Mark is afraid, he hides it well, but he is wary of me. I guess he didn’t expect me to be able to stop once I’d started but he doesn’t know me as you do. Couldn’t expect him to, after all it took you years didn’t it? Or did it? Sometimes I wonder at the majesty of it all. The big picture Illya, the one that paints the ending so faintly that we sometimes loose sight of it and loose what we hold dear to us.
People are taking that step back from me now, the airport is crowded and I clear customs in record time, UNCLE priveledge but still they step away, and its fine with me. I don’t want them close, don’t want to be able to see their faces or the lives that they live. To see the pain and agony in their eyes of defeat or fear, cant let the tide that washes over me be too human Illya, I’m crashing and I refuse to. Will fight the defeat of my own heart as I plough through the throng and towards the waiting staff car. The driver mutters impreceptions about traffic and did I want to go home first? He took one look at my face and Mark intercepted. What are we teaching these children Illya? What is it he sees that he finds so horrid? Can he smell the blood? See the pain? Or is it the cold anger that has yet to leave me? The one that darkens my look and terrifies this child? I’m not so inured to this life Illya that I cannot see the child behind the eyes, and I soften. I cannot be thief of this childs dreams. He believes, God help him Illya, he believes that we can win. Has anyone told him yet we keep the balance and nothing more? That in this war there will only ever be loosers? Only silence, that eerie silence that cuts across our souls at the moment we give into the blood rush. The need to control, and in that control destroy all that we hold so dear.
Waverly is speaking softly to me, his face is paternal and I feel his hand on my elbow guiding my steps towards the infirmary. He knew not to ask the questions that burned on his lips, he knew to bring me here and this is where my resolve falters Illya. Oh God what if I am wrong? How can I go back to being the man I was? How can I forsake the love I feel for you now, its strong Illya, stronger perhaps than I am for I feel it push me through the door and force a smile onto my face.
I had thought in the darkest moments that my acts were pure cowardice but I know in myself that this is not true. An opportunity for a blighted soul to actually find himself redemption as he is locked within the insanity that is his life. But now I know fear Illya, true fear.
My God! What was Waverly thinking, you look so small, so vulnerable in the huge bed. Everything is bandaged and bruised, even your hands. Those strong hands that have seen you overcome such tremendous odds are translucent and I falter in the moments before I touch you. Why has he choosen to show me how they hurt you? Doesn’t he know? Why can’t he tell that my sanity is hanging by a thread?
I’m sorry, I know you don’t like being touched at the best of times, but Illya understand I have to know you still live. That you are here hooked up to machines is not enough. I have to know. I’ve killed with these hands Illya, killed beyond what is considered normal and rational even for us and yet now, now my fingers shake as I stand by your bed and probe for a pulse.
The doctor is saying something, your vocal chords are still swollen but you will be able to speak soon. You’ve woken up and were calm and clear on where you are. That all in all you’ll be alright and it’s as if my body has finally succumbed to the need to rest. My knees cannot hold me and by some miracle I’m not on the floor but slumped in a reasonably soft chair. My head tipping forward against your hand and it’s then Illya; only then that I dare look up into your face.
I have known despair Illya and need, and hunger and cold. But now all I need to see is there before and the room empties silently as the dam bursts. I know there are tears on my face, I know my body is wracked by sobs and I don’t care. Your eyes are so blue, so alive as you smile at me, my weariness echoed in you and your fingers close around my hand.
Its all I can do and you know, the strength in you is still there as I lay my head upon the sheet, your fingers carding through my hair soothing me into sleep and I pray that the demons that have haunted me for a moment leave me to rest. Because the truth is my darling Illya that the demon I have run so long from is myself.
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