By now, everyone knows the story. An evil terrorist organization attempted to assassinate a beloved US official but was thwarted by the heroic Lisa Reisert, ordinary citizen and hotel manager. Lisa and her father put a couple of bullets into the evil assassin who's carted out in an ambulance, never to return. End of story, right? Think again.
You see, stories are never black and white like that. Good versus evil and good always triumphs over evil in the end. In my world, however, the line between evil and good is never clearly drawn and sometimes the "bad guys" win. The world doesn't play fair, you see. Kids go hungry and die, good politicians get corrupted, innocent women and children are wounded and killed in war zones. Like I said before, sometimes bad things happen to good people. It's all just a matter of when and where.
I could go on, but you get the picture. At the end of the day, the world needs a hero. Someone who is willing to step up to the plate and take one for the team. The media found their darling in Lisa Reisert. For weeks after the incident, Lisa's face was everywhere. I'm surprised they never put her on a box of fucking Wheaties. Eventually, the hoopla died down and everything went back to some semblance of normalcy. Lisa went back to work, her dad became even more over-protective, and the self-described "manager" succumbed to his wounds and died in the hospital. All's well that ends well, right? Except that, I didn't die in the hospital. No, I'm very much alive. Lisa believes that I'm long dead, of course. But, hey, we've all got our secrets, right? Lisa certainly had hers. What Lisa doesn't know is that I've got some secrets of my own. I've waited a long time to tell her my secrets. I think the time is just about right, now.
I know what you're thinking. You think you've got me pegged, don't you? The little woman kicked my ass, wounded my male pride and I'm headed back for revenge, right? I've never been overly concerned with what other people think, but in this case, I think I'll go ahead and clear up this little misunderstanding. It's not revenge that I want. Four years ago when I followed Lisa to her dad's house, intent on finishing the job, I wanted revenge. I freely admit it. I was enraged beyond all reason that day. Who knows what I would have done if her dad hadn't shot me? I like to think sanity would have prevailed, but I can't say for sure. The point is I never got the chance to find out. Joe Reisert shot me, collapsing my lung and nearly killing me; effectively putting me out of commission for a good long while. My fury eventually evaporated and I moved on. At least, I thought I did. As it turns out, I haven't quite moved on, yet.
Clarity of thought is something only achieved through time and distance. I've put four years and countless miles between Lisa and myself. I've definitely achieved clarity of thought on the matter. No, it's not revenge I want. It's Lisa. To say there's a connection would be a gross understatement. The connection is nearly inhuman and absolutely terrifying in its intensity. Is it love? No, I don't think so. I suppose it could be, but I've never loved anyone other than myself, so I'm hardly an expert on that subject. It's more like a need. A need so strong that you're willing to do anything, risk anything, to fill it. Stronger than life or death. In fact, I'm fairly certain that if Lisa were to die, I would die very soon thereafter. And vice versa.
So, now you've gone from thinking I'm a psycho killer out for revenge to thinking I'm a crazy freak who's obsessed with what he can't have. Let's talk facts, then. Fact: Lisa's father died of a massive heart attack two years ago. I was in Afghanistan when it happened. I knew it, the minute it happened, though. I felt it. Lisa was with him when he died. They'd just had dinner and he was helping her clean up when he reached up and clutched at his chest. The plates he'd been holding crashed to the floor, shattering. Lisa ran to him, grabbing him just before he fell and he took her down with him. A shard of the shattered plate ended up embedded in Lisa's right thigh, but she didn't even realize it until later, at the hospital when a nurse asked her what had happened to her leg. I saw these things happening. It was as if I were there.
Of course, I had to verify that everything had happened exactly as I saw it. I used my connections and learned all I could. Every bit of information I obtained corroborated what I already knew. Still not convinced? How about this? For months after the red eye flight, Lisa dreamed about me. At first, they were nightmares. She was afraid of me, terrified that I would come back. Eventually, though, they turned into something else. Something even more terrifying to her. In her dreams, I became her secret obsession. It got so bad she went to a therapist, looking for some reason to be having these dreams, these thoughts about me, of all people. Therapy didn't help, though. Eventually the phrase "Stockholm's Syndrome" drove her out of therapy for good. I know these things as if I were watching them on a television screen like a movie or somthing. And you wanna know something? It scares the shit out of me. There aren't many things in life that scare me, but this, this is different. This is crazy. It's impossible, but it's happening all the same. I can't be absolutely sure, but I think the connection is just as strong on her side as it is on mine. Sure, she thinks I'm dead, which confuses her all the more as to the meaning of these feelings, but I'm fairly certain she feels it just as strongly.
I don't know, maybe I am crazy. Maybe I hit my head a little too hard after Joe Reisert shot me. At this point, I'm willing to consider most anything. One thing I'm sure of, though. It's definitely time for Lisa and me to meet again. She can feel how close I am. She's terrified and confused. Oh, but I can feel her longing. I can hear her calling my name in her sleep. Don't worry, Lisa. I'm coming. I'm coming to claim what's mine.