Title: Lunacy
Summary: You wouldn't let me die
Author: The Contessa (that's me)
Timeline: Sydney's missing two years
Genre: I really don't know…
Disclaimer: Alias isn't mine, and neither is the first italicized line. That belongs to Something Corporate.
Dedication: This one's for Skippy, my muse, because he's been starved lately by lack of motivation on my part. And for the DW "TYPEPICT;ALThug.gif"
Lunacy
It's a good year for a murder…
She hides here and she doesn't know why. Why she hides; from what. Her reason for choosing this spot is obvious: it's the highest building for miles. She sees everyone; everything. Nothing will find her here, she's sure of that, even if she's not sure what she fears. Maybe it's Hell. Rationally, it justifies her location. She's separated from fire and brimstone by story upon story of holy stone.
The wind picks up, and she clings to the cold, onyx wings of the rough alabaster angel. Briefly, she wonders if she's mad. It makes sense to her, but if she's not sane, than her reasoning isn't either. She decides it doesn't matter.
The wind is howling now, and she wishes that it would shut up.
'Get your own place to cry, this one's taken' she thinks, sourly. The persistent gusts threaten to topple her in response, and she contemplates throwing herself down from the top of this church before this aggravating wind can, just to spite it. She wonders why she hasn't considered this course of action before, and comes to stand, balanced, with a foot upon each wing of the stone angel that once reminded her of a man, she's not quite sure who anymore.
She spreads her arms out wide, hoping that she can't fly, because that would make this unnecessarily difficult. Just as she lets herself fall forward, the wind changes direction, sweeping her back onto the roof, and she's always hated irony. She had been stripped of the right to live long ago, but now it seems that she's also lost the right to die.
She glares at the moon: she's sure that he was a willing conspirator in this. He's been her sole companion during these nighttime reclusions, and now he's betrayed her. But she forgives him, whoever he is. He's all she has now.
She knows it hasn't always been this way, but she doesn't know anything before this. All she has is a reoccurring theme; a collage of long gone feelings and buried images. She sees herself; how she used to be. It's fuzzy and distorted, the dials of her mind vainly attempting to bring the hazy picture into focus. There's an expression on the past woman's face, one that's foreign to her present being, and she tries it out, adjusting her features to show her teeth and reveal little indents in her cheek that she didn't know were there. She's sure her eyes could never be as bright as the other woman's, so she doesn't even try with them. It's strange and new, and she doesn't like it at all. It was bordering on painful, and she pities her past self. She now knows that blondes really do have more fun.
She looks at where she is, the rooftop of a Church that towers above her apartment (she thinks she's in Paris, but she's not quite certain. Paris, Rome, London; they all start to look the same after your mind starts to go), and she's convinced that she's the only person alive. And she's not even properly alive, so that's saying something.
She smells blood, and even though she can't see it, she knows its there, coursing over her hands, seeping into her skin, and filling the hollow that once contained her soul. There's so much of it; that explains the absence of life in this empty city. She must have killed them all.
It's for the best, really. Solitude is her confidant, her ally. Ally, ally, ally, ally… The word sticks to her mind, coating her consciousness. It stirs something inside of her, dregs of what might have once been slightly recognizable as human emotion. She knows it means something, if not to her then to the intangible and almost mythical being that once resided within her; the woman with the painful expression. Maybe it's a reminder of a man, like the angel. She sees him sometimes, or at least she thinks she does. Green eyes, lost stare, following her, pleading. He wants something, she knows, but she doesn't want to give it to him. He poses silent questions that she's not willing to answer, and his most persistent one is "why?". Why had it gotten this far? Why had it come this way at all? She doesn't know the answer, and she hates him for it, because she knows that she's a disappointment to him. But it is his fault for expecting something from her in the first place.
It dawns on her, a sort of epiphany if you will that he might be what she comes here to escape from. But that can't be it; he's still here lurking in here mind, posing his silent and haunting questions.
She knows that the definition of insanity is to perform the same action repeatedly and expect different results, and she thinks that this means that she really is crazy. Except that she doesn't know what she expects. Clarity? Sanity? Again, like every other question she has, this goes unanswered. But then, what's life without a little mystery? Only, she has too much mystery, and not any life.
She's sure everything would be alright, if only she could remember her name…
Fin.