Title: The Plague of Reality
Author: mblab
Feedback: Any and all comments to mblab@bellsouth.net
Rating: PG
Ship: Sydney/Vaughn
Timeframe: Ambiguous First or Second Season Setting
Summary: "You just whisper lies to me, sweet false nothings."
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the words that have come off of my keyboard.
Author's Notes: This was as much of "on the Fly" as I get, as far as writing goes. The idea for this came to mind after the play "Largo Desolato" by Vaclav Havel, translated by Tom Stoppard, wouldn't leave my head. When that was combined with the May CM Challenge and two musical selections, this came out.
If it weren't for the amazing Colin I'd have never even submitted this piece for anyone else to see, so if it sucks, it's all his fault!
"What if I was scared/ I'm waiting for.../ They're at my door/ But I'll be back again" Blister, OLP
There are a thousand ways to destroy a man, and this, you muse, is but one of them. You should have known, way before it got to this. You should have known, but, you laugh humorlessly, it's all part of it—isn't it? You hear the foot steps coming closer as they continue down the hall, and you think of all of this, as you feel the chill of the tile on the floor seep through against your skin.
You remember discussing such a situation, not too far ago, and the thought seemed far fetched and stunningly real. He had suggested that they couldn't be coming, not now. But I had thought—unsure what remained in my mind and what had escaped from my lips—that is that the truth? Surely, they could come at any time, couldn't they?
And now you knew; now you knew your truth, certainly not everyone's, but all the same yours.
"You spread lies like a plague upon my mind," she had said to you. She had been exasperated, having had enough of you and having shared each particular aspect she did not find appealing and pleasing. You had apologized, automatically, though still meaning what you said, but she barley let the words come out of you before she reacted again—violently.
You were afraid she'd snap, that she'd lash out at you. You were calculating what your response would be—if you'd clutch your stinging cheek first or if you'd have a blank face with questioning eyes. You weren't sure which you'd do when the moment came when she went at it. "All you say … everything you ever say is always the same," she began. She threw you off, going for words. "You always say what I need to hear, but what about what you mean, what about what you really think?" her eyes burned as she spoke to you. You had half a mind to cry like a baby and tell her everything—to cling to her as you let everything go and leave nothing out. But of course, you didn't. You just stared at her, unbelieving what was happening. "I can take it, I'm not some fragile piece of china or glass, I'm not going to crumble," she spat at you, as if the thought was some foul piece of stinking garbage. And you knew then, you think now, that's when it all really began. They had come. And it was too late. They had come.
"You just whisper lies to me, sweet false nothings," she began, with a smile on her face that scared you, "with that smile of yours as if all of it is true and you mean everything you're saying. You plague me, you plague me with your lies, and I can't take it anymore. Get off of yourself, you're not my savior, you're not my god, and I don't need you to protect me from everything!" She had left, and things had never been the same. They had come, they had taken her away from you, they had taken everything, and it was too late.
He had asked you one day, long before she was taken, asked you a question. He had asked you if you ever dreamed about them. He wanted to know if you ever dream that you're already there. And you looked at him the same way you looked at him before, when he had said that they couldn't be coming—not now—you shouldn't worry just yet, but you wondered all the same if they could be. You knew the question was absurd, but it frightened you that you had dreamed of that. You had dreamed they had come and you were already there, and as you screamed finally in defeat for realizing there was nothing you could do you had lurched upright in your sleep. The sheets had been displaced, your heart rate was to the point of a hummingbird's, and Sydney continued to sleep next to you as you tried to calm back down. There were similar dreams, with similar occurrences, never one did you let Sydney know about.
There are plenty of psychic s in this world, you don't trust any of them, but you wonder suddenly, have you become one. Your dream seems to come true now. Everything is repeating, and you wonder if you have really become psychic —to know of your future, and your fate.
But you still don't know if you could have prevented what happened, what you did, what she did. No matter how psychic you are, you've become, you fear that you hold so much power over everything that it was useless. No matter how useless it may have been—it may still be—you think, you still should have known. You saw what was coming; you knew that the thunder looming in the distance would eventually come. And you knew that with the thunder the lightning would strike. You're psychic, you tell yourself, you should definitely have known. But you never wanted the lightning, you always wanted to keep the storm at bay, just far enough. Apparently you never were able to keep it far enough, because their foot steps have become as loud as lightning and thunder and you can feel the floor vibrate with ever step they take.
Yes, there are thousands of ways to destroy a man, and you know of at least a few you would have rather have had ruin you. But maybe that's the point of it all: to want what you cannot have, to want what you do not get.
You got what you always wanted; after you thought you had already gotten it. And you had it, you had her, and you thought life was perfect. And then they took her away, after you dreamed they would, and now they're coming to take you too—but you're not ready, you're not ready yet.
The foot steps are reverberating against the tile and each vibration jolts pain right through your body. And you still remember how your body used to shake when Sydney came into your sights. Your body came alive when you didn't know it had been dead. You're in a state of middle ness, you're not really alive, but you are not dead—not yet. You feel her still, she's with you, she's here, because you remember how it feels when she is around you, and you feel that. You feel her. She's with you. But you hear their steps, still, and you can't discern the two anymore. It might be her, it might be them, either way, you're tired of being alone and you want her, desperately.
"Sydney," you call, as you hear the steps slow. They're here, you know for sure now, you know they're at the door. They want you, they want to take you there, but maybe you'll go if she's there. If Sydney's there with you, you would go. You raise yourself up, you place your hands against the cold tile, you straighten yourself as you rise to the upright position, and you make your way. The peep hole never had anyone in it before, but now you know there will be. You take a deep breath and go to open the door.
---
"He appears delusional, Sir. It … he's too far gone, there's little we can do with him, there's nothing we can do. He's erratic at best with one of us, he doesn't respond to us. That can be dealt with, normally, Sir. But he's responding to things that … when there is nothing, Sir, he cries out—violently. We can make them respond, Sir, we can normally make them. But we have been unable to do so with him, Sir. And he only continues, we have run out of ideas on how to handle him. I'm to report this to you, Sir. We see him of no more use, in that he is unresponsive to our techniques and he continues … off on his own, in his own world. It appears that he is displaying traits of insanity, Sir, and there is little we can do, now, to reverse this. He's not with us anymore."
člen určitý cíl—the end
Post Script Notes:
"You feel the constant straining/ She reappears divine/ You noticed/ But I'm just so tired of waking up all alone" Potato Girl, OLP
"What if I was scared/ I'm waiting for.../ They're at my door/ But I'll be back again" Blister, OLP
"Largo Desolato"— by Vaclav Havel, translated by Tom Stoppard
EDWARD: They can't be coming now-
LEOPOLD: Do you think so? Surely they can come any time-
--
BRETRAM: Do you ever dream about them? Or dream that you're already there?
"You spread lies like a plague upon my mind." –C.C., April 26, 2003