The Only Way to Live
The sun was setting against the tall book cases in the corner of the apartment, jam packed with not only books but pictures and trinkets. The last light falling between the sparse furniture and the many boxes littered across the floor. The Audrey was a wonderful hotel, albeit full of snobby, overly pretentious Richie Rich's, but it did have its pros. Namely the view, oh god the view. One could almost lose themselves in the sheer richness of it all. Many would awe at the Potomac, only looking at the surface. You could compare it to a painting, each stroke reveals a new sensation, emotion. A view isn't supposed to be looked at in a glance but as a pondering Van Gough or Goya. The bustle of people on the streets below, the trees teeming with city wildlife and the sky, the beautiful blue sky. At night you could examine each and every detail of just about everything in sight. The moon shines brightly, and if not, the stars make up for its absence. It's always been a fascination of his, the moon. It's the same one that Ptolemy, Aristotle, Napoleon, Cleopatra and just about everyone on the face of this earth since its beginning has seen. How many useful thoughts, secret confessions, losses, gains and vows of redemption has it gathered? He would much rather live in the light of the moon than the blare of the sun. Not only was it terrible bad for your eyes to stare at the offending bright circle during the day, but it was only a reminder of how empty the world was. If it was only filled with light, where would all the secrets go? How would an assassin overthrown a corrupted ruler if he was always seen in the day? Oh, the sun was wonderful, there is no mistaking it, but it's just another side of a coin. The day brings an optimistic chaos to the world, time for everyone to go about their lives corrupting everything in their paths. The night brings, not a pessimistic view, but a peaceful, calm reassurance that there is always going to be another day to live, and another night to ponder.
Raymond Reddington found himself gazing at the view over the balcony of the newly bought apartment for Lizzie. He knew she won't accept it, but he has already prepared so much. Rebought furniture that resembled her own but were brand new, a fresh start. He has stacked all of her favourite books and his on the shelves behind him, she does love reading. Fresh flowers were on the kitchen table, not red roses as many would presume, but lilacs. He didn't care for the flowers of love, friendship and such nonsense. If it looks good, it's good. Simple.
The sun has fully set, leaving him in almost complete darkness were it not for Dembe's initiative to turn on the lamp near the kitchen. Dembe, his brother, was dismissed right after. Red wanted to be alone. He needed to be alone. It may seem as if he has been alone all his life, constantly running about, leaving no time for people to care or even for him. But he was always surrounded by something, whether it be a bodyguard, a contact or even people on the street. He never was truly alone with his thoughts. And now that he was, he wanted to remain so for as long as he could. He was going to give Lizzie the key either tomorrow or the next day, anxious for her reply even though he knew he would be rejected.
It hurt. Knowing that she was at odds with him constantly. Knowing her so well that he could predict her every move, every word, almost down to an art. Lizzie was his life. His everything. His sun and moon and stars. He told Sam that she was hot and cold, then hot again, and that's exactly what she was. He promised Sam that he would love her with all his being, and he kept his promises.
God he sounded like Shakespeare, his life was no Victorian era drama or any Romeo and Juliet tragedy. He much preferred Falstaff anyway, a joyous, but loyal man. In this moment he felt that Lizzie was his Prince Hal, acting as if she cared but turning on him in the end. Oh, how the tables have turned. Lizzie probably thinks the same way, although she wouldn't be much of a Falstaff. This is why he was never alone, his thoughts run amuck.
Despite it all, he was Lizzie's without a doubt. If she wanted him gone he would leave in an instant, if she wanted him to stay then he would worship her publicly, more so than he already does. Perhaps he was a poet, wouldn't really suit him, he fancied more of a play really. If Lizzie wanted him to be a poet he would erase Shakespeare from the history books just to get into her graces. He needs her to trust him, he needs her loyalty, love.
The only way to live was by her side.