Just looking at you, Jim, just looking at you sitting at that piano, playing your little heart out. It sounds like all the fractured pieces of your soul are drifting through the air, all soft and gentle and sad. It's beautiful, Jim, it truly is.
You shouldn't be here. You don't belong here.
They said you'd never wake up, you know. I came to the hospital as soon as I found out that Richard Brook was in intensive care. Serious brain damage, they said, irreparable, they said. They told me you had only days to live.
You amazed the doctors and nurses when you opened your eyes for the first time, blinking into the harsh hospital lighting to the sound of beeping machines and a breathing tube shoved down your throat.
It took you hours to calm down, they had to sedate you. It was awful, Jim.
The next time you woke up, we spoke. I doubt you remember, you were pretty out of it. You asked me who I was, and then you asked me who you were.
They had you evaluated. Psychologically, I mean. That's why you're here. They're calling it a "rehabilitation centre" but we both know that it's a loony bin. You just need to look around at all the crazies to know that. You don't blend in at all, you know. Even in a place like this, you're like an emperor amongst insects.
And there you are, sitting in the corner with your fingers dancing across those ivory keys. It's a beautiful sight, yet utterly heartbreaking at the same time.
Sometimes, when I look at you, I wonder if you're still in there somewhere, clawing at the confines of your mind, desperately trying to get out. When I visit you in your room and your eyes catch the mirror… The way you look at yourself, Jim, it's as if you're searching for something, as if you're looking for something in your eyes, as if you've caught sight of something for just a second before it was gone, and you're trying to find it again but can't.
So I keep visiting, at least once a week. We talk about all sorts of things, ranging from classical composers to our favourite sandwich fillings to violent chemical reactions. We laugh. We laughed when you blew up part of the hospital and blamed it on your insanity. Ha, you got off scot-free. No, sir, we can't punish him because he's one of the mentals.
It was hilarious, wasn't it?
Except it was tragic. Because it wasn't Richard Brook who blew up the hospital, it was Jim Moriarty, even though you didn't know it.
They always call me when you get… When you're in one of your moods. When you get hysterical, psychotic, when you get into a state whereby you are a danger to yourself and a danger to other people, and their only option is sedation. They call me as a last ditch effort.
Sometimes, it's enough. Sometimes, I come into your room and comb my fingers through your hair, whispering sweet nothings in your ear until you let it all go and relax in my arms or even drift off to sleep. It's odd, watching you sleep. It's like watching lion taking a catnap, stroking it's mane, just waiting for it's eyes to snap open and for it to bite your hand off. Seeing you in this state, I often forget how dangerous you are.
Then there are the other times when it isn't enough, and you lash out, land punches and scratches and kicks, struggle and scream until they manage to pin you down for long enough to prick a needle in your thigh and put you out for the night. I hate those times, Jim, I hate them.
I must be a masochist, wanting you back, but please, you need to wake up. Find yourself. I know you are still in there, I can see it in your eyes. You don't belong in this place, Jim, you belong out there, because every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain.
Remember?