Running on Empty
Lindsay MacDonald knew it wasn't normal, this thing with Darla. He knew it wasn't good, or right, or moral. But judging words like that; normal, good, right--they had lost what little meaning they had ever had for him, as though one night when he slept some one or some thing had come and altered their definitions, eliminating them from his accessible vocabulary. He didn't know when it had happened, he hadn't felt it--probably had slept through it--or maybe they were slowly dulled into nothing by something Wolfram & Hart put in the water coolers, the coffee filters, or ventilation system. Now that he realized these concepts were gone and he was free from them, unshackled by the sort of justice and self-control they called for, he no longer cared--wouldn't have asked to have them back had they been offered to him.
He imagined it now, held up to him like a purple vaccine fluid in a hypodermic: "Just a tiny pinch is all you'll feel, Mr. MacDonald," some doctor would say, "and we'll have those scruples of yours back up and ruining your life." Doc'd snap his fingers, "just like that."
Just like that, Lindsay'd muse, refusing the assistance. Funny, he'd tell the doc, he hadn't felt a thing when they left. Funny that getting them back might involve a twinge.
After all, he was fed-up with twinges, the way Cool Hand Luke must've felt fed-up on eggs. Full to puking.
Sonofabitch he was full of it.
He imagined this was what his Daddy'd felt when he'd gone crawling to a bottle or a strange woman's bed--and Lindsay didn't spend much time remembering anything about his old man--he'd buried that evil of his past long ago when he'd had a sense (however stunted it had been) of right and wrong. Buried literally by his own hand, and in an unmarked grave that neither he, nor Bull (who'd been there as well), would likely be able to re-locate even at the behest of state, federal, or local police, which were, his education told him the kind of folks who showed up as there was no statue of limitations on murder.
What he wanted was relief. Oblivion, maybe, and experience on either end of the matter told him rage could provide that to a degree.
Lindsay had been through pretending there wasn't a giant black hole living inside of him months ago. He was through believing in fear or loyalty or consequences--or love. Lindsay MacDonald was through. And the blonde, centuries-old prostitute sitting on his couch, betraying him with her very silence, was just the beginning of why.
...to be continued...
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DISCLAIMERS: The characters and plot lines of Angel are not mine. No money received, no harm intended.