Disclaimer: EFC belongs to Tribune. The title and poem belong to T.S. Eliot.
Warnings: Depressing, dark . . .
Notes: This is very different from my normal writing style and quite dark and very sad . . . The poem, shown in italics, is "The Hollow Men" by T.S. Eliot (who is not the easiest poet to understand). Originally written under the name Da'em. Questions, comments, and constructive criticisms welcome. Flames will be ignored. Feel free to email me, but be aware that I am the worst person in the world when it comes to checking my email regularly . . . ehehehehe . . . *shuffles feet*
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw.
Alas! Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Agent Sandoval's CVI was dying . . . and taking the man with it. His MI had gone long before.
Sandoval sat slumped over a desk, his face buried in his hands. What was left of his alien implant sent him flashbacks to his life before the Taelons. His time with Dee Dee, his love . . .
"How could I have been so blind?! I let them take everything away from me. My freedom, my feelings, and now my life!" The dark-haired man shouted at no one, yet it felt good.
"Am I even human anymore? Are any of us human? Or are we just servants to the Taelons . . . just bodies without any spirit? Are we so hollow?"
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
The past memories continue, but the events seemed to blur together. Colour seeped out of the images, showing the world in its' true grey.
Sandoval stiffened as numbness traveled up his legs into his chest.
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us--if at all--not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
Lips quivered and a single sentence escaped before darkness fell. "No one to remember . . ."
TBC . . .