Two-Way Mirror
Lily Severn
She's left.
Well, that certainly explains a few things, doesn't it?
She had such eagerness in her acquiescence to assist in my plans, such unwavering sense of duty as she stood awkwardly before the entrance to the Abbey, twisting the pink and white ruffles in her fingertips. She had wanted everything to be perfect, down to the last artificial beauty mark she applied to her face.
Woman, thou art cunning.
Of course, I should have been more wary, more alert. I should not have lingered the way I did, giving her time to feel comfortable. The situation was going to be uncomfortable, was going to sting and irritate her, but she had seemed prepared. Perhaps she was more ready than I was.
My entrance was not altogether unexpected, and it was the lack of complete surprise in Lilliman's eyes that triggered my anxiety. Or was it the starch pressed collar, the gilded cross, that stirred dormant, albeit potent, memories? Slashes of pain, flashes of white…the sound of heavy footsteps and ragged breathing. Prison bars making slanted patterns across my face, such as it was. Such as it is.
She had locked her eyes onto mine, as though she was piercing through the metal of the mask, through the paints and acrylics and artificial smile. Her brown eyes, honey-warm, were hard mica jewels, glistening with a fervent desire to be understood.
Apology accepted, my dear Evey. For how could I expect you to stay beneath London with me for a year? I am a miserable man to contend with on the best of days. I do not smile, I do not laugh, I do not even dine with you. I am a shell of something you may or may not have been proud to know, someone you may or may not have known. If we passed on the street, would you give me a second glance?
Of course, now you would not. My masks are too deceptive, too realistic. The mask I wear before you is no different. But it is only physical, when I am with you. When I speak to you, I am simply the man I am beneath the mask, whoever he may be. But he is real.
And he misses you terribly.
Struggling with Lilliman, listening to him plead for mercy, I had no option other than to murder him. If only you'd known what he'd done…how eagerly, how effortlessly he'd done it…you would understand, Evey. You would not have turned in repulsion and fled in fear. No, you would have realized why things must fall into place as they have, and as they will. The pieces have not all been fitted.
I understand. I know I am not the man you'd hoped to spend a year of your life with. You long for someone you can touch, someone with an intangible as well as a tangible love. I am sorry I could not give that to you. But something about you…some strength you did not know you had, some vulnerability you cover with your smiles and your crinkling of eyes, but you do not hide in your voice, slipped through into my fingers. I felt it, I recognized it, and I wanted to help you. Perhaps there will be a way to help you.
No.
No, I cannot do that. I cannot make you see so plainly that you will forever be blinded of the innocence in the world.
Would that be such a curse?
Dear Evey. Your retreating footsteps haunt my memory now. How I wish I could have made you stronger, if only you'd given me time. If only you'd trusted me a bit more, or if I'd trusted myself.
If only I could have made life tolerable for you.
This place can become a prison, this I know. I know it all too well. But I cannot simply let you escape. I cannot let you run from me. It is not out of obsession that I need you, or want you. A part of me, the human part of me, longs for contact, for voices, for connection. But the vigilante in me, the revolutionary in me, longs for you to be free.
And God, there's only one way I can think of to do it.
Forgive me, Evey. Forgive me for what I am about to do.
And understand that there is no other way.
--
Champagne is not a foreign taste to me, yet this particular instance does not feel like a celebration. I am alone, lying in a bed that is not mine, in clothing that, in another life, it seems, was mine. Gordon has shown a successful, although unorthodox, production. I have to admit it made me sick, but in an excited, nervous, giddy way.
Taking champagne to bed is an action for newlyweds and enamored lovers, not single young women who have just taken refuge in a television icon's home for the time being.
I ran from you, V. I looked into your mask, I saw you standing there before me, as you escorted me to the entrance of the Abbey, and asked me if I was all right. I had nodded confidently, smiling, the actress that I am shining through, but the silence that followed was not at all convincing. You were calculating, reading me like an excerpt from Herodotus. Did you know then? Could you sense my fear?
Waiting for the bishop's assistant was the most agonizing five minutes of my life. The room was hot, the sunlight streaming through the window seemingly bright though it was almost dusk. I felt suffocated, isolated, kept apart from the world again. But this was not the Gallery, which had become something of a second home. This was the real world, outside of the tunnels in which you live. In which we live…lived.
Dennis was a kind man, though a bit skittish. He never looked me in the eye once. Opening the door for me, he seemed to pity me, dipping his head low. In that moment, my fear doubled. I had no idea what I was stepping into. I did not know who this man was, I did not completely understand why I was dressed like a street girl whose candy striping outfit had gone horribly wrong.
When I saw the bishop, without the crucifix hanging about his neck, I knew I could not do this. I hated myself for it, I felt the acid churning in my stomach, I felt ill, but I could not make myself wait any longer.
You entered, a furious storm of black and knives…and my heart leapt into my throat. Was this the moment? Was this the time? I felt tears prick at my eyes. You were brilliant, you were almost godlike, moving through the air like a strip of night torn from the sky. Yet you were terrifying, menacing, almost evil. You frightened me. My trust in you wavered momentarily.
And that momentary lapse was all I needed to wither and crumble. I turned to run, but you called my name.
I apologized.
How hollow. What kind of apology can I possibly make to atone for leaving you there? After you had saved me?
Oh, V, I was so frightened. I didn't want to be caught and black-bagged, I didn't want to be tortured and killed. I wanted to protect you, for protecting me, but I just don't have the strength. I don't have the spirit or fire in me that allows me to be defiant. When the light falls on me, I shiver and turn away. I am not strong.
I am not you.
V, I'm so sorry. It was foolish. But fear takes the best of you sometimes. It chokes you and wraps its icy hands around your trachea and you can't breathe and…oh God…what have I done? The "ifs" run through your head and if you don't make a decision, you could be dead, or worse, you could be in the possession of the government…
V, I miss you. I want to come back to you. I want to sit in the Gallery and watch black and white movies. I want to wake to the smell of eggs and butter, to hear your voice as you murmur to me in French.
For now, though, I am without you. And I am too afraid to find you, in the dark, in places where the street lights won't guide me. I have seen England after dark and it is not the same England as it is in the day. Nightmares take corporeal form and when you realize you aren't dreaming, you want to sleep. And perhaps you will sleep. Forever.
Sleep is so appealing right now, V. Oh, please, forgive me…for not being my parents, for not being strong…for leaving you to stand alone when you need many to stand with you.
How will I find you again?
I'm going to sleep now, V. I've turned out the light.
It's so terrible alone in the dark.
--
I place the black bag over you, stifling sound and light.
Your scream matches the one inside my head.
Disclaimer: Any and all recognizable characters, quotes, settings, plots, etc are property of Vertigo, David Lloyd, and Alan Moore, as well as the makers of the film. No copyright infringement is intended in the writing, posting, or reading of this fic.