The Green Man-Alias, G
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)
eklis@littlereview.com
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.
Summary: Vaughn has a revelation.
Can you see through my eyes? Do you know what it's like to see patterns in every random event? And did you ever notice that the swinging doors along that endless corridor look like a face, with windows for eyes and dents that appear to be smiling? Or if you stare at the perforations in the ceiling, you can see an F-16 sailing through the clouds?
No? I didn't think so. Only crazy people see those things. And don't dare mention them to your friends. Because you know what they'll do when they find out how far you've unraveled.
And what about your shrink with her remedies bound into neat little packages, symptoms nipped and tucked by diagnostic codes? Busy pen scratching away at her pad when you say something relevant. Brow furrowing with something approaching sympathy. Blue eyes guarded as you run through it again.
I've seen you go in there and I see your body language when she's done with you. Drooping shoulders and down-turned mouth. Eyes turning inward.
But how can I see you when I'm 6000 miles from nowhere? Strapped to a gurney, pin-cushioned hands at my sides. Riveted by the monsters in the ceiling tiles. Blood singing with toxic chemicals, all sharps and flats.
Remembering the wizened face that looms over me. Serpents twining over tumescent lips. As still and gray as the Green Man at St Swithun's in Devon, England. Etched with arterial lines and tributaries, each telling its own story of murder and greed. And then he is gone.
Like the maid rising from the mists, you appear out of nowhere.
We run out together, gasping and sweating from the adrenaline, and for one moment, your face becomes his. Going all gargoyle on me.
And I smile.
The End
Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.
Summary: Vaughn has a revelation.
Can you see through my eyes? Do you know what it's like to see patterns in every random event? And did you ever notice that the swinging doors along that endless corridor look like a face, with windows for eyes and dents that appear to be smiling? Or if you stare at the perforations in the ceiling, you can see an F-16 sailing through the clouds?
No? I didn't think so. Only crazy people see those things. And don't dare mention them to your friends. Because you know what they'll do when they find out how far you've unraveled.
And what about your shrink with her remedies bound into neat little packages, symptoms nipped and tucked by diagnostic codes? Busy pen scratching away at her pad when you say something relevant. Brow furrowing with something approaching sympathy. Blue eyes guarded as you run through it again.
I've seen you go in there and I see your body language when she's done with you. Drooping shoulders and down-turned mouth. Eyes turning inward.
But how can I see you when I'm 6000 miles from nowhere? Strapped to a gurney, pin-cushioned hands at my sides. Riveted by the monsters in the ceiling tiles. Blood singing with toxic chemicals, all sharps and flats.
Remembering the wizened face that looms over me. Serpents twining over tumescent lips. As still and gray as the Green Man at St Swithun's in Devon, England. Etched with arterial lines and tributaries, each telling its own story of murder and greed. And then he is gone.
Like the maid rising from the mists, you appear out of nowhere.
We run out together, gasping and sweating from the adrenaline, and for one moment, your face becomes his. Going all gargoyle on me.
And I smile.
The End