Learning to Live [and Lie] Again
You have blood on your hands, you know, and for a little while, you are consumed by your guilt. But then you realise that there are people with more blood on their hands, more sin, more evil, more death to their names. They are the people you must destroy, in a penance for your sins.
So, you do penance. You kill. You steal. You lie. You…live. And you lie, and you wonder how much longer the world will ask this of you before just letting you die in peace, forgotten.
He helps you, sometimes. Both of them do. So similar…so incredibly different. Both devoted to their jobs, but with no use for protocol [almost a dirty word for them].
He is always there [be careful out there. this is not about cutting off an arm of the monster - this is about killing the monster]…that night on the pier, when you broke down and cried like a little girl…holdmeplease…he held your hand and you cried and you threw your pager into the Pacific and he comforted you and reassured you and kissed better where it hurt…or, at least, you wished he would kiss you, let you know that something, someone in this life was real.
Ineedsomeonesomethingtoberealneedwantsomeonetobehereforme
You remember the first time you met him. You had hair as red as a clown's stupidbozoeredhairhesaid and were missing teeth. You think you must have scared him a little…you certainly scared yourself. But he was sweet, and kind, [and more than a little good looking, one of the little devils inside whispered] and concerned about you. Ithoughtyouwerecrazybutiwatchedyou…
Yes, he watched you. He was, still is, your guardian angel. Truth be told, you needed one of those…you needed someone to know the truth about you and still to care for you…you needed someone to know Sydney Bristow and to care about what happened to her anyway. And he cares, yes. He watches and he waits and you watch and you wait and you look and he looks and oh it's enough to break your heart….yes, he cares, you think to yourself. Cares a little bit too much to be professional, you think. But that doesn't really matter, does it? As long as someone cares…as long as someone is real in this life.
He [daddy, why did you leave me with the nanny again? Why didn't you come to my play? Daddy, where's mommy gone?]…loves you, you know. He cared enough to hide the truth all these years, at least…you've accepted now that it's a gesture of love to hide things away from, and to lie to those you care about. You see why he lied to you, told you he was an aeroplane parts salesman. He cared enough to try and keep you from the lies of this job….he failed, but isn't it enough to have tried anyway? You don't know, but you think you can live not knowing if it matters.
They both know the truth about you like no one else does….and they still care. They can see the blood on your hands, and they care anyway.
So you keep living, and you keep lying [even to them sometimes, but just when they ask you if you're alright, and you wonder how on earth anyone could ever ask that question again because you don't know if you'll ever be alright or okay or anything even remotely approaching normal and you lie to them and say that you're fine and inside you're black and dark and crying and scrubbing away at the blood on your hands and you feel like you're going mad and you don't know how to cope and you want to die and you want to be normal and you don't want to have to lie anymore], and you wait to die.
Life goes on. You learn to lie and to live again…but all the while you wait to die, because you don't deserve to live. You will do penance for your sins, and then you will die.
But sometimes when he looks at you…when he watches you from a distance and just stares…you wonder what will happen to him when you die.
And you realise that he cares too much for you…you know that you should do something about this, push him away, because he'll only get hurt when you eventually die….but you're not strong enough to push him away…you need someone. And that someone seems to be him.