They thought it was the flood, the raging current that killed me. They
thought it was the unleashed powers of Stryker's dike, the unrelenting
telepathic pressure, that did me in. They all think me a hero, embalmed
forever in their hearts as the memory of a martyr who sacrificed herself
for their freedom. Let them think it; if it offers comfort on a lonely
night, then let them believe the lie.
For what none of them knows about that lonely afternoon in the Canadian wilderness is that I'd known I was to die, and that I chose to - wanted to, needed to. Perhaps Xavier suspected; only my wizened mentor would've seen that all the raging waters of the world's seas couldn't have challenged the intricaces of the human brain.
In the end, it was indecision -immobility- that killed me. To live without motion is to not live at all; if one lingers too long at a fork in the road, she sprouts roots and grows stagnant. So, fearful of growing still, I continued on, fearful of making the choice for one road that would bar the other forever. But how long can one live a lie; how long before duplicity of the heart wraps its twisty branches around you and strangles you in the separation?
I thought of Scott, of his gentleness, of his power. I thought of the vows we'd taken, the promises we'd made - and for one, fleeting moment, I wished I'd never said, "I do."
What freedom, I thought, what a life that would be. Lonely, perhaps. Erratic, dangerous, unstable - but free. Free to love - free to love what? An animal? A madman of brute strength and unmitigated anger? A loner who'd claim to be with me always, but would forever be absent, trekking to the furthest reaches of the universe to come to terms with his own shady past and to accept his sole destiny?
I couldn't choose between the two, and so I chose neither. I chose me. I chose to sever the road at the fork, embalming the loves of my life not as realities, not as regrets, but as eternal - beautiful - possibilities.
For what none of them knows about that lonely afternoon in the Canadian wilderness is that I'd known I was to die, and that I chose to - wanted to, needed to. Perhaps Xavier suspected; only my wizened mentor would've seen that all the raging waters of the world's seas couldn't have challenged the intricaces of the human brain.
In the end, it was indecision -immobility- that killed me. To live without motion is to not live at all; if one lingers too long at a fork in the road, she sprouts roots and grows stagnant. So, fearful of growing still, I continued on, fearful of making the choice for one road that would bar the other forever. But how long can one live a lie; how long before duplicity of the heart wraps its twisty branches around you and strangles you in the separation?
I thought of Scott, of his gentleness, of his power. I thought of the vows we'd taken, the promises we'd made - and for one, fleeting moment, I wished I'd never said, "I do."
What freedom, I thought, what a life that would be. Lonely, perhaps. Erratic, dangerous, unstable - but free. Free to love - free to love what? An animal? A madman of brute strength and unmitigated anger? A loner who'd claim to be with me always, but would forever be absent, trekking to the furthest reaches of the universe to come to terms with his own shady past and to accept his sole destiny?
I couldn't choose between the two, and so I chose neither. I chose me. I chose to sever the road at the fork, embalming the loves of my life not as realities, not as regrets, but as eternal - beautiful - possibilities.