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A Little Peace
Do you know what you do to me? What I want you to do to me? Sometimes, on long, dark night when the only company I have are my demons, I imagine you with me.
One day perhaps, you'll know all my secrets, but until that day, all I have is my mind, and these pseudo-moments of friendship we share over the phone, and glimpses of you from afar.
You control me. I am totally and utterly under your power. And there is absolutely nothing I could do, even if I wanted to, because it's always been this way between us.
There have been, and continue to be, periods of time, however brief, in our intertwined lives, when you didn't evert, either concsiously or subconsciously, your control over me. And in those times I can almost convince myself that I can exist without you.
But your replacements were never as good as the real thing, and though I thought I could learn to be happy with them, learn to love them, my thoughts always returned to you.
I don't know if you're aware of what I tried to do, or if you even care, but I tried to leave with him. The last one really loved me for who I am, and if I had been succesful in my plot, I think I would have been able to be happy with him, eventually.
Or at least less miserable.
But they stopped it before I could give you freedom. Before I could leave this life and go away with him, and never chase you again.
Maybe They know what I'm only beginning to guess. That when I go with them, the ones I think I love, I'm just trying to distance myself from you.
I didn't know it was possible to love someone like I love you. There is a physical pain in my chest, like a blade between the ribs, when I hear your voice, knowing that I can never be with you becuase of how They have trained me, and how I betrayed you.
You don't want to hold it against me, and concsiously you have forgiven me, but you punish me none the less. And the apology your subconcsious needs for forgiveness with never come, because the person They turned me into never apologizes.
I guess it figures that I only have these many epiphanies, that I can only admit my love for you, while I'm dying. Well, I feel like I'm dying. Inside and out.
Three weeks in a drug induced coma, the bullet wound in my back being prevented from healing, and all this being done on my own brothers orders. He put me in the psyco ward for God sakes.
He checked me into the mental health ward of St. Catherine's hospital (and no, the name was not a coincidence if I know my twin), under the pretense that I was suicidal. The people there seem to be very stupid, which I don't really believe, and the only other explanation is that the entire facility is in Lyle's pocket, jacking him off.
My only thanks are that I wasn't in Renewal wing.
I mean, what kind of person tries to commit suicide by shooting themselves in the back with a silenced, long range assault rifle?
Why I can't I stop being me, being angry, just a for a little while, and let myself love you? I'm so cold whenever I get the chance, and you answer my coldness with your own.
I've been staring at the phone for a while now, thinking about your words. At this moment, I fell more alone than I ever have before. After my mother was killed, I still had you, but now, even you're gone.
I've been dreaming about you recently. They can't be catagorized into good, bad, fantasy or nightmare. I awake from them and sometimes my entire being is permeated with this glow of complete happiness after dreaming of you and I, just sitting and having a conversation.
But usually it's something else.
My dreams about you have a tendency to be soaked in blood. And light. I wake up and screams stream from my eyes, sometimes falling with tears, but more often without. I'm too terrified to cry.
Then image of you invaded my sleep just after I began sleeping with him. And when I woke up, I wouldn't let him touch me. He would try to enfold me in his love, his arms, but neither of those things were yours.
I couldn't stand him for moments after the screams, and I would pull away, puch him to the other side of my bed, trying to put some distance between us, the expanse of empty matress a comfort.
You weren't there, but neither was your replacement. A comfort.
This self inflicted issolation the person They have turned me into has created gets to me sometimes, I'll admit. But it's better than this wanting.
I would do anything to make this desire for you go away. The things I say to you, the insults and words of hate, they're eating me from the inside out.
The hole in my back is burning, like someone dropped a grenade and forgot to yell 'Fire in the hole!', like the bullet in my back exploded and poisoned my blood. But even that is just a slight physical discomfort compared to what I'm feeling right now, the ache in what's left of my soul.
I'm crying. I only noticed the wet, cold tears on my face at this very moment, but I'm actually crying for you.
A few years ago, I would have been amazed, well, resentful, for back then, I never cried. Back then, you were an experiment from my painful past, and I was Corporate. Back then, I didn't know the truth.
I can't decide what's wrose, my unknowing misery from before your escape, or my completely aware desperate depression from after.
At least now I have a little better understanding of what the Centre is really like. And at least now I have some memories of happiness, both with him and my mother.
My father tainted my memory of her for my entire adult life. How can a man tell his own child, his only daughter, such a lie? Suicide my ass.
On the day when you know everything there is to know about me, my life, my past, when you know all my secrets, will you tell me what they are?
Lately I've begun to doubt everything in my life. My father, my brother, though I never trusted him to begin with, even Sydney. Everyone except you. So much so that when you tell me, however rarely, that you have information on any aspect of my life, I believe you, no matter what I might say.
You're the only person in my life who has never lied to me, and continues to live. You're the only person in my life who I would continue to naively trust even after lies.
The tears have stopped now, but I can't move. At this moment I want nothing more than my bed, but it hurts when I move.
Everytime I breath, the wound on my back burns just a little more than the time before.
Do you ever wonder what our life together would have been like without the Centre?
I'd like to believe that we, you and I, would be the perfect little white picket fence family with 2.5 children, made naturally, two jobs, a four door sedan, and a minivan in the garage.
Would we be another one of your average, everyday, run of the mill dysfunctional families? Would we even know each other? I doubt it.
Wow. What a thought. Life without you. I'm not sure life without the Centre would be worth never meeting you. Defintely not worth it.
No matter how miserable, how cold, how alone I am right now, and at this very moment was given the choice between my life now, with everything that goes along with, or the ability to start again, without the Centre, on the one condition that I would never know you, never see your face, hear your voice in the night, I wouldn't even have to think about telling then to go to hell.
There is always a catch when you make a deal with the devil.
And why didn't I consider that fact when I was given the deal about you? Because back then my father wasn't the devil, he was my father, and Daddy would never lie to his little Angel.
I think that's the most sarcastic thought I've ever had in my entire life, and for me, that's and accomplishment.
It's funny how, four years ago, that thought wouldn't have been sarcastic in the least. But you told me the truth while I was living in a world spun of golden lies.
How I hated you for tarnishing my gold and peeling away the coating to reveal my steel cage.
It took someone to love me to realize what you had always been telling me. He loved me so deeply, and through his heart, I found my own, burried in ice.
Yes, the infamous Ice Queen does indeed have a heart.
At the Centre, every lowly secretary, technition, even up inot the sweepers, is terrified of me. And despite what everyone thinks about me, despite what they say while huddled around the water cooler on their breaks, I really don't enjoy it.
But I guess that's the price you pay for survival. I am after all a Parker.
You keep me alive in that dungeon, in that feakshow of Dr. Mengla's. Nazi experiments, stolen lives, and stolen loved ones.
The image of your smiling face, those adorable little dimples, your dark gazes, are my food and water and shelter in the desert of my unwilling manhunt.
You take my breath away.
You are my breath.
Not your words, but the very memory of the sound of your voice gives me strength to stand right now. I can feel the skin over the wound, my bodies first rudementary attempts at knitting the hole back together, rip open painfully and it begins to bleed.
I strip off my sweater as quickly I can with only one arm, becuase he gave it to, and it's a one symbol of him I am unwilling to stain in my blood. But even that thought doesn't stop me from dropping it on the floor and stepping on it in my exhaustion.
I undo my jeans and step out of them and my socks, and fall face down on my bed the moment I'm within reach of it, not bothering to get under the covers. I may be a little cold through the night, but I'm way to tired to care right now. I'm too tired to care about any of it.
And doesn't this just figure.
I'm so physically exhausted, that I can't get my mind to slow down for even a moment. It would only take a few seconds of internal peace to allow my body to rest, but no. I'm too tired to sleep.
All I want is a little peace, and your body to wrap around.
You're body. In a perfect world, that would put me to sleep from an exhaustion much different from the one I'm experiencing now, but alas.
Just a little . . .