Topic 23: Pain
May. 31st, 2006 06:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
a_sloaneThere are five basic torture groups, every agent learns. Blunt, sharp, cold, hot and loud.
It is a mystery to me why no one mentioned silence.
Not confinment in isolation. I knew about its effectiveness well enough before this. A different kind of silence. It started nearly thirty years ago, I think. Never mention. Never say. Her name. I never saw Emily suffering like this, not before or since, not even the day she first learned she had cancer, or those nights when the blasted chemotherapy did nothing useful but torment her. But you were wrong, dearest, you were wrong. We should have. Said her name. Spoken of her. She was ours, Emily, and then she was yours, and mine, but no longer ours, and I could not help you.
Or maybe the silence started before this. When you asked me about the first man I killed, and I told you you would not wish to know, and there was hurt in your eyes, but you never asked again. Not until the time I told you just in whose name I was dealing out death now, and that was decades later.
You shouldn't have forgiven me, you know. You would still be alive if you had not.
Emily isn't here, of course. I know that. I was not sure whether Nadia ever was until she left me, not until then, but Emily never was. Still, I find myself talking to her. I have the time now, you see. All the time in the world.
It is not especially cold here, or maybe I can't sense cold that well anymore. Blunt, well, that piece of columm which partly covers my legs certainly is, and so is the sand and earth covering much of the rest. I think I can move my fingers now; in another three days, I might be able to free my left arm. Maybe. There are... opposing factors.
Bullets, when they enter you, aren't that painful, oddly enough. Not sharp, not like needles. I died twice now, though Jack would probably argue the first time does not count. At any case, I felt it more strongly than the second time. The question of control again, perhaps; I wanted her to shoot me, after all. There was just one way to ensure that she would, promptly, without hesitation. It was also the final offering, and the ultimate proof.
The silence, though. They should have been there. All of them, when I was dead. But there was nothing, not until I began to live once more. Still, I thought, now I can bring them back. I have the time. I am no longer bound to mortal limitations. It was just the first step, and now I can bring them back. Nadia, Emily, Jacquelyn. Jack had been the last, and so he would be the first. Then the others. Of course, Jack had other plans.
There are moments when I wonder whether this isn't all one long extended death hallucination. All of it. Finding the tomb, and everything before that. Maybe I am still dying that very first time, in some undisclosed facility, courtesy of the US government. Or in Siena. Another cave, and somehow, every single one of those shards missed an artery. Surely, that was too convenient to be true. Would this mean Nadia was still alive? I think it would. Why then she lives. How did that go? It has been so long since I read Shakespeare. Do you see this? Look on her, look on her lips, look there, look there.
I had a choice, when she died. Even then. It could have been an accident. Another senseless death in a series of senseless deaths; the universe is drowning in them. And everything would have been meaningless. Everything. Hurt her, save her, no difference, she was dead, like Emily, like Jacquelyn. Was that what you would have wanted, Nadia? Surely not. I know you don't want to talk to me anymore, but answer me this. If I had remained with your dead body, and had admitted this to be a universe without any meaning at all, if I had given up and left it to its designs, would that have been really so much better?
An interesting play, Lear. One old man has to become utterly insane and the other has to lose his sight and go through death in order to make them understand. Understand what, though? Is this the promised end? There is a question for you. Cordelia still dies. Love and be silent. Her silence is her power.
Or I could choose a universe with meaning, Nadia. It was the choice I made when the first of my daughters died. If there was meaning, if there was fate, then there was sense. There is sense. I insist on it.
Through a glass darkly. That is not from Lear, but the source will come to me in a moment. I have the time to figure it out. There isn't much to distract me from it. I am not thirsty here, you see, nor am I hungry. It is neither hot nor cold, and frankly, after bullets and an explosion, sharp objects of metal would be an anticlimax. But then, they were never pain. Not to me.
Talk to me. Just once. I don't care if you curse me or tell me the sense in this is not a world that will finally change but a just punishment for me, as long as you talk to me again. I supped with horrors, my darling, indeed I did, and I never claimed the excuse of not knowing what I was doing, did I? I can bear their company.
Only not this silence.
It is a mystery to me why no one mentioned silence.
Not confinment in isolation. I knew about its effectiveness well enough before this. A different kind of silence. It started nearly thirty years ago, I think. Never mention. Never say. Her name. I never saw Emily suffering like this, not before or since, not even the day she first learned she had cancer, or those nights when the blasted chemotherapy did nothing useful but torment her. But you were wrong, dearest, you were wrong. We should have. Said her name. Spoken of her. She was ours, Emily, and then she was yours, and mine, but no longer ours, and I could not help you.
Or maybe the silence started before this. When you asked me about the first man I killed, and I told you you would not wish to know, and there was hurt in your eyes, but you never asked again. Not until the time I told you just in whose name I was dealing out death now, and that was decades later.
You shouldn't have forgiven me, you know. You would still be alive if you had not.
Emily isn't here, of course. I know that. I was not sure whether Nadia ever was until she left me, not until then, but Emily never was. Still, I find myself talking to her. I have the time now, you see. All the time in the world.
It is not especially cold here, or maybe I can't sense cold that well anymore. Blunt, well, that piece of columm which partly covers my legs certainly is, and so is the sand and earth covering much of the rest. I think I can move my fingers now; in another three days, I might be able to free my left arm. Maybe. There are... opposing factors.
Bullets, when they enter you, aren't that painful, oddly enough. Not sharp, not like needles. I died twice now, though Jack would probably argue the first time does not count. At any case, I felt it more strongly than the second time. The question of control again, perhaps; I wanted her to shoot me, after all. There was just one way to ensure that she would, promptly, without hesitation. It was also the final offering, and the ultimate proof.
The silence, though. They should have been there. All of them, when I was dead. But there was nothing, not until I began to live once more. Still, I thought, now I can bring them back. I have the time. I am no longer bound to mortal limitations. It was just the first step, and now I can bring them back. Nadia, Emily, Jacquelyn. Jack had been the last, and so he would be the first. Then the others. Of course, Jack had other plans.
There are moments when I wonder whether this isn't all one long extended death hallucination. All of it. Finding the tomb, and everything before that. Maybe I am still dying that very first time, in some undisclosed facility, courtesy of the US government. Or in Siena. Another cave, and somehow, every single one of those shards missed an artery. Surely, that was too convenient to be true. Would this mean Nadia was still alive? I think it would. Why then she lives. How did that go? It has been so long since I read Shakespeare. Do you see this? Look on her, look on her lips, look there, look there.
I had a choice, when she died. Even then. It could have been an accident. Another senseless death in a series of senseless deaths; the universe is drowning in them. And everything would have been meaningless. Everything. Hurt her, save her, no difference, she was dead, like Emily, like Jacquelyn. Was that what you would have wanted, Nadia? Surely not. I know you don't want to talk to me anymore, but answer me this. If I had remained with your dead body, and had admitted this to be a universe without any meaning at all, if I had given up and left it to its designs, would that have been really so much better?
An interesting play, Lear. One old man has to become utterly insane and the other has to lose his sight and go through death in order to make them understand. Understand what, though? Is this the promised end? There is a question for you. Cordelia still dies. Love and be silent. Her silence is her power.
Or I could choose a universe with meaning, Nadia. It was the choice I made when the first of my daughters died. If there was meaning, if there was fate, then there was sense. There is sense. I insist on it.
Through a glass darkly. That is not from Lear, but the source will come to me in a moment. I have the time to figure it out. There isn't much to distract me from it. I am not thirsty here, you see, nor am I hungry. It is neither hot nor cold, and frankly, after bullets and an explosion, sharp objects of metal would be an anticlimax. But then, they were never pain. Not to me.
Talk to me. Just once. I don't care if you curse me or tell me the sense in this is not a world that will finally change but a just punishment for me, as long as you talk to me again. I supped with horrors, my darling, indeed I did, and I never claimed the excuse of not knowing what I was doing, did I? I can bear their company.
Only not this silence.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
OOC
Date: 2006-06-01 02:20 pm (UTC)poor Arvin!
OOC
Date: 2006-06-01 02:22 pm (UTC)Re: OOC
Date: 2006-06-01 02:24 pm (UTC)otherwise, I think my messenger is being wonky, and I have to run but will catch you later!
no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 01:59 am (UTC)"Is this what you consider an accident as well? Where is the cosmic oops that I should hear echoing into the dark distance. Did I already miss it? Perhaps I should ask your legs, once they've told you how they are feeling of course."
Her smile is cold and cruel, this is not the Nadia that loved her father, this is truly the vision that he had always felt was to become of her had she been with him her whole life.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 05:22 am (UTC)he says, partly glad she is back, talking to him, talking to him, partly afraid he might have made her into the one thing he had never wanted her to be, and, for the moment, utterly convinced it is truly her. Before, he had moments when he was aware he might be losing his mind. But Nadia's departure before, more than anything, encouraged him to believe that she is real.
"I'll find it. It took me all these years to understand this much, but then, I was weak. I tried not to understand. Perhaps this is why this happened."
He sees the wound on her throat, but the smell of blood, so pervading and sickening on front of his fireplace, is utterly missing.
"I was never complete, except in moments," he says. "Do you know, Nadia, the one moment when I was utterly your father and not his follower? It was when I shot you. That should have taught me something. And the one moment when I was completely his? It wasn't when you died, sweetheart, and not after. It was when I died. When I made Sydney kill me. Yes, that must be why this happened. Perhaps one has to be broken in pieces in a literal fashion as well, to learn. How to end these divisions."
no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 05:38 am (UTC)She paces across his line of sight, each time she turns to start back again her eyes meet his, cold and glassy as if without any emotion for whatever bond they could have had. "I was tired of hearing about your great sacrifices, if I had known that I was to be one of them?" Her form leaned against the broken stone as if she was really there and able to touch and feel, or perhaps it was just his mind forcing reality where there was none left to grip onto. "If you had been my father, things would have gone differently. Perhaps I would have died walking across the glass, ironic that when you fell I helped you, yet when I fell you left me to bleed."
no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 06:34 am (UTC)"So what is your explanation for it all, Nadia?" he asks. "Why did you call me back, when I had been ready to die? I told you there was no place for monsters in this world, did I not? There has to be a reason why you were allowed to guide me back."
There is no life in her eyes, and he looks elsewhere, at his own scarred hand. He remembers her last breath, remembers the blood on his hands. Remembers making that last choice, taking the manuscript and leaving.
"There is an irony I cannot resolve," he says. "I turned my back on Rambaldi for you, and I had to kill you. I turned my back on you for Rambaldi, and I had to kill you. Tell me, Nadia, what was it that made either choice any less a betrayal?"
no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 06:45 am (UTC)She pauses and tilts her head at him rubbing her hand below her wound giving the impression that the skin felt tight, but there was no skin to really feel. Nothing to feel at all. "Betrayal isn't something you should have to balance out. It is already balanced with the betrayal. Your mindless banter may be getting the better of you now, but I dare to wonder if there was ever a better to get."
She moves closer to him, and would kneel down before him as if to pay homage to him for all his wonders, but instead she just smiles a wicked grin at him, "I'm not your guide Father. I'll never let you back into my life. Don't you get it? The betrayal can't be reversed now. It's this way forever. And ever."
no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 07:37 am (UTC)As soon as he has said it, he's afraid she'll leave him again. Because that is the secret, really. He can deal with hatred. He can even use hatred, at times, though with Nadia, as opposed to everyone else save Emily, he never wished to evoke it. Still, hatred is something, being hated is life, hatred is being a part of someone's life. It is indifference that shuts you out.
"A single shred of remorse," he says, trying out the phrase, both because he actually wonders and because he wants to distract her. "Oh, I felt more than that, Nadia, but not for what you probably mean by my crimes in the general sense. No, I never felt remorse for what is so quaintly called "heading a terrorist organization". Were you surprised when the CIA didn't just offer me a second pardon agreement but hired me to create APO for them? I wasn't. There is no difference, really. What I did for the CIA, what I did for the Alliance, and then the CIA again - frankly, I never understood why I should feel guilty for the same actions without a goverment stamp of approval."
He looks at her, her dark hair, and remembers South America. The generals. Argentina. Chilé. Was that where the idea started? If I can do this for these incompetents in Washington, why not for myself?
At the same time, he knows he's prevaricating. She's not talking about this at all when she refers to his crimes.
"Remorse," he says, "to me implies that you wish the action undone, and if you could go back in time, would undo it. And here lies my difficulty, Nadia. There are actions I regret, believe it or not. But there are not many I can wish undone. Take Sydney. I regret all the pain I caused her, but there is just one action I would reverse if I could, and it is not recruiting her, or even the order to kill that boy she was engaged to. All of this made her the woman she became, and I cannot wish it undone. No, the one thing I would change if I could, the action I would take back... I would not hire Alison Doren to replace her friend."
For a moment, he cannot recall the name of the girl. Then it comes back to him. Francie. That was the name. But perhaps the moment it took to remember is an answer to itself: it is not the girl herself he feels remorse for, just the pain her death caused Sydney.
"Emily," he continues. "Any pain I caused Emily. I always felt guilt for that. I always will. But my betrayal of her resulted in you. How can I wish it undone?"
There she is, his daughter, or what is left of her. Who is this? the Emily of his memories had asked when Nadia had come to guide him back to reality, when there still had been a living, breathing Nadia to call him back, and he had replied: "This is my Nadia."
"But you," he says. "Any pain I caused you. Any single one. I wish it undone. There is no point to it, though, is there? It is irreversible, as you said. And so, Nadia, there is no point to remorse."