Letter to Kevin
Apr. 21st, 2010 08:32 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
x-quebecois.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_communicationTrust is an illusion. Someone said that, once. I cannot remember who.
The story was supposed to continue. I was supposed to tell you about how the boy’s life changed. How he tried to steal from the wrong person, but that person turned out to be the right one, after all. How he found sports, skiing. How he won medals and then found a family. I was going to try to tell you many things about him, how he grew from an unexceptional boy to an unexceptional man who does nothing but run from his problems.
But every time I sit to write the next part, any part, I find that I cannot remember the details. I cannot remember the reasons for his actions, the justifications he gave himself. I remember the fighting, the anger, the laughter, the euphoria. But it is distant.
And so the ending comes before its time, the pieces that I can recall.
The man was taken by a mutant called Shrine after helping a friend with a mission for Elpis. He was taken, but he was not the one Shrine wanted. However, never one to throw away a tool that might prove useful, Shrine set about reprogramming the man. Very literally, he cut memories in two, three, four pieces. He inserted false memories, beginning a process that he hoped would leave the man a latent weapon, to be triggered when least expected.
But something in the man rebelled.
He does not remember what happened, only that his friends, when they came for him, found nothing but death and destruction where he had been. He tried to kill them, but they subdued him.
And so began the first of many new efforts to run. He ran from the telepaths, he ran from friends, he ran from people he had known. He ran from himself. But he was never very successful. He ran until his sister found him again and thought that, maybe, she would be able to help.
She could not. It was not her fault, of course.
Doctors and scientists tried to help him, but they failed as well. In part, because he did not truly understand himself or the damage that was done to him.
He bloodied his hands in self-defense, but he is reminded daily that it did not necessarily have to be so. He relished the death, the pain he caused – it was a sadistic scene his friends found. And so he feels guilt for that. The man uncovers memories that are not his of people he has known, who unsuspectingly smile while he represses the urge to hurt them.
Concussive blasts are the least of his worries when compared to his desire to harm people who have only ever wished to help him. He remembers, falsely, doing them great damage and enjoying it. And he fears this.
Someone said trust is an illusion, and I still do not remember who. But how can it be an illusion when I am trusting you?
The story was supposed to continue. I was supposed to tell you about how the boy’s life changed. How he tried to steal from the wrong person, but that person turned out to be the right one, after all. How he found sports, skiing. How he won medals and then found a family. I was going to try to tell you many things about him, how he grew from an unexceptional boy to an unexceptional man who does nothing but run from his problems.
But every time I sit to write the next part, any part, I find that I cannot remember the details. I cannot remember the reasons for his actions, the justifications he gave himself. I remember the fighting, the anger, the laughter, the euphoria. But it is distant.
And so the ending comes before its time, the pieces that I can recall.
The man was taken by a mutant called Shrine after helping a friend with a mission for Elpis. He was taken, but he was not the one Shrine wanted. However, never one to throw away a tool that might prove useful, Shrine set about reprogramming the man. Very literally, he cut memories in two, three, four pieces. He inserted false memories, beginning a process that he hoped would leave the man a latent weapon, to be triggered when least expected.
But something in the man rebelled.
He does not remember what happened, only that his friends, when they came for him, found nothing but death and destruction where he had been. He tried to kill them, but they subdued him.
And so began the first of many new efforts to run. He ran from the telepaths, he ran from friends, he ran from people he had known. He ran from himself. But he was never very successful. He ran until his sister found him again and thought that, maybe, she would be able to help.
She could not. It was not her fault, of course.
Doctors and scientists tried to help him, but they failed as well. In part, because he did not truly understand himself or the damage that was done to him.
He bloodied his hands in self-defense, but he is reminded daily that it did not necessarily have to be so. He relished the death, the pain he caused – it was a sadistic scene his friends found. And so he feels guilt for that. The man uncovers memories that are not his of people he has known, who unsuspectingly smile while he represses the urge to hurt them.
Concussive blasts are the least of his worries when compared to his desire to harm people who have only ever wished to help him. He remembers, falsely, doing them great damage and enjoying it. And he fears this.
Someone said trust is an illusion, and I still do not remember who. But how can it be an illusion when I am trusting you?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}