Less than an hour before, he stood opposite The Impostor in the offices of The Sun, and exchanged unpleasantries. His old office, changed but his. Just 45 minutes ago, he stood outside The Impostor's home, with Blair, the kids, and Tea right on the other side of that door, and fought for his identity. He was Todd Manning. But, to his surprise, The Impostor believed he also was Todd Manning, and The Impostor did love his family and children, which was shocking as well as certain.
Just 30 minutes ago, he had taken The Impostor "hostage" and held him around the neck, and pointed the gun at his gut, and threatened him. All he wanted was to be with them all again, and have Blair know right away that he was her Todd. That was all he wanted.
And now, he found himself slumped against the docks, hands tied, mouth gagged, somehow he fought the impulse to give in to a moving mass of darkness that was coming to his mind's eye, the memory of being bound and threatened was at the edge of rememberance, and he, usually searching for any clues, fought not to remember it.
Agent Baker seemed to really mean it this time. What were his words outside The Manning's house? "He's suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome?" He almost laughed in spite of everything. His whole LIFE had been PTSD. Somehow, right as Baker pulled the gun back and moved to shoot, time moved slower than he expected, and the glint from it caused him to flash on Peter, standing with that silver lighter, gleaming. He heard a small noise escape from him, reminiscent of a child fearing a beating, and then, the shots rang out.
Deafening his one good ear, he was immediately overtaken by two things. The pain of the impact of the bullets against the bullet-proof vest that he was stealth enough to grab from Agent Kent's closet, and the movement over and around his mind's eye of The Dark Mass. That was the thing he wanted to fight more, as it caused him to retreat inside himself and become still and blank, as he was for the last 8 years.
With all the strength he had, as his body drooped back, his eyes fixed above him on the moon's light, he fought. The Dark Mass had a one remaining corner of light. He knew his only recompense was to fight that dark and peel that corner back, with every ounce of his cognizance, and deal with the pain and what was happening later. So he focused, life and limb, on defeating the dark and stopping it from consuming him. With all his concentration, he peeled the corner back slightly, then took an inaudible breath, as his body sagged and slid to the left. Baker and the other agents were still talking, sounding light years away. He knew time was slipping. He concentrated every bit of force left in his soul and wiped the dark off his mind's eye like a white board. At that very moment, one of the agents reached down and tumbled him off the dock and into the ocean. And, without realizing, his Dark Mass, in its hunger to blank his mind, had actually saved him from being discovered as alive.
The water was not a surprise to his body. It was nowhere as cold as the water in the Irish sea, or even the water in the river by the cabin when he was shot in the leg during a conflict with Bo. How CLEAR that all was in his mind. Strange that the more closer memories were so hard to access. The fact of having no free hands to swim did not surprise him either; he once survived all of this without legs, he could survive water without arms. He remembered telling Blair once, "It's all water under the bridge. And me, well I know, because I'm an expert on water now."
Was that what he had really said to her, when he had the chance to hold her as she cried, and tell her how he missed her and what she had meant to his recovery after Ireland? A dark time rooted in deep, bitter waiting; endless pain and hopelessness; and being lost to himself, as well as the world.
He looked up at the water's surface, where he could see the reflection of a streetlight against the river. He thought, "That was the darkest time, of what I can remember. Months of not knowing my own name, months of trying to heal."
He used his legs to propel himself under the dock and quietly break the surface to gain air. "That," he told himself, "was my first real death. I am Todd Manning. This," he stopped and gulped some air, "is a piece of cake.
Agent Baker seemed to really mean it this time. What were his words outside The Manning's house? "He's suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome?" He almost laughed in spite of everything. His whole LIFE had been PTSD. Somehow, right as Baker pulled the gun back and moved to shoot, time moved slower than he expected, and the glint from it caused him to flash on Peter, standing with that silver lighter, gleaming. He heard a small noise escape from him, reminiscent of a child fearing a beating, and then, the shots rang out.
Deafening his one good ear, he was immediately overtaken by two things. The pain of the impact of the bullets against the bullet-proof vest that he was stealth enough to grab from Agent Kent's closet, and the movement over and around his mind's eye of The Dark Mass. That was the thing he wanted to fight more, as it caused him to retreat inside himself and become still and blank, as he was for the last 8 years.
With all the strength he had, as his body drooped back, his eyes fixed above him on the moon's light, he fought. The Dark Mass had a one remaining corner of light. He knew his only recompense was to fight that dark and peel that corner back, with every ounce of his cognizance, and deal with the pain and what was happening later. So he focused, life and limb, on defeating the dark and stopping it from consuming him. With all his concentration, he peeled the corner back slightly, then took an inaudible breath, as his body sagged and slid to the left. Baker and the other agents were still talking, sounding light years away. He knew time was slipping. He concentrated every bit of force left in his soul and wiped the dark off his mind's eye like a white board. At that very moment, one of the agents reached down and tumbled him off the dock and into the ocean. And, without realizing, his Dark Mass, in its hunger to blank his mind, had actually saved him from being discovered as alive.
The water was not a surprise to his body. It was nowhere as cold as the water in the Irish sea, or even the water in the river by the cabin when he was shot in the leg during a conflict with Bo. How CLEAR that all was in his mind. Strange that the more closer memories were so hard to access. The fact of having no free hands to swim did not surprise him either; he once survived all of this without legs, he could survive water without arms. He remembered telling Blair once, "It's all water under the bridge. And me, well I know, because I'm an expert on water now."
Was that what he had really said to her, when he had the chance to hold her as she cried, and tell her how he missed her and what she had meant to his recovery after Ireland? A dark time rooted in deep, bitter waiting; endless pain and hopelessness; and being lost to himself, as well as the world.
He looked up at the water's surface, where he could see the reflection of a streetlight against the river. He thought, "That was the darkest time, of what I can remember. Months of not knowing my own name, months of trying to heal."
He used his legs to propel himself under the dock and quietly break the surface to gain air. "That," he told himself, "was my first real death. I am Todd Manning. This," he stopped and gulped some air, "is a piece of cake.
This one is terrific as he fights the darkeness, love it and can't wait for this to continue. Let's hope he can keep the darkness at bay.
ReplyDeleteDitto Karena's comment! Awesome.
ReplyDeletethank you.
ReplyDelete