Flawed Existence
by Mer, for Rhien
I run I run far from
Reality to escape who I've become
Insanity is close at my back
And I'm getting rather numb
--Rosie Thomas, I run
She stared down at her palms, tracing all of the lines with her eyes. They seemed wrinkly, less human then they had been last time she checked. The crumpled piece of paper sat in her lap, the crisp white paper, bent, broken. She didn't really know what to make of it. It meant so little to her, yet so much at the same time. It made her think of everything- of him once again. He'd been out of her mind, out of sight out of mind.
She sighed and uncrumpled the paper, staring at the bold, deliberate hand writing with a mind of its own. The first three words meant something. Just knowing that he had thought about her, about the situation and had been able to write her the words "I forgive you." She skimmed over the rest of the letter.
It was blank.
Except for small writing at the bottom of the page.
Squinting at the page she growled in frustration. It wasn't possible for anyone to write letters so small. She pulled the magnifying glass out of her desk drawer at passed it over the letters. Breathing in sharply she felt the glass slip from her fingers and shatter to the ground.
"I miss you. 532 Rue St. Germain. Paris."
She stared at the floor, kicking the tiny pieces of glass the littered the cracked wooden floor. This couldn't be happening. An international terrorist missed her company. And truth be told. She missed the company of an international terrorist. Stranger things had happened to her. But she wasn't an idiot. Even thinking of such feelings was inarguably unintelligent. It was stupid, she was stupid.
Even though she wanted out. She couldn't do it anymore. At thirty years old, she couldn't keep on chasing the bad guys for the rest of her life. The fire was gone, the job had stripped her of everything she held close to her, friends, family, herself.
It was time to get her life back.
She pulled out a piece of paper, almost identical to the sheet he had sent her, and began to write.
When I became a spy I didn't really know if I'd ever be able to leave. Now that I know I can it's almost like I'm a dog with a bone being dangled in front of my face--maybe I'll get what I want but its going to take a few tricks, and even then I'll never be certain. By the time we had taken down SD-6 my identity was stripped from my body, I was no longer Sydney Bristow, I was someone else, frozen in time. I stopped growing at a person, I lost myself. I became a spy, an agent working for the benefit of my country, a lot of good that did me.
Now I can't change. I can't change who I am. I'm stuck in time, powerless. I don't a boyfriend, or friends or a life outside of work. I need out. I need to escape. I've been standing still for the longest time and I'm living the same thing over again. I'm okay with what I am and I've been okay for almost a decade. I can't just be satisfied with this mediocrity any longer, I need something more. I see everything, every person I've killed, ever life that I've ruined and its pain. I have to stop hurting. I need to change.
I need your help to do that.
She folded up the letter, placed it in an envelope. The front remained blank and the envelope tucked into her pocket.
Rummaging around in her desk she pulled out a few things that she held dear, a few photos, but she left the rest. Walking out of the CIA building she leaned back and let the sun warm her face. She was going to the airport, maybe she'd deliver the letter in person. Either way she was starting over. She was going to live, change, on her own terms.
end
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