[Ah. He should have known that was coming first, he really should have. Trust Izabel to cut to the heart of the matter immediately, to the part not logical or practical but emotional, the part that makes the least sense. For a moment he wishes that she'd started with something easier, but then - no, that's not true; he doesn't want to be coddled, he wants to be treated like the man he has to be, and he wants her to ask what she means. Between the two of them, they're manipulative enough. This has to be their one safe space for honesty.]
[All the same, his expression goes a little dull, his eyes glazing over for a second or two as he . . . doesn't think, but remembers. Too many little things - too many people saying you're not him; Jonathan's eyes on him, hands on his shoulders, his arms around his neck; examining his own eyebrows in the mirror, the cut of his cheekbones, the shape of his mouth; a picture in a wallet, battered over years of perusal . . .]
No.
I don't know what I feel about him. I feel like I should hate him. I get frustrated with myself that I don't. I see a lot of myself in him, physically and otherwise, and the more I learn about him the more I believe that we're more similar than anyone will admit to me. Part of me is fascinated by him, because I think there are things that I could learn from him and no one else - what to do and what not to do, because I don't believe that all of his tactics were wrong in theory, only in practice. Part of me wants to know little stupid things that maybe nobody knows anymore and probably no one cares about - what he was like when he was young, what his parents were like, if he was ever happy and brave or only a coward and miserable when he wasn't getting high off of other people's weaknesses. Whether he had any fears, and if he did, what he did about them.
I had a picture of him in my wallet for a while - a long while. It wasn't a good picture, but it helped, because it showed me what he looked like, and it helped me imagine what it might be if he came and took me away from a world that seemed designed to isolate and hurt me. I think every child who feels unloved is the same way: they imagine scenarios in which, suddenly, somehow, everything will be all right. And it was stupid of me, because from the start I knew, my mother told me, that he was a monster, that she almost died, that he had charisma like a black hole and could eat people alive and not blink even once, that murder was a habit and manipulation written into every bone in his body . . .
Well, some of those things I learned along the way. But on some level, it still doesn't matter. All I ever wanted was a family.
So I think he's disgusting, and a coward, and I'm glad he's dead. I'd kill him again. But I don't hate him, and I don't think I ever will.
action
[All the same, his expression goes a little dull, his eyes glazing over for a second or two as he . . . doesn't think, but remembers. Too many little things - too many people saying you're not him; Jonathan's eyes on him, hands on his shoulders, his arms around his neck; examining his own eyebrows in the mirror, the cut of his cheekbones, the shape of his mouth; a picture in a wallet, battered over years of perusal . . .]
No.
I don't know what I feel about him. I feel like I should hate him. I get frustrated with myself that I don't. I see a lot of myself in him, physically and otherwise, and the more I learn about him the more I believe that we're more similar than anyone will admit to me. Part of me is fascinated by him, because I think there are things that I could learn from him and no one else - what to do and what not to do, because I don't believe that all of his tactics were wrong in theory, only in practice. Part of me wants to know little stupid things that maybe nobody knows anymore and probably no one cares about - what he was like when he was young, what his parents were like, if he was ever happy and brave or only a coward and miserable when he wasn't getting high off of other people's weaknesses. Whether he had any fears, and if he did, what he did about them.
I had a picture of him in my wallet for a while - a long while. It wasn't a good picture, but it helped, because it showed me what he looked like, and it helped me imagine what it might be if he came and took me away from a world that seemed designed to isolate and hurt me. I think every child who feels unloved is the same way: they imagine scenarios in which, suddenly, somehow, everything will be all right. And it was stupid of me, because from the start I knew, my mother told me, that he was a monster, that she almost died, that he had charisma like a black hole and could eat people alive and not blink even once, that murder was a habit and manipulation written into every bone in his body . . .
Well, some of those things I learned along the way. But on some level, it still doesn't matter. All I ever wanted was a family.
So I think he's disgusting, and a coward, and I'm glad he's dead. I'd kill him again. But I don't hate him, and I don't think I ever will.