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Hello, friend.
Surprised? Familiar greetings but from an unfamiliar mouth, huh? I know. It has been him who kept on chattering to you—I know. He got a lot to tell and had been talking on and on like an insecure kid—but for the sake of fairness, it should be my turn sometimes, too. Right?
Nah, don't sweat it. I won't be shedding tears like he did. (But then again, it's not his fault, nor is it mine.) You know what kind of person I am, right? YOU are the asshole who snoops on everything—oh, don't take it for real; I was just trying to be polite, not looking to be friends with you. Do ordinary people not all act this way? The first time they met, there would always be simpers, handshakes, and a disingenuous greeting: "Hello, friend."
…Not very talkative, eh? So dull. As far as I can see, YOU are the one who's the cruelest person among us—Didn't he keep asking you "What should I do?" when he was scared? But you never answered. Whisper it to me: Are you that kind of cold-blooded freak who'd throw out rain-soaked animals from the window? You must be. I guess.
Just kidding. Trying to make it easier. You must have realized the benefits of simply being a listener early on: You need not do anything—right or wrong, good or bad. All you need to do is listening, which, for a person like him, might just be enough. I'm talking too much, aren't I? That is probably why I'm always the one (not you) who gets shut out of the door.
Do I sound kinda jealous? Yeah. I am. A little bit. That's quite pathetic. He would never snub you or shut you out intentionally or want you gone for good…he does that only to me. Guess why—ha! Because I love him most in this world.
Don't take me wrong. I have no intention of whining like a lovelorn highschool girl. It's just...There're times when I also need a listener. As you can see, we haven't spoken a word since that day. He hates me.
He does not go out, wanting to rot in the apartment. This place has now become the grave he dug for himself. He hates himself as much as he hates me—does that sound weird? After all, I am him, and he is me—in brief, I feel like we're all "dying" here. Take this as my "last words".
This might be a bit off…Alright. Screw it. I just want to say something before going crazy from boredom.
There would sometimes be Darlene. She's only one who'd come over.
She seemed exhausted, and worried. Ever since we met after getting out of jail, she's been like this. She got worse after Cisco's death. It's like she's been on edge secretly. I know that Elliot has been trying to say something to console her, but he could not find any to speak.
I promised her that I'd find Dark Army. I'd find those bastards who exploited our plan and make them pay. But she couldn't hear me. Just like everyone else.
There were times when I sat in the living room and watched her and Elliot snuggling with each other as two codependent animals. Darlene wants to stay with her brother, while Elliot keeps pushing her away with various excuses eventually—no, I don't think he's mad at her working with FBI before. In contrast, he's mad at himself. He's mad at me. Remember? Darlene is his trigger, and he wants me to leave.
Don't worry about that, though. I won't. For now. Not the time yet.
He has tried to keep himself busy, finding some work to do, but ended up staring blankly at the the computer screen with his fingers lingering on the keyboard not typing even a single character. He frequently watches live broadcasts of fire brigade rescue operations: the flames from the explosions have been put out, and more than seventy buildings that used to belong to E-Corp have turned to ashes scattered everywhere with countless innocent souls hovering above - they were once someone's the parents, husbands, wives, and children. All the same are they now.
Do you also think that I'm the murderer? Elliot has warned at the beginning, after all. Had he not been trying to stop me?—but NO. I don't think so. None of us is the murderer, be it him, me, or Angela. We were the knife, not the one who did the killing. The person who's manipulating behind should be responsible for this.
Do you think I'm deceiving myself? But If we don't compel ourselves to believe, we'll never be able to stand up. If we confront the truth, we'll never be able to proceed.
So long has it been since he accepted my existence. So long after he finally recalled that many things…and here we are, back to the beginning.
There's an interesting thing to tell—sometimes I feel that Elliot is like a skilled farmer who excels in cultivation: see, out of some kind of "little hobby of a hacker", he voraciously gathers information about everyone around him, akin to raising a herd of livestock so that he can slaughter them whenever there's a need. He indeed have no Facebook account; he's addicted to his own "tittytainment".
Unfortunately, even those dirty little secrets won't be of any help now. This farmer has lost the least strength to slaughter a chicken, so he starts to spend more time on sleeping and dreaming—he gets to sleep on an empty stomach, wakes up in the middle of the night drenched in cold sweat, and immerses deeply in the relapse of depression, drowning in tears.
More than once, I sat by the bed and watched Elliot sleeping. It's not that I can't take over the control again—during the lull in his sleep, I could very well have done something else as I used to, but taking away the rare respite moments of a tormented young man was not only brutal, but would also make him worse. I can only act as a daemon he refuses to notice and respond to, watching him in silence.
He looks more solitary than ever. When he's huddled in the corner, sobbing, it's as if he were the child from that story who was so hungry that ate away at all her insides and had the sound from the entire world echoing inside the empty body.
There was a time when I had him in my arms and could almost hear the young, congenetic soul's persistent wailing, asking for a longer-lasting intimate companionship—would you be surprised? He rejects almost everyone's kind touches, yet constantly yearns for intimate connections.
When I visit this lonely server of mine, he'd immediately send back all those untold secrets as a kid who has been left out for a long time:
"Why didn't you come sooner?"
"Where have you been?"
"Stay within my reach."
"Leave. Never show up again."
"Don't go."
"You pathetic, heartless, disgusting jerk."
"Your being is pointle—"
"Give me one more hug."
I'll give what he wants. As always.
It's another nightmare.
He's still at that day, I suppose—the day when Stage 2 was implemented; the day when Angela completely betrayed; the day when we desperately fought for control. The blue faint glow of the monitor still-on dimly illuminates the muscles tensely clenched on Elliot's cheeks, and the forehead dampened with cold sweat. His eyeballs shift subtly and rapidly under the eyelids from which seventy roaring flames would leak sometimes.
I take off my cap and sit beside him. The young man's muttering and sobbing in gnashed teeth become clearer when I get closer:
"No—nonono…"
I take his hand, and Elliot instantly returns the grip as as if grabbing onto driftwood in the water. His fingertips are as cold as ice.
"Not your fault. It's in the past now." I said soundlessly. "Just sleep. Kiddo."
I know that you'll think me a selfish jerk.
But just for a little while, just for this day…
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.*
*The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock