A Return to the Written Word
While I do appreciate the fact that Harmony followed through with my request for getting my LiveJournal back into what amounts to a functional status, I did not expect to have an entirely new journal waiting for me when I arrived this morning. No matter; this journal will serve as well as the previous one did.
I decided that it was past time to return to the habit of recording my thoughts. The events of these past weeks have made me retreat into myself far too much, and what time I did spend with another was spent with the demon Illyria. No, I do not forget what she is, but I also cannot forget who she was. I have taken it upon myself to be her instructor, her guide in our realm. She has made remarkable progress, although I honestly do not know what good my presence has done. We talk at length, and while the language we both use is the same, the thought processes behind her words are alien. And yet, there are times that I think that I hear something of the girl that was - an inflection, event a tilt of the head. Despite the time that has passed, I cannot block the thought of Fred when I look at her.
I know far too well that she is gone. Constant proximity to her animated corpse is a daily reminder that my Fred no longer exists. However, it is that very proximity that is making this process all the more difficult. I say to those who ask that my stewardship is far better than what could result if she were to be released into the streets of Los Angeles unhindered. I do not lie in that statement, but nor do I speak the entire truth. I cannot deny that it is also because the demon wears her face.
I will admit here that I have been drinking far too much. But I must also state that I do not care that this is the case. The scotch has allowed me to survive thus far, getting me to the next day and the day that follows. There is far too much emotion involved to allow myself to be anything but numb.
Now that the memories of what was have returned - ironically, due to my own actions - it is that much harder. I do not want to remember. I choose, as much as humanly possible, to not remember. I know in the depths of my heart that I did what I did to save Connor. I would have cared for him until the danger that I believed was real had passed; had I not treated with the enemy, I might have succeeded. However, that does not make my actions any more forgivable. I did steal Angel's son, and that action led to far too much. There is the possibility that, if I had not, Cordelia might still be alive, for then one of the reasons to make her a higher being would not have transpired: Connor's return to us as an adolescent. Lilah... she might still live as well. And we might not be enveloped in the belly of the beast.
Would Fred have loved me if her memories had remained intact? I will never know, and that question will haunt me to the end of my days.
Angel has informed me regarding Gunn's current whereabouts. The choice to trade himself for Lindsey was his to make, and I do certainly understand it. But the fact remains that his actions directly led to Fred's death. I cannot bring myself to forgive. The wound is far too fresh. As much as it pains me to admit it, a part of me also believes that Angel retains some culpability, as his approval of the adjustment to our memories came without our consent. Admittedly, in my current state, I do not fully trust my judgement in the matter. I chose to stay with Wolfram & Hart, just as we all did, a path for which I am partially accountable, and when the time came, I was unable to save Fred. I am also to blame.
I have recommenced my duties at Wolfram & Hart, giving over a portion of the work with Illyria to another. I thought at first that my return to the daily routine was difficult to bear, but after the events of night-before last, I almost have to laugh at my ignorance. I continue to drift through each day, but now I am once again acting as a functional member of the organization by attempting to discover the nature of the apocalypse that we face, working with clients as needed, and contemplating the arrival of our new liaison. But with all that has occurred, I fear that every shred of optimism has departed from my soul. My actions seem little more than meaningless. And yet, I must endure.
I decided that it was past time to return to the habit of recording my thoughts. The events of these past weeks have made me retreat into myself far too much, and what time I did spend with another was spent with the demon Illyria. No, I do not forget what she is, but I also cannot forget who she was. I have taken it upon myself to be her instructor, her guide in our realm. She has made remarkable progress, although I honestly do not know what good my presence has done. We talk at length, and while the language we both use is the same, the thought processes behind her words are alien. And yet, there are times that I think that I hear something of the girl that was - an inflection, event a tilt of the head. Despite the time that has passed, I cannot block the thought of Fred when I look at her.
I know far too well that she is gone. Constant proximity to her animated corpse is a daily reminder that my Fred no longer exists. However, it is that very proximity that is making this process all the more difficult. I say to those who ask that my stewardship is far better than what could result if she were to be released into the streets of Los Angeles unhindered. I do not lie in that statement, but nor do I speak the entire truth. I cannot deny that it is also because the demon wears her face.
I will admit here that I have been drinking far too much. But I must also state that I do not care that this is the case. The scotch has allowed me to survive thus far, getting me to the next day and the day that follows. There is far too much emotion involved to allow myself to be anything but numb.
Now that the memories of what was have returned - ironically, due to my own actions - it is that much harder. I do not want to remember. I choose, as much as humanly possible, to not remember. I know in the depths of my heart that I did what I did to save Connor. I would have cared for him until the danger that I believed was real had passed; had I not treated with the enemy, I might have succeeded. However, that does not make my actions any more forgivable. I did steal Angel's son, and that action led to far too much. There is the possibility that, if I had not, Cordelia might still be alive, for then one of the reasons to make her a higher being would not have transpired: Connor's return to us as an adolescent. Lilah... she might still live as well. And we might not be enveloped in the belly of the beast.
Would Fred have loved me if her memories had remained intact? I will never know, and that question will haunt me to the end of my days.
Angel has informed me regarding Gunn's current whereabouts. The choice to trade himself for Lindsey was his to make, and I do certainly understand it. But the fact remains that his actions directly led to Fred's death. I cannot bring myself to forgive. The wound is far too fresh. As much as it pains me to admit it, a part of me also believes that Angel retains some culpability, as his approval of the adjustment to our memories came without our consent. Admittedly, in my current state, I do not fully trust my judgement in the matter. I chose to stay with Wolfram & Hart, just as we all did, a path for which I am partially accountable, and when the time came, I was unable to save Fred. I am also to blame.
I have recommenced my duties at Wolfram & Hart, giving over a portion of the work with Illyria to another. I thought at first that my return to the daily routine was difficult to bear, but after the events of night-before last, I almost have to laugh at my ignorance. I continue to drift through each day, but now I am once again acting as a functional member of the organization by attempting to discover the nature of the apocalypse that we face, working with clients as needed, and contemplating the arrival of our new liaison. But with all that has occurred, I fear that every shred of optimism has departed from my soul. My actions seem little more than meaningless. And yet, I must endure.