If you can call eight hours early, anyway. He was planning to stay away for at least twelve, but then word got out about Jeff's behavior. We wanted to tell you sooner, one of his men said, but we couldn't reach you. They told him about how Jeff spoke in tongues, how he snarled at the air, how his personalities kept changing and how one of them sounded like it belonged to him. They didn't say it directly, of course, but they averted their eyes when they mentioned it. The sudden coldness in his eyes. The edge to his voice.
Soze arrives in time to hear the lullaby. The sound is so familiar, but it takes him a few seconds to actually recognize it. His skin crawls. Each note comes from a lifetime ago, a lifetime that doesn't belong in this room with this stranger.
He waves the guard out.
"Hello, Jeff," he says. He hasn't brought anything with him today.
He recognizes him, but not quite. He sees Keyser's face, but not the man. "Keyser," he says. Why does he sound almost relieved? He's not speaking to the man who tortured him. The tone is too familiar for that. It's almost as if he's talking to a friend. "Oh Christ, Keyser, I fucked up. I really fucked it all up. Everything's still there. Still in my head. It didn't go back."
He stops his babbling abruptly when he tries to move and find he can't. He looks at the man in front of him again, and sees his friend's face change. He pales and cringes away now, his face a mask of sheer terror. He looks at the Devil, and he sees fires of Hell behind him. He begins a stream of hysterical babble in Latin: "E-Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus s-spiritus, o-omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio i-infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu Christi..."
He tries to pretend that the familiarity in Jeff's voice doesn't bother him, but it does, just as much as the song if not more. The panicked babbling is something he's more used to, something he can expect, even if it's in another language.
An exorcism. That's nice.
He decides to wait patiently for Jeff to finish, to hear what else he has to say. Is there anything left to pick out of that brain? Is there anything worth it?
The panicked babbling goes on for some time, actually; he's got the whole thing memorized. He shrinks away when he finds it having no effect on the demon (?) in front of him. "What do you want?" he asks, shaking like a leaf. "Oh God...What do you want?"
"Could you tell me where you learned that song?" he asks, trying to sound soothing and failing, the need to know outweighing anything else. "Have you been to Turkey, Jeff?"
He struggles to remember. Where had he heard that song before. "I don't...I don't know," he finally says, and if he could, he'd shrink away. "I don't remember. It just...made me feel better. I-I don't know why."
He shakes his head at the second question. "No," he says, then frowns, confused. "I don't...I don't think?" Images and memories dance in front of him. A home bathed in golden light. Windows with arabesque arches and crescent accents carved into the wood paneling. Soze's feet sink into an oriental rug. He shakes his head again. "No."
«I believe you, Jeff,» he lies, abruptly switching to Turkish, his voice just as cold as always. If Jeff didn't know the language, he might even think he was threatening him. «The drugs were a test. The guards told me what you said, how you took on my personality. You've passed that test. The impossible is possible. But if you want to survive, you're still going to have to nod, to prove to me you understand the world as I do.»
"Eh?" Jeff's eyes go wide with disbelief. It could be that he's reacting to the threatening tone in Soze's voice. But his addled mind doesn't register the change in language. He simply understands the words without quite remembering how or why. Without thinking, he answers, speaking Turkish with the ease only a native can manage. Even his accent matches Soze's. «I don't understand,» he says. «Why do you believe me now? What did I say? I don't remember.» He shakes his head, futilely trying to clear it. «I'm sorry...Everything's gone all confused...»
"I see," he says, and now he's speaking English again, a hardness to his voice that wasn't quite there before. It was absent when he first saw Jeff in the darkness, and it was absent when he spent three hours torturing him.
Things are about to go downhill.
He's just going to walk over here and take your hand now, okay, Jeff? There's nothing wrong with how he's taking your hand. There's nothing wrong about how he's taking your index finger either, or how he's roughly jerking it back at an 180 degree angle, or--
Soze's movement is fascinating to watch; a hundred afterimages in impossible colors trail behind him, each mimicking him perfectly. He watches as they all take his hand, not comprehending the danger he's in. His skin ripples like a pond at the touch, nerve endings humming with the contact. And then--
CRACK!
His finger snaps, sending flashes of crackling lighting across his vision. He screams, alternately babbling apologies in English and curses and threats in Turkish.
The Turkish Jeff is speaking is more than just a language. They are his words. They are the words he would be yelling if he were in Jeff's situation, bound to a chair with a freshly broken finger and death as the only feasible end. There's an uncomfortable familiarity in his speech, the threats, the way he struggles that reminds him of a dream, maybe, or watching himself in a mirror. Jeff is a part of that image as well, and for the first time, this Soze truly feels like someone else has a part of him. He knows it's irrational, but that's how it feels. And he can't stand it.
He is watching himself lose.
He's removing a gun from his suit before he's even thinking about it, aiming it at Jeff's head. "Do you still want death?"
And Jeff starts to cry. It's not the hysteria of a man at the end of his rope, the despair of someone who knows he's about to die. The sound is the cry of a child, a young boy scared and confused and in pain. The walls of his identity come tumbling down. Who is he? Even he doesn't know anymore.
He looks at Soze with wide, terrified eyes. «Papa?» Turkish again, just as perfect. His lower lip trembles and his teeth chatter as tears roll down his cheeks. «Papa? I can't move and it hurts. I tried calling mama, I tried but she won't wake up! Why won't she wake up?»
He knows that voice. He knows the memories as well. He can remember the warm air, the heap on the bed, the yelling, and he knows that this can't be what Jeff is talking about, obviously there's something else. But the familiarity is hitting him like a bucket of ice water.
No.
No.
He steps forward, the gun still raised.
"What are you talking about, Jeff?" A stress on his name, a stress to remind him of who he is and who he isn't.
The name seems to work. Something seems to shift inside his head, and the fear drains from his eyes, replaced with dazed exhaustion. "...That's me?" He doesn't know anymore. There are so many names in his head. Jeffrey Levitt. Keyser Soze. Verbal Kint. Andrew Case. Kemal Erener. Arnold Ross. Dozens of them, all familiar, all with a story. But which one is his?
"Everything's all mixed up," he says, eyes glazed over. He doesn't even see Soze, or the gun in his hand. "I don't know what's mine anymore." If he could, he'd put his head in his hands. He closes his eyes instead. "My mom called me last night. Congratulated me on the novel. Complained I don't call her enough. But...she's dead. She died when I was ten. Christ, what's happening?"
"Your mother didn't call you last night." He's still off-balance, but with the return of Jeff's voice it's easier to remember the situation. He is the one in control. Jeff is delusional. Jeff is on LSD. "You were here last night, Jeff. You're here right now."
And he places the muzzle of his gun against Jeff's forehead to remind him.
Cold metal against his forehead, heavy and final. He opens his eyes and looks at Soze, really looks for the first time since Soze walked in. His sight wavers, a heat haze washing over everything, but he can see enough. Enough to understand.
...Oh.
He'd like to think that he's not afraid of death, but the trembling shows just how wrong he is. "It's over then," he says. He tries to make it sound flat, resigned. He can't. He feels sick.
If you can call eight hours early, anyway. He was planning to stay away for at least twelve, but then word got out about Jeff's behavior. We wanted to tell you sooner, one of his men said, but we couldn't reach you. They told him about how Jeff spoke in tongues, how he snarled at the air, how his personalities kept changing and how one of them sounded like it belonged to him. They didn't say it directly, of course, but they averted their eyes when they mentioned it. The sudden coldness in his eyes. The edge to his voice.
Soze arrives in time to hear the lullaby. The sound is so familiar, but it takes him a few seconds to actually recognize it. His skin crawls. Each note comes from a lifetime ago, a lifetime that doesn't belong in this room with this stranger.
He waves the guard out.
"Hello, Jeff," he says. He hasn't brought anything with him today.
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He stops his babbling abruptly when he tries to move and find he can't. He looks at the man in front of him again, and sees his friend's face change. He pales and cringes away now, his face a mask of sheer terror. He looks at the Devil, and he sees fires of Hell behind him. He begins a stream of hysterical babble in Latin: "E-Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus s-spiritus, o-omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio i-infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu Christi..."
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An exorcism. That's nice.
He decides to wait patiently for Jeff to finish, to hear what else he has to say. Is there anything left to pick out of that brain? Is there anything worth it?
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He shakes his head at the second question. "No," he says, then frowns, confused. "I don't...I don't think?" Images and memories dance in front of him. A home bathed in golden light. Windows with arabesque arches and crescent accents carved into the wood paneling. Soze's feet sink into an oriental rug. He shakes his head again. "No."
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Things are about to go downhill.
He's just going to walk over here and take your hand now, okay, Jeff? There's nothing wrong with how he's taking your hand. There's nothing wrong about how he's taking your index finger either, or how he's roughly jerking it back at an 180 degree angle, or--
Oh.
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CRACK!
His finger snaps, sending flashes of crackling lighting across his vision. He screams, alternately babbling apologies in English and curses and threats in Turkish.
Inside his head, he unravels.
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He is watching himself lose.
He's removing a gun from his suit before he's even thinking about it, aiming it at Jeff's head. "Do you still want death?"
His hand is trembling.
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He looks at Soze with wide, terrified eyes. «Papa?» Turkish again, just as perfect. His lower lip trembles and his teeth chatter as tears roll down his cheeks. «Papa? I can't move and it hurts. I tried calling mama, I tried but she won't wake up! Why won't she wake up?»
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No.
No.
He steps forward, the gun still raised.
"What are you talking about, Jeff?" A stress on his name, a stress to remind him of who he is and who he isn't.
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"Everything's all mixed up," he says, eyes glazed over. He doesn't even see Soze, or the gun in his hand. "I don't know what's mine anymore." If he could, he'd put his head in his hands. He closes his eyes instead. "My mom called me last night. Congratulated me on the novel. Complained I don't call her enough. But...she's dead. She died when I was ten. Christ, what's happening?"
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And he places the muzzle of his gun against Jeff's forehead to remind him.
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...Oh.
He'd like to think that he's not afraid of death, but the trembling shows just how wrong he is. "It's over then," he says. He tries to make it sound flat, resigned. He can't. He feels sick.
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