Fail!Lock, because V's too emo to lock properly
They say that so much of what we are comes from our history, the events of our past adding to what we become and forming who we mature into. It begs the question, then, what it means for those of us with no past -- at least, none that we remember.
I don't remember any of it. No, that's not true -- I remember some of it all too clearly. Larkhill. The tiny box they kept me in, the cell they moved me to when too many prisoners died. I even vaguely recall the train we took there, the boxcar stuffed wall to wall with people, the stink of fear and illness and sweat.
But that's it. I don't remember any sort of childhood or family or even friends. I don't even know why they imprisoned me to begin with -- whether it was my race, nationality, religion, politics.
I don't know how old I am. You'd think I could at least guess at that, but the scars and the chemicals they addled me with could have easily obscured it. I'm not young, I know that much. It makes me wonder how much time the drugs erased from my mind.
All I have is twelve years. First was Larkhill, the drugs and the endless stretches of time where they watched me and waited for me to die. And then the years hiding, praying that I would not have a black bag shoved over my head so I could be dragged back to my little box. And then this, here. The Gallery, the face of Guy Fawkes, the promise that next November the Fifth holds.
I wonder if I was this angry before. If I was this isolated or scheming. During the first few years after my escape, I sometimes imagined a life that I might have had, boring, normal existences where I was content. Perhaps back then I was a completely different man, if losing my memories and my identity morphed me into someone entirely new.
Perhaps I appeared from the ether on the train to Larkhill.
And perhaps it doesn't matter. For the moment, I am content. My plans are going as I'd hoped, although most of the work left must wait until the fall. My home, while dark and desolate, is far from a cell -- I can come and go, and this place is my own. And I have the everyday things that keep me happy. My flowers, my books, my films. Evey. Especially Evey.
...I don't know what made me think of all this. I suppose I'm just in a mood to muse.
I don't remember any of it. No, that's not true -- I remember some of it all too clearly. Larkhill. The tiny box they kept me in, the cell they moved me to when too many prisoners died. I even vaguely recall the train we took there, the boxcar stuffed wall to wall with people, the stink of fear and illness and sweat.
But that's it. I don't remember any sort of childhood or family or even friends. I don't even know why they imprisoned me to begin with -- whether it was my race, nationality, religion, politics.
I don't know how old I am. You'd think I could at least guess at that, but the scars and the chemicals they addled me with could have easily obscured it. I'm not young, I know that much. It makes me wonder how much time the drugs erased from my mind.
All I have is twelve years. First was Larkhill, the drugs and the endless stretches of time where they watched me and waited for me to die. And then the years hiding, praying that I would not have a black bag shoved over my head so I could be dragged back to my little box. And then this, here. The Gallery, the face of Guy Fawkes, the promise that next November the Fifth holds.
I wonder if I was this angry before. If I was this isolated or scheming. During the first few years after my escape, I sometimes imagined a life that I might have had, boring, normal existences where I was content. Perhaps back then I was a completely different man, if losing my memories and my identity morphed me into someone entirely new.
Perhaps I appeared from the ether on the train to Larkhill.
And perhaps it doesn't matter. For the moment, I am content. My plans are going as I'd hoped, although most of the work left must wait until the fall. My home, while dark and desolate, is far from a cell -- I can come and go, and this place is my own. And I have the everyday things that keep me happy. My flowers, my books, my films. Evey. Especially Evey.
...I don't know what made me think of all this. I suppose I'm just in a mood to muse.