By the prickling of my thumbs
Just a little, tiny drabble, so I get to celebrate I -finally!- finished the first season of Heroes.
By the prickling of my thumbs
(Something wicked this way comes)
He feels him, long before. He can sense him -hell, he's painted him-, he doesn't even need to turn. Sylar's there, Sylar's come for him, and now it's time he pays.
He'd have liked to be high, for this moment. He would have liked it, because it would've hurt less, because it would've been easier, he thinks. But he's not. Doesn't know why; maybe part of him wanted to be fully conscious, to die knowing, to be able to look his murderer in the eye, tell him -what? Tell him something.
Kill me.
Isaac Mendez doesn't really have time to look back; he doesn't want to. He's had it before, and he's done a lot of introspection, retrospection, whatever. He knows who he is, what he's done -he knows exactly what his actions amount for, what they will mean in that bigger picture they all are a part of. And he has to think he's done the right thing, painting and showing and letting them see, because that would be the only good thing he's done in all his life.
Sylar approaches him from the back, maybe thinking he has surprised him; Isaac wants to laugh. What's the point? He has seen the future, after all; he knew this was coming. He knew he was going to die, horribly and painfully, and, really, maybe that's the only reason he hasn't killed himself before. He still had a part to play, and he's too weak and he's murdered Simone and, fuck, he deserves it. He deserves to suffer -he's nothing without her. He's no one.
He knows what comes next, of course. Knows about the pain, about the blood and all those disgusting details -he can see himself right there, all those paintings with the same face, the same eyes staring back. His eyes. His mouth. His own shout, frozen forever in a canvas.
Sylar is there, at last. He's come to kill him, he's come to try and change his destiny, his fate, but he's only following a path drawn long before. Just like he is. Just like everybody. I was expecting you, he wants to say. He says nothing.
By the prickling of my thumbs
(Something wicked this way comes)
He feels him, long before. He can sense him -hell, he's painted him-, he doesn't even need to turn. Sylar's there, Sylar's come for him, and now it's time he pays.
He'd have liked to be high, for this moment. He would have liked it, because it would've hurt less, because it would've been easier, he thinks. But he's not. Doesn't know why; maybe part of him wanted to be fully conscious, to die knowing, to be able to look his murderer in the eye, tell him -what? Tell him something.
Kill me.
Isaac Mendez doesn't really have time to look back; he doesn't want to. He's had it before, and he's done a lot of introspection, retrospection, whatever. He knows who he is, what he's done -he knows exactly what his actions amount for, what they will mean in that bigger picture they all are a part of. And he has to think he's done the right thing, painting and showing and letting them see, because that would be the only good thing he's done in all his life.
Sylar approaches him from the back, maybe thinking he has surprised him; Isaac wants to laugh. What's the point? He has seen the future, after all; he knew this was coming. He knew he was going to die, horribly and painfully, and, really, maybe that's the only reason he hasn't killed himself before. He still had a part to play, and he's too weak and he's murdered Simone and, fuck, he deserves it. He deserves to suffer -he's nothing without her. He's no one.
He knows what comes next, of course. Knows about the pain, about the blood and all those disgusting details -he can see himself right there, all those paintings with the same face, the same eyes staring back. His eyes. His mouth. His own shout, frozen forever in a canvas.
Sylar is there, at last. He's come to kill him, he's come to try and change his destiny, his fate, but he's only following a path drawn long before. Just like he is. Just like everybody. I was expecting you, he wants to say. He says nothing.