You look at me, and through me. You don't see me. I'm less than nothing, an unwelcome distraction. I wanted so much to see you, to touch you, to know that you were real. To know that there was a reason for me, that everything I know isn't some insane, hopeless, hysterical mistake. I knew that if I could come back, to help him, that everything would be all right. Because then I could see you. It didn't really work out that way, did it?

I came back again, though, knowing that it was wrong. My first return ruined the delicate flow of events, sent them spiraling out of control. To do it again could only pull things farther away from their predestined path, but I couldn't stay away. Maybe I thought I could help. No, that's a lie. I wanted to see you again. You're like a drug, one that I crave and loathe all at once. And yet – you don't see me.

If perfection had a form, it would be him. He's so innocent, so happy, so generous with his smile. I don't want perfection.

If you looked at me the way you look at him, I would follow you into Hell itself. That's not saying much, though, since I've been there already. I think it's home. Hell doesn't frighten me any more. You do.

With him, all of the anger is below the surface. It hides, cowering, unleashed only when goaded beyond endurance. Your fury lives, thrives, flows through your veins, manifesting itself at the slightest provocation. Why? What do you see in him? I don't understand.

I had to go away again, and this time it was for good. I won my battles, though. I defeated my enemies, and saved the innocent. It's something he would do. It's something my mother told me you would never consider. I wanted to be like you, but that didn't get your attention. I tried to be like him, but that didn't work either. Are you proud of what I did?

You won't answer any of my questions. I know that. I don't have the courage to ask them, and if I did, I think you'd just push me away. You spent thirteen months pushing me away once, in a single day. I changed so much then, but I don't think you noticed.

He saw me, that day. I think he was proud of me, but it didn't matter. It wasn't his approval I wanted. Only yours, and you had nothing to give me. Do you crave perfection?

I ran from them for nineteen years. They killed the one who loved me, protected me, taught me. They chilled the blood in his veins and turned the air in his lungs to fire. I should have been there, but he left me behind. He couldn't keep me from finding him, though. I knew fury that day.

I have nothing left to protect. That which was ravaged, that which they tried so hard to destroy, was restored when they were broken. If there is nothing left to protect, what does a soldier do? What did you do?

I wanted to be part of your pride. I held back because I wanted you to want me. Your honor demanded strength. Your honor demanded that you finish the fight you started. Your honor nearly led to your death, as it had before. I saved you, but if you knew that, you'd hate me for it.

His friends tell me that you cared when I died. Is that because, in some bizarre way, I belong to you? I am of you, but not. My blood is yours, and isn't. His friends tell me that you went into a blind rage. One of your toys, one of your possessions, was broken. You didn't care to play with it, but when it was gone the choice to ignore it was taken away from you.

You have him. You have him in the way you never had me. I would have welcomed you, if you had come to me. You never did. Is that why you can go on, now that the need for protection is gone?

I wanted to see you. I saw you. Did you see me?

Did you see me?