RAZOR SHARP an Alias Fanfiction. No Infringement intended
You picture her behind her glass cage, imprisoned, with her back turned to you. And you can't help but wonder -one more time- how one of her side glances has the ability to transport you to another dimension, where she is the hunter and you the hunted. Truth be told, what scares you the most is the fact that you actually like to be her prey.
I can smell her perfume; some 20 years later I still can feel the overflowing sensation of her essence; some 20 years later I still feel intoxicated with her fragrance, and despite the fact that the thick glass is the obvious -the better- proof of my insanity, I won't give up for anything the bittersweet sensation of remembrance caused by the aura that surrounds her.
How do you thank the woman who killed your father? That question hunts you. You think you know the answer -"You don't"-. Bravo, you've won the battle. But the fleeting victory -created by those two words- is just simply that, a short-lived sensation that shakes her out of balance for a second, because before you know it, stateliness makes you reconsider. Is she be the one who, in the end, will win the battle?
Every time I am around her I can feel how my lower back gets wet -It is just the natural reaction to exposure- I try to calm myself, but I know that this particular childhood fear will strike back with full force; this, of course, because I'm the perfect lead for her electrical power. Yet, I'm not a child, not anymore. So I look at her, hard: impassiveness meets defiance, and all of the sudden I know that the rebel in me is not as strong as it should. Caged in an airless space I withdraw.
You stand there, waiting, thinking, assuring yourself that you've got everything under control. But when that echoing sound of the rising gates threatens to violate the stillness around you, you know that you've failed.
I know that I'm supposed to have been prepared for this, yet again I'm not. I try to remain focused; I try to tell myself that my words are just the means by which I have won her trust -just like her father's-, nothing more, not a single strand from my very soul. But I know that her words, his words, the hope in her eyes, his unbidden glances of rage (and maybe, just maybe a unforgotten love) are razor sharp. I bleed.
You feel her blood and you wake up. You don't know if it's in your hands -her blood-, so you inspect them. You inhale: no, it is in your veins, forever flowing, forever marking you as her own. Then you look up to the sealing above you... could it be? Could destiny explain your fate?
He once told me that shattered glasses were sharper than a knife against the skin. Pointing the floor he also told me not to walk with both foot bare, because by doing so I was going to hurt myself. I did not listen to him... but back then I had her to tend my wounds, to help me heal. Now, she's just the shattered glass penetrating my skin.