[ What can Misato possibly know of pain, of fear, of loss? What does it mean to become a victim? How can a subject give an account of its own ruin? There is no way to quantify tragedy, each person's suffering is an infinity unto itself. In the face of such futility she has swallowed back her wordless howling to stoke the fire in her belly, while he still screams. A wounded creature, hissing at the hands of any who extends help. Similar and different, but certainly familiar.
Her head spins from the motion, back smarting to signal the bruises she would find there tomorrow, heart in her throat. Adrenaline has her blood pumping fast, senses in hyperfocus. Fear is a physical response, a feeling and a reaction. She can't help the first two, but the last she can control. Gaze as determined as ever, she rests her hands on his cheeks, her hold firm even if unnecessary.
This is all about the mind, see, the scenes she presses into his view flipping past like a family album: Damon sitting on the couch beside her in the hotel room, the comforting weight of his arm on her shoulder; Damon and Sam, laughing at some secret joke; Damon with his eyes on Elena, his heart's desire clear for all the world to see. This is here, now. That was then. The past no longer is. The rest of the scenes are unfamiliar to him: the firm grip of thickly gloved hands, arctic winds nipping her cheeks and the delicate anticipation for reconciliation; the smell of breakfast in the morning, the patter of feet rushing about the house, the warmth of waking up to a home; the scent of cigarettes in the air and an unbearable fullness in her heart.
The message underlying every single one: come back. Here, not there. ]
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Her head spins from the motion, back smarting to signal the bruises she would find there tomorrow, heart in her throat. Adrenaline has her blood pumping fast, senses in hyperfocus. Fear is a physical response, a feeling and a reaction. She can't help the first two, but the last she can control. Gaze as determined as ever, she rests her hands on his cheeks, her hold firm even if unnecessary.
This is all about the mind, see, the scenes she presses into his view flipping past like a family album: Damon sitting on the couch beside her in the hotel room, the comforting weight of his arm on her shoulder; Damon and Sam, laughing at some secret joke; Damon with his eyes on Elena, his heart's desire clear for all the world to see. This is here, now. That was then. The past no longer is. The rest of the scenes are unfamiliar to him: the firm grip of thickly gloved hands, arctic winds nipping her cheeks and the delicate anticipation for reconciliation; the smell of breakfast in the morning, the patter of feet rushing about the house, the warmth of waking up to a home; the scent of cigarettes in the air and an unbearable fullness in her heart.
The message underlying every single one: come back. Here, not there. ]