A/N: This is what started this series over on tumblr. Quite fitting, really, that it's what actually concludes it. (That makes no sense - it's late here and I have so much work to do and applications to start filling in, so of course that means I do this instead. Sorry, you're going to have to deal with the rambles fellas.) It's edited and tailored so it is actually longer than what it used to be. Just thought I would post this on the same day to get it over and done with.
It all started with a notebook that was ignored, kept and is now being used.
Warnings: Language. Dark themes. Angst. Craziness. Rambling. Slash. I cannot stress this enough.
Disclaimer: I do not own Revolution, the characters nor the actors. IT'S SO SAD.
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd lights, camera - action.
The curtain falls just as the knot unties, the silence broken by the one who dies.
Dear Diary,
I spent a good portion of the morning bellowing at a messenger because I had asked for Miles to see me. Damn asshole mustn't have passed on the message, I shouted. The messenger had stared at me wide eyed, caught up in a gabbled mixture of apologies and protestations.
I threw him out of the room. Very nearly in the literal sense. Poured a drink with a shaking hand.
Jeremy pulled me aside afterwards. Whispered that Miles wouldn't be coming. Said it again when I didn't look up at him.
That's when I remembered Miles is no longer here.
(But he will come back. I know he will. We're family. He's all that I have.)
/
Dear Diary,
Got through another bottle this evening in the space of an hour going over intell. And damn the idiots who wrote them to burn in hell because fuck, do they even know how to spell?
I must have said that aloud for when I laughed, Jeremy looked over at me. (I had forgotten he was there. I must have forgotten that my words were intended for another.)
Looked down on my table and I thought at first it was the alcohol making me seeing double because there were two glasses on top of my notes.
But then again, old habits die hard, especially when you were used to setting the table for two.
/
Dear Diary,
Fell asleep in someone's arms last night. It wasn't the same as what it was like before. It never is.
/
Dear Diary,
Sometimes I think of laughter and tears and shouting and cursing and nights spent together. God, I miss it.
Then I soon think of what happened. He tried to-
No, don't say it. Don't even think it. That makes it real. And it hurts to remember.
/
Dear Diary,
Fuck the man. He is a traitorous coward. Turning his back on his responsibilities and his duties. He thought he could drop all that? Thought he could leave all his work on my lap? He was a General, tasked with leading our men. They need him. I need him.
Scratch that last line. I don't need him.
(I don't need to hear low whispers in my ear or feel a hand in my hair.)
He made his choice. He can burn in hell for all I care. I don't need him. My Republic does not need him. And when I get the power back on, I'll crush him entirely. I'll laugh as he dies.
(He did not kill me. Surely that means something?)
/
Dear Diary,
Miles will come back.
He knows that I am doing the right thing; serving the cause. Saving people. Bringing law and order and discipline in this world of organised chaos. He'll come round to his senses eventually, the asshole, and realise that he should be here. With me.
(I am only carrying on what we started together. Can't you see I am doing this for you, Miles?)
/
Dear Diary,
Oversaw the petitioning of some women asking for me to spare their husbands. I refused. The men are traitors, I informed them. Some deserted their posts, others were acting as informers for the rebels. How can I pardon them? How can I spare their lives? No one can break the laws of the Republic and hope to be pardoned.
No one.
Right?
One woman left with her hands full of her two golden haired daughters.
I had to look away when one of them caught my eye. Sharp, piercing gaze. Unshed tears. Determined mouth.
It's probably because they were wasting my time.
(Not that it brings back far flung memories of days that no longer exist.)
/
Dear Diary,
I dreamt of death last night. A screech of brakes and the collision of cars.
A mound of earth facing four freshly dug graves.
Four brand new coffins lying in a row
Here's a body, there's a body, everywhere a body
/
[A few blotches decorate the next page. You could be forgiven for thinking they are tear stains.]
/
Dear Diary,
Jeremy asked for permission to speak openly after a meeting with me this afternoon.
Apparently I look drained. Exact words being, 'you look dead on your feet.'
(I look how I feel, then. But I cannot feel anything. Not really.)
I just happen to be quite busy, I pointed out. You know, what with running a Republic, organising defences, hunting down rebels. But thank you for your observation; where was it that you studied medicine again, doctor?
I threw the words at him from across the room and let them hang like dust in the air. An open challenge.
Jeremy didn't reply, though. A stare, eyes running over me – Jesus, could you at least have tried to be subtle? – before he just nodded and left.
The tent seemed oddly silent. I could still feel my dusty words hanging in the air alongside those unsaid. I didn't even know I had been waiting for a retort until none came.
I sighed as I looked over maps. But the sketches looked blurry and faint and did not make sense.
(Nothing makes sense to me, now.)
Miles would not have let that one go.
(I would not have let Miles go.)
/
Dear Diary,
I am the man who is surrounded with soldiers and women and yet never have I been so alone in all my life.
I used to be the half of a whole. Now I am…
(What am I now? Who am I without -)
Yet none of that is important, of course. I have more important issues to deal with. Once Rachel Matheson finally breaks - and I have just the very idea of how to achieve that - then I will have power at my fingertips and weapons to place into my Militia's hands. And my Republic will grow and prosper. We can crush the Georgia Federation and blaze through the Plains Nations and then hit California.
Then I can prove all those that stand against me to be liars, cowards and weak bastards. The rebels especially. Lost causes, all of them.
Miles will come back then. He will realise he was wrong. I will take him back. I will forgive him. I have already forgiven him.
(He once said to me, "what would I be without you?"
The truth being - what am I without him?)
/
Dear Diary,
When I sleep I remember and when I wake up I can still fucking feel everything-
So I gasp and tear at the sheets and try to ignore the empty space next to me.
/
Dear Diary,
I'm convinced that more of my men are turncoats and helping the rebels. The place must be crawling with them. It's a damn infestation of cockroaches that can't be stamped out with only one boot.
If I say it out loud however, they will find out that I am aware of their plans. I keep silent instead and just watch.
I will find them and I will kill them before they can kill me.
(Miles, where are you? Are you safe? Are they trying to get to you, too?)
/
Dear Diary,
When I think about it… Miles is probably behind this. He wants my position, that's why the bastard tried to kill me.
He's trying to sneak his way in and destroy everything I have created and managed.
Fuck him. Fuck all of them. I will have more guards at every post and draw up new patrol schedules. He wants to enter the lion's den and be a Daniel. I plan on weaving my web and watching him fight and struggle, not realising he's only becoming more and more ensnared.
I know my city too well. I'll easily feel any vibrations under my feet. I'll devour all those little bugs that crawl and slither and infest. They want to corrupt my Republic with their filth. I won't let them.
/
Dear Diary,
For some reason I can't explain, I spent longer in the bath than normal. I scrubbed myself raw and still did not feel clean. I watched as my scratches leaked small crimson drops and mixed with the impure water.
/
Dear Diary,
Is that why he left? Why he tried to – No, it's not to be mentioned -
But is it, though? Was I corrupted and rotten in his sharp, dark brown eyes?
God, I sobbed into the water. God, that is why he left me. I shivered in the darkness as the water cooled.
God does not answer me. He never does.
/
Dear Diary,
I want them dead and gone, I say. Place my hands on the table and lean against it. Look into their eyes.
The rebels? We're gathering intell on them as we speak, sir. He meets my gaze with a strong tilt of the head. Thinks I cannot see his fingers tremble under his sleeves.
I want Miles alive though, I told Jeremy over a drink that evening. Or five. I soon lost track. (I lose track with a lot of things.)
I want him to look me in the eye and admit to being a jealous bastard. I'll run my sword through him the way he would have killed me.
Are you sure you want to -
I stared and Jeremy fell silent.
I will kill him. I want him dead, but I will be the one to do it.
The words tasted like honey and poison on my lips.
(If you're dying, then I'm dying with you.)
/
Dear Diary,
"Okay, alright. Let me pack."
"Wha-what?"
"I'm coming with you."
"No. Bass. You're not. I'm not dragging you into this."
Rachel calls me Bass. She seems to think it will change my mind about everything.
It doesn't sound right. It's not the same.
"My family. My problem."
"You're my family. That makes it my problem." (I'm not asking you.)
Family.
(He was my family. My brother. My lover. My friend.)
Damn him to hell.
/
Dear Diary,
I was jolted awake in the early hours - it wasn't even light yet - because I swear I heard -
What's wrong? She asked, shaking her hair from her eyes. I bite my lip so hard I can taste blood.
(Blonde hair this time. Sometimes I pick a brunette. They laugh and say I'm easy to please, or I don't have a type - 'if it wears a skirt he'll fuck it' - but it's not that.
Sometimes I need to see with my eyes the complete opposite of what I can see in my head.
Sometimes I need to wake up - why do I always wake up now in the night? - and know that the hair brushing against my shoulder is dark brown.)
I told her to shut up and go. When she just stared I threw the empty bottle that lay by my feet at her -how did it get there? - I made sure to miss.
I couldn't sleep after she left. I wanted to listen. I strained my ears and yet heard nothing.
But I yet I know heard something -
Or did I -
/
Dear Diary,
My head hurts. It throbs and burns and sometimes I need to stop whatever the hell it is I am doing and close my eyes.
It is always too loud when I need it to be silent. (Butterfly kisses along my neck, light and floating and beautiful. My head on his shoulder. The rise and fall of his chest.)
It is always too silent when I need it to be loud. (His heartbeat against my ear, the quiet hum of satisfaction in the back of his throat-
It hurts too much to remember, now.)
/
[The next few pages are soaked and smeared with dark blue ink.
It would appear upon observation that a bottle of ink spilled its contents with blissful abandonment.]
/
Dear Diary,
There is no one to hold me down when the fire burns me alive in the night and on through to the morning.
It's apparently three days later that I wake up.
Jeremy was sitting in a chair next to me. Eyes widen when I tried to push myself up. He threw his arms around me and I could hear the hum of his heartbeat but, Jesus, my head. Every muscle in my body feels slack.
He whispered later when the candles grew dim that over two nights I cried out for-
Don't say it, I rasp. Don't fucking say it.
He doesn't.
/
Dear Diary,
I feel so confined. Trapped. Am I a prisoner in my own capital?
So many pairs of eyes on me and I don't know who is for me or who is against me. Sure, honeyed words in loyal tones drip like slime from everyone's lips these days, but words are words. Meaningless if not meant. A dime a dozen. They don't cost anything.
"What would I be without you?"
"Brother -"
Dime a dozen.
Who lurks in the shadows with their sword drawn ready to run me through?
(It happened once before. What's to stop it from happening again?)
/
Dear Diary,
I mentioned at a meeting today my belief that we had been infiltrated.
I know looks were exchanged when my back was turned.
I am not mad, you know, I drawled lazily as I turned around. It was hilarious to watch them sweat and squirm. I made sure to make eye contact with them all.
I am however concerned for our citizens. Those we protect. I want tighter security and increased protection.
General Monroe, sir, should we not discuss your own security?
Do you take me for a weak coward? Do you think I need protection?
No sir, not at all! It is just that… Well… What happened before with-
Not everyone is as experienced and talented as Miles Matheson!
They fell silent at that. I smirked, then laughed. I couldn't stop.
General -
Can you not see the funny side of it? I ask, gasping for breath. Why are you not laughing? Laugh! I command, smashing my fist down on the table. They are nothing but puppets on frayed strings in my hands, why do they not laugh?
It's Shakespearian, why could they not see that. It's so fucking poetic.
My brother wanted to kill me.
(I finally acknowledge the word).
Later that night I say them under my breath in a sing song.
I laugh and laugh and I do not sleep at all.
/
Dear Diary,
Too many thoughts and my hand shakes too much to write. Ink blooms through the paper and smears and stains and ruins. It bleeds everywhere.
I need to feel something.
So I took a small blade to my arm that evening after Jeremy left me, sheets rumpled and clothes in a tattered heap. The blood bloomed and smeared and stained and ruined, too.
I almost believed a furious growl yelled at me, asking me that the hell was I doing and God, was I fucking stupid? Those words were my bandage. It was painful to tear it off.
/
[Crimson drops are spattered over this entry, and the subsequent pages.
The handwriting, which was once close packed and neat has sprawled across the page. Almost as if the writer had a shaking hand. Or a crowded mind.]
/
Dear Diary,
Why is there a pain in my head
Why does my chest hurt
Miles would know
Miles isn't here
Miles will come back however
Why is he not here?
I will kill that backstabbing bastard
I will forgive him and fall into his arms because
/
[Too many blotches and several illegible scrawls mar the next couple of pages. The handwriting appears rushed and hurried, that of a man in a delirium.
A few more ink stained pages, and then-]
/
Dear Diary,
It hit me this morning. Finally, it hit me. And with such force I had to grip the arms of my chair tightly. (I've shed too many tears to weep anymore. I've screamed myself hoarse calling that name to try to call again.)
I got nothing left.
/
Dear Diary,
"Bass, give me the gun before you do something stupid."
He's not here to take it from me now though, is he?
fin.