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Il y a tant d'espoir tenace dans le cœur humain.
Les hommes les plus dépouillés finissent quelquefois par consentir à l'illusion.
A. Camus – Le Mythe de Sisyphe
One of the things Eggsy’s become painfully aware of, since all the Valentine’s havoc and his not-so-canonical recruitment as a Kingsman agent, is that – despite its mumbling and whirring right between one's own ears – the way human mind works is a dark, spiralling path, too coiled and wound up to be within any real comprehension.
And very little matters that one was actually born with the thing in place right from the start: sometimes it feels just like some strange contraption embedded in one's own skull, working on his own without giving a fuck, but affecting them whole.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s not particularly brilliant, to talk about mind control now, is it? What with the church mayhem and his current predicament and all. But, to be precise, this isn’t mind control. Is, well… mind’s control, if you get it; it’s mind that’s in control.
And totally fucked up.
As said, an annoying device affecting one whole and affecting itself, actually. Some masochistic, backfiring machinery, with gaping flaws and major assembling deficiencies; like, for instance, not coming with a switch-off button.
And, be sure, if Eggsy could, he would have turned the damn thing off a long time ago.
Brain, for one, seems extremely keen on randomly reviving things in excruciatingly vivid sensations. And, one way or the other, they are rarely happy things.
Or, better, they have been.
Like, one's just walking along a street, or making tea, or taking a bite of something, utterly minding their own fucking business, when the sodding little traitor just deems they’ve been fine long enough, and it’s time to shake them up a bit, going wrestling-style on them.
And it doesn’t take it years worth of acquaintance to hurt like a bitch.
‘Cause that’s what memories are: a punch in the gut, completely out of the blue. One of those that leave you gaping, wondering where and how and why.
Even on the smallest of things.
Because you were crossing that same street when he shot you one of those unimpressed glances of his. Because you were pouring water into cups, that night, when his fingers lightly brushed your arm. Because you were eating that kind of biscuit, that morning, when he cracked that kind of smile.
Because that was his cologne.
Because that pun made him smirk.
Because.
And the only truth is, mind is a shady fucker, so one just can’t predict behind which trivial matter the next memory is crouching, where the next attack will come from.
All one can do is brace themselves when the hit comes and brave through it.
On closer view, however, memories are not the worst that could happen.
Not at all, as long as hope exists.
‘Cause, you see, hope has such a soft sound to it. It’s such a comforting notion. The irrational, desperate clinging to something – anything – that could remotely hint at things going better, sooner or later.
There is always hope, the long-haired, scruffy, handsome guy said, and everybody just went mental about it. Surely people have written and drawn about it. Probably someone owns posters or t-shirts or whatever of it.
Because people love to hope.
But the fact is, hope is nothing but the worst trick of that sick trap which is brain.
Yeah, Eggsy can concede, not all hopes are bad, and he’s well aware of how a world could not survive without it. He used to hope too, right? Right.
And that’s exactly when disaster hits.
‘Cause hope is like some kind of hard-ass weed, and once you allow it to settle, you can’t just get rid of it.
Hope. Blind, unyielding hope, even when there’s no room or reason left for it.
For ten months should have really had Eggsy used to the idea that, no, Harry’s gone and not likely to come back anytime soon.
Ever again, precisely.
Ten months, and the sick live broadcast of his shooting and, Lord have mercy, that goddamn gravestone, dark and sleek and polished, just like some sort of macabre marble version of Harry’s untarnished suits.
And yet…
And yet, he just finds himself sitting on the edge of a bed in some luscious hotel room at the other end of the world, soft mattress under him and faint smell of soap in the air, staring at a closed door, dumb expectation gripping at his throat, bracing for the moment it will swing open, the lean silhouette sharply drawn against the light outside. It's time, Eggsy, mark's moving.
Sometimes he feels like he's just on the verge of breath, waiting for Merlin's voice to crack through his ear piece, Galahad wants a word with you, even when he's so fucking conscious there's no Galahad but himself.
Seems like I took your place, bruv, he whispers to the darkness, to an empty oaken desk, to a red wall of oblivious newspaper headlines, sipping Martini that tastes like comfort and regret. Would you be happy with that? Would you be proud of me?
But, really, what's the use in asking, when no answer is to come?
It's just like in school, Eggsy sneers at himself, when he got to read about people who spent their existences wondering about the what's and why's of life. Like the man who watched shadows dancing on the wall of a cave or the one who thought of men as thinking reeds - and there was a turkey in there, too, wasn't it?. And he remembers thinking, like any school kids at some point or another, why the hell someone would spend a lifetime asking useless questions they know they cannot get an answer to.
And yet, he now knows there some sort of odd, hunting consolation in speculating this way, stupid and pointless as it may look. It's just another way to keep memories alive.
The same memories he grits his teeth against.
The same memories he would die before losing.
It's just another way to grasp nails and teeth to details that are already slipping from him. 'Cause the mind is a little, treacherous thing, so fond of gnawing ghosts and spiky blurred shadows.
The voice, his voice (and, oh, did that voice do things to him, didn't it?) is no more clear in his ears.
The smell of his cologne has faded from the house, and his nose is no longer able to fake it the way it used to.
And, still, sometimes it's like the past months never happened, and he's sure that, entering the dining room, Harry will just be sitting there, first spot at a round table that is not round at all – and who the hell decided for that name, anyway? – looking his usual posh self, sipping disgusting liquor, all fine tweed and warm smiles. He's so sure and cannot stifle the wash of disappointment when, beyond the damned door, all what is gaping at him is an empty seat at the right of an as much as abandoned chair.
And he remembers reading a story, the story of a dog who waited fourteen years at a bus stop for its dead owner to come back home, and he smirks bitter at himself.
And then, then there are things that have never been explored.
The things we never say, are often better left alone, a voice on the radio supplied helpfully, sometimes or another, and Eggsy thinks that’s right; that’s probably for the best.
(I’ll forget about you, the voice had kept on, but Eggsy was not listening, not anymore).
But if he said he never cried himself to sleep, he never thought about wrapping himself in that damn maroon robe and just go curling in Harry’s chair, in Harry’s office, well, he would just be lying like a fucking cheap watch.
(And I’ll go sit on the floor wearing your clothes, he had heard a lovely, broken voice sing once and, really, he should just stop listening too much to the radio, before he ends embarrassing himself beyond repair).
Grazed his pistol wistfully?
To his shame, he can’t deny that either.
But then, invariably, he realises he’s too weak – or too strong, never really got which one, actually – and knows things will pass and life will go on. And it’s not that a fucking scary thought on its own? ‘Cause, seriously, after things like that, how dares life going on? How’s the world not crashing down on its knees, crying?
But there’s his mum and his baby sister to care after, and the world to save, the ungrateful bastard.
And so it goes. And Eggsy will just carry on, too.
With his memories and the fading details and his hope.
‘Cause Eggsy ain’t no fucking dog, and he has by now realised that hope is a fine, hurtful bitch.
Still, he waits.