What good are memories when they are all about the people who matter least to you?
Do I need to remember Niki being crazy to know that she is? Do I need to remember DL is dead to accept it? Do I need to remember that Venezuelan immigrants are prone to having deathly tears?
No. I wish I could remember how I ended up in this horrible relationship with an obese cop, and evil partnership with a mysterious copy salesman.
Four months have passed since our combined destinies made themselves known. What has transpired since? Who can say? The events of the past are a mystery to us all, even those who participated in it, who gave in to Destiny, agreeing to be her pawn on the chess board of Kirby Plaza.
Only God can truly say, that one omnipotent cockroach who controls the destiny of us all. It is his will which unfolds before our eyes. He unfolds it, incites our mind with his vision of reality, like a producer of a television series. We can curse him for our misfortunes, we can praise and worship his power, his insight, we can even beg him to do the right thing. But will he listen?
This very moment is constantly changing, being written by God the Cockroach as I breath, as I type. Only the past can truly be known to us, yet it is shrouded in mystery. Like a flashlight, our minds shine upon its shadow, but can only reveal a small portion, like a lone French fry in an order of onion rings. What can be gathered from this iota of memory, this small glimpse, lacking in context, of our past? And is it relevant?
At times, I find myself pondering DL’s death, as though it has relevance. Was he killed, murdered, by a gunshot from Linderman? Was it that fateful meeting that brought his undoing? While that could be concluded from idle speculation, further examination, deeper digging into our mutual memories, will reveal he in fact died by a gunshot wound from a stranger. The end result is the same. So, one may wonder if such investigation is required. Does not either scenario end with a dead DL, one killed by a bullet, despite his phasing abilities? Could it be the only purpose such a memory has is to reveal a fact that is already all too well known: Niki is a psycho?
The little Japanese fellow, who claims his friend disappeared, did his memories disappear as well?
And what of myself? Of Noah Bennet? Of Matthew Parkman? Do I not posses memories of these three destinies? Has God chose not to bless me with the recollection of my own life? Of how I came to shacking up with a policeman who can read minds, but not books? And where are hte memories of Bennet’s escape from Odessa, his eluding the company, and vile companionship with myself? Like the cockroach he is, God didn’t make these memories part of his reality.
With such absences of memories, one can only assume The Haitian is at work here. Or perhaps God is on Haitian Pills.