Curse the Heavens! Whilst I found myself distracted by one of life’s many subplots, like a canine in pursuit of his own posterior, Destiny made its move on Molly. Like a fool, I was gleefully prancing about after my once fatal killing of the man in horn-rimmed glasses. It was a joyous occasion, despite his resurrection. It was an event that told him I would not stand for such atrocities against me, such as kicking me into a motor vehicle. And it was a new discovery in the potency of Claire Blood.
But Destiny can be cruel, taking a would-be murderer and turning him into a terrified victim. At first sound of Sylar’s voice over the telephone, I cowered and urinated. Is it not the cruelest of life’s ironies to find myself once again in the clutches of a psychotic brain-eater? Why did I refuse the company’s babysitter service? All Primatech sitters are armed and trained in combat. Yet I felt entrusting Molly with one would be like handing an infant over to a dingo. And now it seems the dingo has found my baby.
Who can we say is to blame for such perilous jeopardy? Is it the fault of one parent, the educated breadwinner of the household? And why is it bread is awarded as prizes? Does not the prospect of baked flour seem unworth any game or contest in which one may be required to participate? Or can the blame be placed on the shoulders of the parent in charge of the household? It would seem that such a home invasion would be due to the failure’s with the housewife. Where was Parkman? Why did he not protect Molly? And why does he never stick to any of his diets?
I attempted to make contact with my obese housemate, but was unsuccessful. One can only assume he is preoccupied with Angela Petrelli. She is a mysterious blue glow to his tiny moth-like brain. Can he not resist her lure? Does he not see the futility of insisting on mining her stubborn vein of knowledge?
It is indeed his fault. But does it now matter?Or is Molly’s fate already assured? Has she become a giant soap bubble, so incredible one cannot resist touching it, but doing so leads to its explosive end? Parkman and I couldn’t resist. We had to touch (not in the Dateline way, but rather metaphorically). We reached out to this helpless bubble of a girl, and yet it only served to endanger her life.
I brought Sylar to her. And what does Sylar want? Does he desire the recipe to my famous Radical Wheat Monkey Brain entrée? Or is he searching for revenge? Could it be that the unjust feel the just to be unjust by bringing about justice to their unjust ways?
As I set here and ponder, Molly suffers. How can I knowingly waste time with superfluous speech when important events are unfolding around me? Is it my destiny to be largely ineffective? Am I only capable of talk, and not action? Or is there a greater plan for me?
We shall find out soon. For like crazed Ukrainian mice converging on a discarded biscuit, so are the destinies of these extraordinary people. Am I extraordinary enough to be left standing? Or have I overstayed my welcome at Life’s haunted home?
Perhaps I can convince Mr. Bennet to forget about the whole bullet in the glasses nonsense and help me with Sylar? I think I’ll order him a new pair of glasses right now, in fact. Let us hope such flattery can work.