![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Tony's Tuesday Review
Aug. 31st, 2012 12:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gennfaEpisode Title: 8x13 Freedom
Caf-Pow rating: 4 caf-pows
Review: 20 Icons under the cut
Sig Tag:
( Read more... )
Caf-Pow rating: 4 caf-pows
Review: 20 Icons under the cut
Sig Tag:
( Read more... )
Aug. 31st, 2012
gennfa
Tony's Tuesday Review - 9.21, "Rekindled"
Aug. 31st, 2012 12:36 am2xheroeEpisode Title: Rekindled, 9.21
CafPow! Rating: 3.8 out of 5
Review: [[fanfic, Jason King-centric]]
( ( )
I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling with dried tears glazing familiar paths across my cheeks. The only consolations to my attempts to save her are the stench of the darkest of smokes and the wails of my mother to lull me into sleep. Then I remember how she used to listen to the stories I learned from school that day until they translate into our dreams. She loved the tales of dogs and cats in the city, and I of brave policemen.
My throat tightens. I hope she died quickly.
Years pass, but her loss still haunts me. It leaves me discontented, unsettled, and terrified. The guilt coils tightly around my chest, rendering me breathless, tired. I wonder how it would have been like if she had survived. She would have been the prettiest, the envy of all the other women around her. She would have been so smart. She would not be as aloof and reserved as I am. She would have had a ready smile. She would have had heart.
His goodly deeds would not have measured up to hers. She would have saved a helpless little girl.
It may be dangerous, but it is the only thing I can do to make a wrong a right. My mother begs me feverishly to refrain from making the decision to lay my life on the line for others. She says she had lost one of her children before; never shall it happen again. My father, all the while, maintains silence, as he has always before. Still, the bidding that characterizes the orbs so similar to mine spoke of a heartfelt request that anchors the soul of even the most difficult child.
Her distant calls that now echo from the mouths of those in need urge me to leave and to defy.
I have almost forgotten it all. The dreams of long forgotten dreams have returned, and looking back has not been as offensive as before. Time has numbed any caustic reaction from the seemingly simple task of forgiving. It shames me to admit that I have gone on, and I compensate by knowing that she is the reason.
Then he comes back, and in a flash of a moment I recover the loathing I felt so many eternities ago.
Has he regretted what he’s done? Has he ever felt half the same anger I felt for failing someone who has waited for his help? Has he even thought about her afterwards?
There is a want within me to wish him misery, but the truth is that I have exhausted all ounce of blame—for him, for me—from every fiber of my being. She was not to come back, and this is the honest reality I must face.
Her smile comes to mind, for some reason, when he reveals that her loss has greatly affected his life. I am absolute that it is forgiveness that he seeks, but all I can grant him for his apology is sympathy for now.
.
I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling with dried tears glazing familiar paths across my cheeks. The only consolations to my attempts to save her are the stench of the darkest of smokes and the wails of my mother to lull me into sleep. Then I remember how she used to listen to the stories I learned from school that day until they translate into our dreams. She loved the tales of dogs and cats in the city, and I of brave policemen.
My throat tightens. I hope she died quickly.
.
Years pass, but her loss still haunts me. It leaves me discontented, unsettled, and terrified. The guilt coils tightly around my chest, rendering me breathless, tired. I wonder how it would have been like if she had survived. She would have been the prettiest, the envy of all the other women around her. She would have been so smart. She would not be as aloof and reserved as I am. She would have had a ready smile. She would have had heart.
His goodly deeds would not have measured up to hers. She would have saved a helpless little girl.
.
It may be dangerous, but it is the only thing I can do to make a wrong a right. My mother begs me feverishly to refrain from making the decision to lay my life on the line for others. She says she had lost one of her children before; never shall it happen again. My father, all the while, maintains silence, as he has always before. Still, the bidding that characterizes the orbs so similar to mine spoke of a heartfelt request that anchors the soul of even the most difficult child.
Her distant calls that now echo from the mouths of those in need urge me to leave and to defy.
.
I have almost forgotten it all. The dreams of long forgotten dreams have returned, and looking back has not been as offensive as before. Time has numbed any caustic reaction from the seemingly simple task of forgiving. It shames me to admit that I have gone on, and I compensate by knowing that she is the reason.
Then he comes back, and in a flash of a moment I recover the loathing I felt so many eternities ago.
Has he regretted what he’s done? Has he ever felt half the same anger I felt for failing someone who has waited for his help? Has he even thought about her afterwards?
There is a want within me to wish him misery, but the truth is that I have exhausted all ounce of blame—for him, for me—from every fiber of my being. She was not to come back, and this is the honest reality I must face.
Her smile comes to mind, for some reason, when he reveals that her loss has greatly affected his life. I am absolute that it is forgiveness that he seeks, but all I can grant him for his apology is sympathy for now.
.
All I can hear is her cry. And it is all I will ever hear.