Author's notes: While we wait to see where the show takes us, my Martin muse whispered to me. This is from his point of view.
Written Februrary 2, 2006
~Late night, Martin's apartment~
The small part of my brain that is still able to function takes note of the wetness upon my face and identifies it as tears. The subject is catalogued and dismissed as being not worthy of my attention. The useless tears have no place in the here and now.
I have managed to find a source for the medication that my body requires. Without it, I would no longer be able to deceive people into believing that I am a normal, healthy, functioning member of society. My job requires that I maintain the pretense. Without my job, I am nothing.
I should be disturbed at the fact that the medication was obtained illegally, but I am not. The finer emotions such as guilt are beyond my capacity to feel. There are only two emotions left to me in my current state: pain and fear. The pain, I can do something about. The fear is so much a part of me that I suppose that only my death would be able to remove it.
I have been held up my father as an example of the strength of the human spirit. He has praised my ability to come back from a near-fatal injury. If only he knew the truth: Martin Fitzgerald did not survive.
I live in constant fear that my control will slip and the truth will be revealed.
On a dark, rainy night, when my inattention to detail did not allow any suspicion regarding the vehicle in front of me to enter my mind until it was far too late; when gun-toting assassins jumped out of their van and opened fire; when the bullets from their automatic weapons' fire found myself, Danny, and Adisa Teno; when Danny pulled me from our car and laid my bleeding body upon the ground as he desperately administered first aid despite the fact that he knew that his actions were grossly inadequate; when the severity of my injuries left doubt in everyone's minds as to whether or not I would be able to survive; on that night, I died.
I am wondering how long it will be before someone realizes that fact.
I am wondering how much longer I can continue to exist with the pain and the fear threatening to overwhelm my control. I stare at the bottle of prescription drugs, and wonder if it wouldn't be better to end the pain and fear by simply swallowing the entire contents of the bottle.
I remove the lid and start counting out the pills one by one. When I am finished, the count stands at twenty-nine, more than enough to gradually slow my body's functions until they cease altogether. I swallow the first pill, and the second. I contemplate swallowing the remainder.
My fear does not allow me to make the effort. Tears continue to fall as I replace the remaining pills to wait for another day.