The Eye

You have swallowed my gaze.
You see, helped inwardly by my gaze.
Within you, my light illuminates your present.
You make me into an object bathed in my light, deprived of sight.
And when you make me thus appear before you,
I no longer exist, except as a deceptive appearance.

– Luce Irigaray, Elemental Passions

.
.
In many ways, it’s the complement to Blind, perhaps even its sequel, except in this case the film revolves around a girl rather than a boy. Like the protagonist of that other story, she is blind. But unlike him, her blindness is not the source of an unrelenting anger; neither is it a tale about the course of love. But appearances can be deceiving, especially in a story such as The Eye. (“People say ‘seeing is believing,’ but for me that’s not entirely true.”) She has built a wonderful life for herself, despite what others might take to be her shortcoming: she is a successful musician and has found a way to delight in what her other senses have to offer. Yet, despite this, a vague sense of yearning unsettles the world she calls her own, one in which she has learned to find happiness, despite the absence of light.

Now, I see using my other senses.
I can smell the rain before it drops, but I can’t watch it fall.
I can feel the sun on my face, but I can’t see it rise or set.
I want to see the world like everyone else –
to see the sun, the rain, and music.
Oh, I bet music looks beautiful!

Despite her ability to take in the world in ways not available to others, her gift of second sight still leaves her with a sense of incompletion. A feeling that there is more that lies beyond her horizon, another universe able to complement the touches and smells that populate her closed-off world. Strange as it may sound, she yearns to behold (her) music with eyes-that-see. For as beautiful as it already is, surely it is more wondrous when supplemented by a sense not already her own?

Which is why, at the prodding of her sister, she will opt for cataract replacement surgery so that, finally, she will be able to see the world through another’s eyes, taking in what has eluded her for so long. And yet, this is precisely when the trouble begins. For while the operation is pronounced a success – nothing wrong with her eyes, the doctor says – she comes to be haunted by frightening images she cannot understand: ghosts, demons, and bodies of the dead. And visions of torture: an all-consuming fire in which its writhing victims are hopelessly caught, screaming through smoke and glass.

We can only wonder whether this may have any relation to her earlier confession, one that didn’t quite make sense, since her talk about the fading memories of childhood veered unexpectedly into a certain kind of uncertainty, an anxiety about the possibility of recognition.

I lost my sight when I was five years old.
Those memories of what I have seen have faded so much
I doubt that I would even recognize myself anymore.

Lest we take this to be a simple story about the acquisition of sight, let it be said that it ends in much the same way as it begins over the opening credits of the film: playing her music, unseeing. And yet, between this beginning and that ending, there lies a crucial difference – or perhaps two – that defines the heart of this story.

Island in the Stream

After a flash of the nightmare vision that will come to haunt her – a makeshift noose made for hanging, the projectile of an accusation, and a rain of stones that target her home – the film opens with a shot of our protagonist walking down the street looking no different than anyone else, except for her dark glasses, perhaps. And her appearance, too. (For she is beautiful, even if such a thing has yet to register and make itself known.)

Oblivious to the light that surrounds her, but ever attuned to the slightest sound that announces the presence of another, she will save the life of a teenage boy caught in a different kind of oblivion, weaving through the crowd on his skateboard and plugged into a soundtrack of his own. Her arm will hold him back from an oncoming bus, preventing him from certain death had she not been there to protect him from his inattention. Only after the rush of metal and the blaring of horns has passed will he realize that she didn’t “see” the bus, either. But before he has the chance to thank her, dumbstruck by an ability that has become her second nature, she will have already begun moving on to the other place that she was heading.

How is possible to understand, much less convey, the nature of her world, particularly to those of us for whom life has been anchored in the world sight and the law of appearances? Shielded behind what some would don in the name of fashion, her eyes will reflect the light that comes from beyond. Reflecting the sun and basking in the brilliance others so frequently take for granted, or mistakenly take to be their own doing. Blessed by the gift of “seeing” what is different from her own.

While her relation to the outside world is mediated by her other senses, it is another ability – her relation to music – that fills her soul. For it permeates the spaces that constitute her world. This is, after all, one of the consequences of impaired sight, of developing a different relationship to oneself, becoming better acquainted with another kind of world, the expanses that lie hidden behind the field of vision that draws so many in another direction, without.

And so, as we first witness her playing to an otherwise empty concert hall, backed by the talent of an entire orchestra, it will be difficult not to register the fact that she has no audience. She plays alone. And all she can wonder is how beautiful the music would be, if only it could be seen.

The opening minutes of the film will be defined by many such enclosures, rooms and spaces that define her life without sight, the muted colors and the shades of grey and black speaking to the kind of capaciousness that has become her home. During the hours and days leading up to her surgery, she is also surrounded by water or, more precisely, the constant accompaniment of rain, announced to us through the streaks of light in the distance, a flickering presence on the edge of her world.

Because she is anxious on the eve of her operation and finds herself unable to sleep, she will push through the blinds and press up against her apartment window, falling water casting a play of light and shadow across her face, a mark of what seems to lie beyond her grasp. Marveling at what she is unable to see, perhaps? Or yearning to escape her glassy prison? Or perhaps an eager anticipation of what’s to come?

Her name is Sydney. Sydney Wells. Quite appropriate given this introduction to our story, derived as it is from the Old English for a certain kind of dwelling, a certain kind of home: one who lives on or near a wide island. Or: a meadow by the river.

The Others

After surgery, when the protective gauze is removed from her eyes, Sydney’s world will be flooded by light and shadow, precisely what had seemed destined to remain beyond her grasp. It’s all a blur and very little of it makes sense but, despite this, it’s very exciting. It has opened her up to a land of others that had remained shrouded in sound, absent this newfound dimension of sight. And so, during the hours and days that follow, she will spend time with this new discovery, marveling at the dance of illumination.

Among the first to make an appearance is her sister, the one who prodded Sydney to consider the procedure in the first place. It is thanks to her that Sydney is now finally able to see. On that first evening, the two of them will sit on the hospital bed – twin figures – as if meeting for the first time. The other will whisper her confession, feeling the operation was more important to her, feeling responsible for her sister’s loss of sight. And strangely, since she is the younger of the two, it will be Sydney who takes on the mothering role, as if caring for the one who had braved the world in the other’s absence, while Sydney was locked away in the dark.

Am I how you pictured?
– I don’t know. You’re really blurry. –
I wish Mom and Dad were here to see this.
I think I wanted this more than you, Sydney.

– Helen, you were twelve. –
I waited for this for fifteen years. I thought I’d feel a sense of …
– It’s not your fault. Hey! It’s not your fault. –
I’m sorry.
– You just need time. You’ll see. –

It’s been a long time coming, this fateful meeting. More than fifteen years, to be exact. Locked away from each other. – It’s no wonder Sydney worried about her ability to recognize herself. – But despite the passage of time, the two have been bound together in ways not altogether recognized but always there. For one had been keeping an eye out for the other, just around the corner and beyond the horizon. Keeping alive the desire to gain her sister’s eyesight back, to heal the split that occurred so long ago. For, as Sydney tells her doctor, the first attempt did not take.

You damaged your corneas when you were five?
– Yeah. My sister and I were playing with firecrackers. –
– I tried a transplant when I was twelve but I rejected them. –
Stem cell research changed the game. Is that why you tried again?
– No, my sister was really the one who kept up with all that stuff. –

The ages of the two are not incidental, neither one nor the other. They are pivotal moments in a human’s evolution, moments during which a child negotiates her relations with the outside world. Two times, two contracts. But if something should happen at either moment – say an accident involving fire – the trauma can result not only in blindness, but a certain kind of exile. And silence. So, with this breach between the two of them finally mended, Sydney is now free to marvel at what has remained beyond her reach for so long.

The delight of the mirror, of finally being able to see oneself at a distance, a reflection from afar, generated by the eyes of another that have become her own. And while the image is still blurry – after all, borrowed eyes require time to gain their focus – she can tell it’s her own likeness in the mirror. But because this is a novel experience, it will take time to register the reflection as her own, to see it as a unique measure of her belonging. With time, slowly calibrating its movements with her own, that recognition will come, as much an accomplishment of the eyes that have come into her possession as her effort to create an impression upon them, to establish her presence in their seeing.

At night, Sydney will make the acquaintance of a child who has taken a special interest in her, a young girl stealing passage through the darkened hallways for secret visits with the ward’s latest arrival, the “cornea transplant.” In fact, strange as it may seem, both the girl and her sister are only known to us (and to Syndey?) at the hospital, as if they only emerge when Sydney is overwhelmed by dis-ease or committed to her own healing. So, when Sydney is well enough to return home, the girl will ask that they take a picture together, so that one can remember the other. And as they pose for the camera, the child will turn to her, providing her own words of comfort, despite the fact that she’s been doing battle with a tumor inside her head, making her so dizzy she can’t even ride her bike anymore.

I know you’re scared, Sydney. Don’t be.
The world … it’s really beautiful.

But despite the encouragement, Sydney’s eyes will overwhelm, her new sight bringing a barrage of the unwanted in its wake. No longer protected by her blindness, friends, family, and even strangers will clamor for her attention, like at the surprise party her Twin has planned for her. Even the friendly doorman, her gatekeeper, always there to greet her upon returning from her forays into the world, will be cast aside by the other figures eager for her embrace. Like the lamps installed in the apartment by her sister, the illumination brings way too much information. In this case, however, the lights cannot be turned off, even when all she wants is a moment to her self, alone.

So, even though her sister, her other, will have offered to stay to help with her adaptation, Sydney will say she needs to do this on her own. Which is as it should be. For while the other has helped her get this far, it’s time to take control of her own life, on terms not dictated from without.

Transitions

Adapting to this new world of sight is no small task, particularly since she must do battle against other kinds of intrusion, haunting and hounding visions that will not let her be. There is, for example, the little Asian boy standing in the hallway outside her apartment, afraid to go home because of what he has lost. (“Have you seen my report card?”) She has also begun to see apparitions of what can only be described as Reapers, phantoms escorting the dead from the land of the living. And at night – at precisely 1:06 a.m. to be exact – she has a recurring nightmare: a raging fire that threatens her with annihilation. If she is to come to terms with this newly discovered world, she will need to summon all her strength and courage to withstand these god-awful assaults on body and mind.

So Sydney will have coffee with the Conductor to talk about their upcoming Spring concert series. He will try to calm her nerves, saying something about being a big fish in Prague before moving to a foreign land. Assuring her that, despite the anxiety, everything else will fade away because, in the end, it’s just you face-to-face with the music. But even as she tries to listen and take in his kind words, his voice will begin to disappear, her attention turning to another place. And then – out of the blue – Sydney is confronted by another specter, one we might consider “bohemian” were it not for the mark of death upon her face. Standing between Sydney and a variation of her instrument put up for display, this ghostly figure will attack the audacity of Sydney’s musical planning, as if there were unfinished business to which she must first attend, particularly if she’s to avoid an attack on her very person.

You think I’m just going to let you leave?
You think I’m not going to do something (about it)?
That’s it, right? (Well,) I’m going to do it.
– I’m sorry? –
I told you I was going to do it …
DON’T GO!!!

When the apparition begins to lunge at her, Sydney will flee the scene, leaving the Conductor so she can seek out the assistance of another. For however much she enjoys the music they make together, his advice does not help. How could it? He has no idea of the unholy visitations with which she must contend.

The one recommended to her is Dr. Paul Faulkner, one who specializes in cases like hers: those who have lost their sight before reaching the age of visual maturity. Upon reviewing her history, he will tell her that she’s in for a tough ride, even though the surgery came off without a hitch. That she’s going to be assaulted by a million different things she could never have imagined.

It’s a whole new level of confusion.
(pointing) Do I look here [or] here?
Is that bright thing important?
Is this dark one – moving toward me? moving away from me? – dangerous or not?
As long as your eyes are open there are just too many distractions.
How do you concentrate?
Your eyes will want to dominate how you perceive the world.
But you can’t fully trust them. Not yet.

He will promise to help, giving her the assistance she needs to work through the difficult adjustments that are in store. He will say that they’re in this together. And for a while, she will be taken in by this promise and his calming assurances. But soon enough, Sydney will come to recognize the limits of his good intentions. For even though he has helped her navigate the outer world – showing her what a pineapple looks like, or how to read the body language of others – there’s just too much other stuff going on. Things which he surely does not understand.

War of the Worlds

Soon, in place of her random sightings, the visions come hard and fast, one after the other. They come with a ferocity and with such frequency that it’s difficult – if not impossible – for Sydney to discern what is happening. Why is she surrounded by visions of the dead and the dying, of tortured souls seemingly caught in a furnace of despair? Do they come from her own imagination, or are they unholy portents from a world beyond? Do they give voice to an unspeakable past or of a future that is yet to come? If these apparitions are not of her own making, do they belong to an other? And if so, which one?

When she broaches the subject with the Doctor, he will insist that there’s nothing wrong with her eyes, that (at best) she’s still learning to decipher what she sees and (at worst) that these are merely her imaginings. So, while he will not give it a name, he will take her pleadings as a sign of weakness or an unwillingness to do the rehabilitative work that he has prescribed. Each of them unmoving, the stand-off will continue, even when she asks about identifying the owner of the eyes she has inherited, in other words, her donor. But even this request will go unheeded, for such a thing is forbidden to him: he could lose his standing in the professional community.

So the nightmares continue unabated, without relief. If anything, they increase in their intensity, taking Sydney to another place – and another time – the scene of a crime. Once again, she will see the name laid at the feet of the tormented, a young woman exiled to the far side of desperation by callous youth caught-up in a stoning. And when she wakes, she will find that her bedroom is transformed, taking on the guise of a subterranean prison, as if the intrusions into her sleeping-life were insufficient to their task, that their warnings had not been heeded, much less heard. That Sydney had better pay closer attention.

At precisely 1:06 a.m., the dreams will always return. And intermingled with scenes from that other place, she will see an all-consuming fire and a girl caught helplessly within it. Sydney will be there too, their hands grasping for the other, a measure of their kinship and her inability to save the one who screams, pleading that Sydney do something – anything – to extract her from the flames.

At other moments, as when she begins to drift off to sleep in front of the television, Sydney will find herself engulfed in flames, no longer merely the witness to another’s suffering. As smoke fills the apartment, leaving Sydney gasping for breath and her eyes stinging, the apartment will be transformed yet again, this time into a place in which others are trapped by the conflagration. Frantic efforts to escape the blaze sends bodies flailing, grasping, and scrambling, trampling Sydney underfoot in their panic.

After one such episode, Sydney flees her apartment, no longer the kind of haven she once believed it to be. But even the anonymity of the streets will not provide relief, for the ghosts of the dead will find her there, too. A victim of a car accident will walk right through her and, moments later, she will face a snarling Shadow jealously protecting what belongs to him and that other place. As if Sydney’s newfound ability to see life’s passing – this awful “talent” accompanying the gift of sight – were a threat to his own calling.

At wit’s end, and because her sister has gone missing – unavailable until Saturday, her message says – she will call the Doctor, asking that he meet her at the Chinese Restaurant at the corner of Fourth and Figueroa. But when the Doctor arrives, he will find her huddled in a burnt out building, and take this as yet another sign of her instability. Once again, they will argue about what it is that has her bedeviled, even as she continues to try to explain what he doesn’t see … and what he still refuses to understand.

I see people. Like nothing’s wrong.
Only they don’t seem to see me.
I’m seeing things that aren’t real. I’m seeing things I shouldn’t see.
I’m dreaming things I’ve never seen.
This surgery was supposed to make me normal!

– Sydney, your eyes are not the problem. –
– You’ve got a disorder, alright? –
You don’t believe me.
– I want to help you. –
How can you?
How can you if you don’t believe me?

As if this kind of abandonment were not enough – this exile from understanding – as Sydney returns to her apartment, drained by this latest fight with the Doctor, she will find herself hounded yet again. This time, by a faceless man in the elevator, someone believing himself to be the injured party, someone identifying Sydney has his privileged target. Seeking reparation or revenge for what he believes was done to him by another’s hand.

After eluding this angry ghost, Sydney will be confronted by yet another injured being: the boy who stands outside her door, fearful of his father’s wrath. Were it not for the child’s maddening persistence, his plaints might be endearing. At least until he’s faced with Sydney’s stoic indifference to his plight, at which point he threatens to take his life, crouched in an open window before taking the plunge. This emotional blackmail, a tactic borne of desperation, will work, compelling Sydney to rush over to see that he’s alright … only to find that he will return, only to ask about his report card again, like a broken record. “Have you seen my report card? Have you seen my report card?” As if she held the secret to his well-being.

Exasperated to no end, Sydney will slam the door shut and kill the lights, seeking a return to the safety of darkness that was her life before. After all, this is not what she signed-up for, seeking entry into the world of sight and a life among the living. So, she will cut off all communication with the outside world, at least for the time being, seeking the comfort of the womb, a cocoon of her own making. For these visions of hers are more than what anyone should be asked to bear.

Days later, at her sister’s behest, the Doctor will return to her side. More out of courtesy to her twin, and his sense of professional obligation, than a sign of a shift in his (dis)belief. But despite this lack of movement, the injuries that she has sustained will give them both an excuse to get her (physical) wounds tended to, even as he remains unaware of his complicity in her own undoing.

“And immediately, something like scales fell from his eyes …”

So Sydney will find herself in the hospital again. And like before, in the quiet of night, she will be visited by the girl she had met earlier, the one with the dizzying tumor in her head. Except this time she has come to say that the “golf ball” has disappeared, that it’s time for her to leave. And as Sydney has already seen more times than she would care to remember, the child will be escorted away by a shadowy figure. Just as she’s beginning to voice her protest, Alicia will repeat the words of encouragement she had given Sydney before, but this time they will take on a new meaning.

I know you’re scared. Don’t be.
Because the world really is beautiful.

The next morning, Sydney will awake to find her sister looking disheveled and weary, as if just having ended her shift at a job that’s more of an insult than a living. She will ask how Sydney’s doing and offer assurances that, whatever’s happening, they will find a way to get her fixed. She will also hand Sydney a note left by the young girl. Enclosed with the child’s farewell gesture is the photograph taken of the two of them, long ago, just after Sydney had regained her sight. But the picture will leave her puzzled and confused.

Who is she?
– That’s you, Sydney.
That’s not me!
– Of course it is. Who else would it be?


And so Sydney will rush to the mirror to confront the unexpected. And what she finds there is the realization no one will have considered, least of all herself. What she discovers is that the person everyone sees, including us in the audience, is not the one she sees herself to be. Standing there, she will come to the unsettling conclusion that the face they match with her body is not the one that returns her gaze. The “split,” if it can be called that, is not one that exists within her being. Instead, it is the breach between herself and the world: even those closest to her, those who have been trying to help her – her Twin and her Doctor – cannot see what’s staring her straight in the face, clear as the light of day.

This will embolden Sydney. For the first time, she has a grasp on what it is with which she has been contending. For the first time, she will recognize that her “visions” are hers alone, that in some way they’re meant for her and only her. That she’s the only one capable of deciphering their hidden meaning.

Armed with this insight, she returns to the drawing board, seeking an explanation for what has been happening, seeking an answer to why all this began on the heels of her operation, seeking a bridge between her newfound certitude and the skepticism of those who would claim be her allies and friends. And then she finds it. It’s called Cellular Memory.

… based on the theory that all living tissues have the capacity to remember.
Cellular Memory explains how energy and information from a donor’s tissue
can transfer consciously or unconsciously to the recipient.
Recently, recipients of donor transplants have begun to report episodes
of newfound memories, thoughts, emotions, and characteristics
that are often associated with the original donor.

The eyes through which she sees the world once belonged to another. What she’s inherited from her “donor,” then, is not merely a mechanical apparatus necessary for the refraction of light, but the thoughts, memories and emotions that accompanied that other’s sight. What she has been experiencing is the memory of that other, the one from whom she developed her ability to see. As the consequence of the operation that returned her vision, that “other” has come to inhabit her very being, bearing all the urgency and pain those eyes first witnessed. In another land, and another time.

Finally, the skeptical Doctor will come around.

Bodies of the Submerged and the Erased

The donor’s name, as we will discover, was Ana Christina. And so Sydney and the Doctor will head down south, to the land of her birth – and death – across the border below, seeking answers for the painful inheritance that has accompanied her acquisition of sight. Answers they seek, and answers they will find.

They will find Ana Christina’s mother living in the home she once shared with her daughter, a mausoleum for the dead, still bearing the sign of the accusation (“Bruja!”) that signaled her impending death. Her face, scarred by the fire during which a host of people perished, will give evidence to the burden she has borne alone. Yet, upon seeing Sydney, she will see the eyes of her daughter, and recognize the kinship that they share. And when she hears that Sydney has also been plagued by visions of the unexplained, she will begin to provide the answers they’ve been looking for.

It’s a terrible thing to see the spiritual world, isn’t it?
The souls destined to repeat their death, everyday,
unable to find their peace …

Having learned the connection Sydney shares with her daughter, the old woman will continue, as if unloading a terrible burden she has carried in silence for too long. In a way, it might be said that she’s also been doomed to a certain kind of repetition, for as soon as she’s done telling her tale, she will collapse to the ground, only to pass away, finally freed of a mother’s obligation. But before that fated moment, this is what she had to say:

Ana was always alone.
People around here, they were always afraid of her.
They would blame her.

– Why would they blame her? –
Sometimes, when she was a little girl,
she would sit in front of some person’s house and she would just cry.
And soon after, somebody in that house would die.
I know she wasn’t doing those things, she wasn’t bringing death to anyone.
But she could just see
death.

And as she falls to the ground in pain, the mother will make another revelation, one that explains the never-ending torture that has held both mother – and Sydney – in death’s embrace:

Every night, she does it again, and again.
Please save her …

As the others rush the mother to the hospital, Sydney will stay behind, knowing there’s work to be done, her long-destined meeting with the one responsible for her nightmares. She will head to Ana Christina’s room, sit on the bed, and ask the girl to speak to her, inviting exactly what she has resisted for so long. And slowly, the visions will return – with greater clarity and precision – perhaps because she’s finally given up fighting what she has not wanted to see: the girl’s desperate attempt to warn her mother of the impending conflagration, the dismissal with which her warnings were met, and the venomous hatred that was soon to follow, as if she were the cause of the events that unfolded that fateful night.

And then, as noises beckon her from below, Sydney will head to the basement, the site of a makeshift hanging, finally coming face-to-face with the girl that has haunted her, discovering the “it” that she repeats every night: dangling in the air, an electric cord cutting into her throat, fighting against her strangulation, unable to breath or speak. After loosing her and bringing her to the ground, Sydney will cradle Ana Christina’s limp body in her arms, asking what she should do, not knowing how to save a girl already past the edge of death.

But seeing the torment this other has endured – and the lengths to which she would go to find escape – the words will come on their own, boiling down to this:

I am the one who has inherited your eyes.
I share your visions of the dying and the dead.
I have seen what you have seen.
I am the witness to your experience.
You are no longer alone.
Even if no one else will come to your side,
I am here,
and I believe you.
No matter what the others might say,
I know the truth:
it’s not your fault.

After-math

Believing that their work is done, Sydney and the Doctor will head back home, up north to the land from which they came. But before they can cross the border that would return them to more familiar territory, they find themselves caught behind a roadblock, for there’s a high-speed chase coming down on the American side in the opposite direction.

Looking around, Sydney will suddenly realize that her encounter with Ana Christina was not merely about revisiting another’s past, that her tryst with the tortured and the dying was not only about healing the wounds of a bygone era. It also pointed to the present, Sydney’s present. For surrounding her are the other elements of her visions, elements not accounted for by her visit to the home of Ana Christina and her mother: the little girl caught in flames, her hand reaching out for Sydney’s, screaming for help; the number 106 that kept repeating, as if marking a time of significance too momentous to ignore.

The other purpose of her visions becomes crystal clear: it is to avoid another disaster, not unlike the previous one, in which needless life will be lost. Her nightmares have been warning about an imperative that speaks about her present as much as her past, an echo of what had come before. A tragedy that would come from the opposite direction: a person attempting to elude the arms of the law, hoping to evade his past, seeking escape into the territory – south of the border – that has only recently become her own.

With the Doctor by her side, no longer caught in the grips of disbelief, Sydney will find a way to avoid the cataclysm that Ana Christina had warned her about. And in so doing, the tortuous beginnings of their relationship finally comes into full bloom, as Sydney discovers the other rationale for the bond that now connects her with the dead: the sins of the past serve as a clarion call, alerting her to what might otherwise elude her attention. It is her own and unique form of protection. A gift bequeathed to her by the dead.

In the face of this discovery, Sydney’s loss of sight in the explosion will be no great tragedy. For moving beyond the sum of all fears brings with it a certain liberation, one that has been a long time coming.

Ana Christina and I shared both a blessing and a curse.
Ana tried to prevent death,
but she was ultimately powerless to stop it.
I know, now, I don’t need eyes to see what truly matters.
The gift of Ana’s sight made me see what I was afraid to.
To use that vision to not only save myself and others,
but to give Anna the peace she never found in life.

It is appropriate, then, that our story should end where it began, with Sydney making music. Except in this case, no longer is it contained within the solitude of her room or an empty hall, but in public with the Conductor by her side. It is appropriate, too, that her Twin and the Doctor – until now, her conduits to the external world – find themselves in the audience, among countless others, as she takes center stage. Finally, breathing freely and unafraid.

For that is her birthright.
And she has earned it.
.

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~ by mistified on May 4, 2010.

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