2Just a short musing brought on by watching the end (won't say 'ending' - that really was a lousy place to stop, imho) of a really great tv series that I apparently discovered two years too late, darn it. Why can't they advertise the great shows while they're on, eh? Too many good ones get canned before their time because the networks didn't bother to let the watching public know about 'em. *ahem* Personal rant aside, I don't own The Cape, and if I did, we'd have had the final three episodes at least. Dang it. Well, read, enjoy, review!
Julia.
It was a pretty name. A good name. It just wasn't her name.
Orwell.
It came closer. It was a name that she'd chosen for herself. An apt name, though George Orwell certainly hadn't known how predictive his novels would be, or that his name would be the one chosen by a rebel version of Big Brother.
She hadn't used her real name in so long, it felt like an alias when she whispered it to herself in the night. Vince had pressured her for her real name, once. He no longer did so. She didn't know if it was because he was respecting her privacy, or if he just didn't care. She honestly couldn't say which scenario she preferred. He was married. He was still deeply in love with his wife, and she with him. She couldn't get in the way, no matter how much her heart longed to. Dana didn't deserve him. She couldn't know what a hero Vince was, surely couldn't appreciate him the way that the desperate programmer could.
But that didn't matter. It was Dana's name on Vince's lips in the middle of the night. Julia was never there, nor Orwell. Just Dana.
And that's how it should be, she told herself, firmly.
But she couldn't help wishing...
"Hey, got some time to help me out here, Orwell?" Vince asked.
"I'm Jaime," she said, softly, so softly.
The caped crusader glanced over, distractedly. "Sorry, what was that?"
And Orwell shook her head, smiled, and went over to lean over the back of his chair, pointing out the next sequence of buttons to push. "You're a nutter," she said, and laughed.
It's only a name, after all, she thought. What does it matter?
Even so, her heart cracked, and bled, and broke just a little bit more every time he spoke the wrong name. And Orwell buried her heart deep in concrete to keep it intact, buried her name until no one remembered it but her. She was not Jaime, and would never be again.
Still, she whispered it in the darkness, to the ghosts and the ether, where no one else could repeat it.
"Jaime. Jaime. I'm Jaime, Vince. I'm Jaime..."