It used to be that I would throw myself in front of you at the slightest provocation. Take the blow, bear the brunt of the force, push you back out of the way. Attack, bloody everything and everyone around me as long as you weren't hurt. As long as it was me. Because I loved you.
And then...so much happened. Life...everything...got in the way. In the end, we chose separate paths, and you said it yourself: "You're choosing a path I can't follow!" When you told me I was breaking your heart...you broke mine.
And now I'm laying here, strapped to the table, and I hear him say it...hear him say that you're gone...that I killed you...all my fault...
My heart shatters, the previous so-called "breaking" having left me totally unprepared for this soul-crushing, breath-stealing pain. Someone is screaming and someone is laughing as metal screeches and the ground shakes with my rage, with my pain. I feel sharp stabbing in my abused knees--No, that's not right, I don't have knees any more, I think detatchedly--and I realize I've fallen to the ground, the scream trailing off in a gurgle around the time I register that it was ripping out of my throat, leaving it bloodied and raw.
So much screaming today.
Tears are trailing down my face, stringing my burns terribly. I'm surprised I still have the ability to cry, later. For now I just sit there limply, broken. I killed you...I killed you like I killed the little ones at the temple...I raised my power and my hate to you and instead of bringing you back to me...instead of your love...I don't even have you any more...I've erased you from time and space and there is nowhere I can go and nothing I can do to ever, ever find you again...I will never see your face again... Another inhuman cry escapes me, mutilated by the mask keeping me alive. For one fleeting moment, I think to tear it off, but he is standing off to the side, ever watchful. He wouldn't let me. He would stop me, maybe lock me up. I can't have that! Alone in a cell, no!
I struggle to my feet. He turns and swishes out of the room, knowing I will follow. Knowing I have no other choice but to follow. I am his now.
Over the course of time, I will entertain thoughts. Thoughts of attending your funeral (he hides it from me until you are already sunken into the cold, hard ground); thoughts of finding Obi-Wan, begging him to finish what he had started (in the end, my pride is too strong; I turn my hatred upon you so that it does not eat away at my own self); thoughts of killing the Chancellor and ruling in his stead, or of killing myself shortly afterwards (he knows this, and speaks calm words to me, stoking my hatred for anything but himself--even my hatred of me, when necessary.).
By the time the young man's presence is made known to me, the gentle brush of a butterfly's wing against my mind through the Force which connects all things, I have given up all such thoughts, weeded them out in the carefully cultivated yet never once blossoming garden of my mind.
He plants them there again.