Letters inspired by films. 因電影啟發的信件。

Jan. 27, 2011 The Passenger

Dear Lies,

            Ever since the beginning of my wrong-doings, you had been using every way possible to try and protect me. Sometimes I wonder if you really did this out of love, like you always told me before you covered me up with a thick, black veil of stories. Sometimes I wonder whether it was because you were ashamed of me, whether I was so ugly that you would have to hide my face behind a mask every time I was in danger of being seen.

            You were always there when there was no turning back from what I had done. You always knew what to do, how to clean up the mess I had gotten myself into. When I had stolen something, you would come immediately to wipe away my fingerprints; when I had murdered someone, you would be there to hide the body. I had fallen deeply in love with you, knowing that as long as you were with me, there was nothing to be afraid of. And so my misdeeds grew rapidly in amount, and oftentimes things went beyond your control, and I would eventually be found out, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care a tad if I was punished or not; all I cared about was you being there, helping me hide, protecting me, loving me.

            However, this time I didn’t do anything. I found Robertson’s body, but I didn’t kill him. I tried to tell you this, but you wouldn’t listen. You wouldn’t trust me. You hid me by exchanging the identities of the dead and the living; this was probably the most bizarre idea you had ever come up with. Perhaps you were tired of me, tired of all the times you had to mask what I had done. I was completely innocent, I really was, but perhaps you had moved beyond merely covering up my wrongs. Perhaps all this time you had been trying to hide me. Me, the core of your shame.

            Ironically, this time you hid me well. David Locke lived a Robertson, and died a Robertson. You died. And I cannot express the regret I feel in my heart. I want to blame it all on myself, but a part of me knows that this one mistake wasn’t mine. You wouldn’t believe that I was innocent, and you had to hide me. And now you are gone.

            I loved you, Lies. But did you love me?

Yours truly,




2011127日 《過客》










-羅寗 Michelle Ning Lo



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