collette

Damn it all to hell. Guess what I found upon opening the paper this morning? An obituary for Sinclair Fogg.

It's nonsense of course. I'll admit, my heart stopped briefly when I saw those words, but it isn't anything I haven't read before: a generational talent, gone too soon. Just as he did the first time he "died", John has managed to get himself quite the tribute. It's good. It's what he deserves. And I'm glad he's being cautious, I suppose, but I curse my own luck. This will make it that much harder to find him.

At least I have a photo of him now. A truly excellent one too —he's standing on a sound stage, laughing at something someone has said just out of frame. I would have thought the paper would have run one of his portraits, but he must have requested this particular picture somehow. The obituary states that a Mrs. Virginia Bowman will be taking over Sinclair Studios, so perhaps he left specific instructions in some sort of will. Leave it to John to give audiences one last shock by giving his studio over to a woman. It delights me, even if have no idea who this woman is. There's something vaguely familiar about the name, but I can't quite place it.

There's something familiar about the photograph too. I think I was there, that day. I remember that suit of his and there's a bit of the film set in the corner of the photo. I'd visited so many of his sets, and I'm sure I visited that one. Am I the one just out of frame? Am I the one making him laugh like that? I hope so. 

It’s frustrating, not knowing what gaps are due to my injury or the usual ravages of time. I remember the sound of John’s laugh with perfect clarity, but I know that, even before the war, I wouldn’t be able to recall every single time I drew it out of him. I don’t remember what I had for breakfast three Tuesdays ago, and I don’t believe that’s any cause for concern. But even with what feels like my full memory restored, I’ll never know what I’m missing. 

At least I can tell the difference between dreams and memories now. Seeing the sound stage in the photo had me reflecting on a dream I had a few months after getting out of the hospital. I was on one such stage in the dream, visiting John after everyone had gone home for the day. He was so proud, giving me a tour, delighting in all the various visual effects that give him the same sense of wonder illusion once did. I’m fairly certain that was real— the memory I have of him showing me the false snow they would use for their films. But the dream ended quite…affectionately and I realize now that those memories are not memories at all, but the after images of long held fantasies. I do remember the precise shape and location of all his scars, but when I realized I couldn’t recall the feel of them under my hands, I knew for certain that we’d never walked down that path together. 

There I go again, wasting ink in daydreams when I have serious concerns to attend to. It’s an awful turn of fortune that I should finally have arrived back in America just the moment John is abroad. Though maybe that’s a misdirection—claiming he died abroad so that no one will notice he’s still walking around Los Angeles. Then again, I don’t think he’s fool enough to stay in his house. I’m sure he’s already set up somewhere else. I know I can count on Mr. Weston to have the information. Finding Mr. Weston will take some doing—I cannot for the life of me remember if he resided in New York or Washington D.C.—but at least I have my feet on US soil again. 

I’m terrified. I’ve only been back three days, and I don’t think it was until seeing his photo that it all became real. I’m going to see him again. I’m going to hold him again. Even if it’s just in the kind of friendly embrace we parted with, it will be more happiness than I thought was possible to claim when I woke up in Italy. 

I have no idea how he’ll react. I have some time still, to determine what exactly I want to say to him, but I know that—no matter how I prepare—I’ll be terribly nervous when the time comes. Especially since I’m certain he’s not received any of my letters. He must have already moved, in fact, and perhaps isn’t taking mail at the studio lot anymore. I’m so certain that if he’d gotten just a single one of my notes, he would have come to Europe right away to meet me. 

One of the last things I remember before waking up is writing him a letter that revealed the true nature of my feelings. I wonder if he received that one. I wonder what he thought of it. I wonder if he read it and was so repelled, that he’s decided he wants nothing to do with me. I shouldn’t think that he would be so callous and cavalier, not after the decades of friendship that we’ve accumulated, but the fear still lingers. 

I suppose I’ll find out soon enough. 

[from the personal diary of C.X. Chambers]

I believe the time has come for John Fogg to die.

Or rather, I should say, the time has come for Sinclair Fogg to die. Nearly twenty years with that name and it still never felt quite natural. I’m sure I could carry on for twenty years more, but there’s something on the wind, a changing mood, a storm on the horizon, and I’d rather avoid the deluge. All this business with the HUAC…I’m hardly a Red, but the combination of my lack of enlistment (given my service in the Great War belongs to John Fogg, not Sinclair), the various entanglements I’ve gotten myself into through the years, and the fact that I continue to stay youthful, I really can’t afford to have Congress taking a closer look. 

It will take some doing—Mr. Weston had the nerve to go and die and we I have yet to find a new lawyer I trust enough with the strange necessities of my existence.

I shouldn’t I don’t mean to be callous about Mr. Weston. He was a good man, an endlessly understanding lawyer, and so dedicated to his job that I’m fairly certain the stress killed him. But I am bitter. Not only because of the inconvenience it causes me but because he was the last living soul who knew who I truly was. We were never bosom friends, but there was some comfort in the knowledge that I wasn’t completely alone in keeping my secret. 

I am once again considering telling Virginia. She truly is my bosom friend, possibly the best friend I’ve ever had outside of my truest friend on this earth. I’m uncertain I would have survived

I think she already suspects something. Ginny is an endlessly clever woman, and she’s known me long enough to notice that I haven’t acquired wrinkles at the pace she has. Not to say she’s an old woman! Older than me, yes, in physical age, but still quite striking. In fact, the appearance of new lines on her face brings me no shortage of joy. Despite everything, I’ve been able to make her laugh many times over the last year, and the evidence pleases me greatly. 

In any case, perhaps she would be amenable to the truth. There is the not small matter of the studio—I’d like for her to take over operations and that would be far simpler if I could explain the whole matter to her. Not to mention, if I were to start over again, it would mean sacrificing her friendship on the altar of my anonymity, something I’m not sure I’m willing to do. For both our sakes. 

So that’s Ginny and a new lawyer. I can afford to bring two people in on the secret, I should think. Ginny will protect me out of genuine care and the lawyer will be inclined to keep my secret for the buckets of money I am sure to throw at him. I’ve got to use it for something, especially now that I have so much more of it. I guess it’s worth planning another trip abroad too, some time away to let America forget me. I could travel the world for two years, indulge in every whim, and still not put a dent in the money that was left to me for just that reason. 

Why he didn’t just give all his money to his apprenticeship program, I’ll never understand. But no, he simply had to be explicit in his will; “take this large lump of dough and spend it on something purely frivolous, John”. Why did he think I could ever find joy in his absence?

Never mind the money. It will be spent or it won’t, but I’m done thinking of it. 

Sometimes I’m gripped by the strange impulse to simply lock it all in a bank vault and throw away the key before starting over. Truly starting over. With nothing—no money, no notoriety, no friends connections. It’s the need for a challenge in me. Charles would say that I grow bored if I’m not putting my life on the line, but what does he know, I’m the one that stayed, that kept my life, meanwhile he

Good lord, l’ve practically destroyed this page with what I’ve crossed out. Maybe I should throw this particular diary away. Maybe I should stop letting myself write of him at all. Or maybe I should indulge fully, let out every single thought. It seems no matter what I do I’m still so fucking angry—

I do relish a challenge, it’s true. And I don’t currently have a mountain to climb or world to conquer. Sinclair Studios will continue to thrive without me, I’ve yet to find a new permanent home to sink my time and effort into now I’ve sold the Los Angeles property and the apartment in New York. I am both figuratively and literally wandering without a home. 

Going abroad. That’s just the thing. One more holiday season taking advantage of Ginny’s endless hospitality and then I’ll set sail. Maybe I’ll even fly, what a thing that would be. See how Europe has repaired itself in the last few years. Or perhaps I’ll finally make my way to Australia or some other far flung place. 

I just know I need to get away from any place that he’d ever been. Even looking up at the stars, I only think of the fact that he once looked at that same sky, the moonlight on his face, a cigarette between his lips.

Yes. Away. A prolonged trip didn’t fix anything a few years ago but maybe a second go at it—at leaving everything behind and distracting myself so completely—will have an effect. Maybe this time seeing sights he never saw won’t make me want to die. Is there nowhere in the world I could go without it being about him in one way or another? 

Maybe this time I'll be able to forget. Even for just a moment. Just one moment of peace. I’d go anywhere, under any name, to find that.

i was then shot 57 times.

charles “dies” in january 1945

we hear from fogg (april’s missive) in 1946 where he talks about the loneliness in living in a world without charles and how he thinks it might be smart for him to travel and get away from his home for a while

we hear from charles (may’s missive) in november 1947 where he says he has spent the last two years in a coma and experiencing complications from war.

one year later, in november 1948 john has (presumably) decided trying to live a life without charles isn’t worth it anymore. he’s probably spent the past two years traveling, the past three grieving his best friend, the person who made his immortal life feel less like a trap and more like a home. all while charles has most likely been looking for his “guardian angel” ie. john.

idk it’s just making me want to rock back and forth the way john has been grieving and alone for three years and doesn’t want to anymore, especially now that he thinks that he can die. and somewhere else, charles is coming back from a war and injuries that should have killed him, all while looking for john, desperately looking for answers in his old journals, which john has.

two souls, desperate for each other, but they can’t seem to find one another.