Sometimes I think about the Mentalist, and it's like -- you were looking for revenge. You were broken and bleeding out. The worst thing possible happened, and you saw the aftermath, and you blamed yourself. You crawled from the grave, left two closed casket funerals, and vowed yourself to revenge. You live a half life because the two people you loved most are dead. And you think it's your fault. You are a dog on the hunt, you are a sword begging for blood, you are unreachable, you are a liar, but you speak only the truth when it matters.
You came for revenge. But you found love. She, who still believes in absolute goodness and looks at you and sees the man, not the sword, not the liar, and not the killer. She, who brushes the grave dirt from your shoulders and gives you a reason to see the sun again. She, who whispers prayers and clutches her crucifix necklace and tells you to forgive -- forgive the murderer, forgive yourself, forgive the world. She, who believes in you, believes you, even though you have lied a thousand and a thousand times. She, who, after your blade tastes blood and after you lay down in a bed of roses next to those twin graves and seek some kind of strange afterlife far from home, gives you a reason to return.
You came for revenge. But you found her.
