It seems to me you can no longer look me in the eye. Your head is always downcast, shoulders slumped, body lifeless. And if I about it, and take a good look at you, I can almost see the thick glob of saliva slipping from your mouth, dribbling onto your chin, and falling from where it gathers on your boney jaw. It will make a SPLAT sound as it hits the floor, pooling with the rest.

Around your chest is a thick white cloak, restraining your arms, restraining you soul, and you thrash and cry as it seems to tighten when you move.

I long to reach out, touch your dirty, tear soaked face, but they had specifically told me, NO TOUCHING!, and I don't want to lose this brief time with you for my selfish needs.

They told me this is one of your good days, where you actually make a conscious effort to function normally. But the straight jacket always stops you, and you'll go back to lying like a rug, back to your inhuman form.

I asked them why they couldn't take your jacket off on your good days. They told me the last time they had done that, you went around and around your padded cage, swinging your arms wildly, calling for an unseen person. When you had gotten no response, and after hours and hours of calling, you gave a frustrated scream and started clawing at your skin, ripping your hair out and making blood run down your face.

They were unable to restrain you for nearly two hours. By the time they had, you had little hair left and scratches on your arms that made you look like a wild animal had gotten to you. In the end, they decided never to do that again.

But oh, how I wanted to touch you, make your eyes meet mine and let you know I. Was. There. How I wanted you to just make one of your stupid jokes, to laugh your contagious laugh.

They told me you probably never would again.

That made me furious. If only I had gotten to you sooner. If only I had gone with you. If only it had been me instead.

If only you didn't have to wear that damn straight jacket.

"Damn it Tony!" I shouted at you, trying to get your attention.

You didn't even flinch. That hurt the worst. Suddenly I could take it no more. Rules or no rules, you had been my senior agent too long for me to let you sit there in your own tortured world.

I reached my hand forward, grasped your spit covered chin; you gave me no fight.

Your eyes were glazed, unknowing.

Guilt clenched at my heart.

"Come on Tony, snap out of it…"

But as the doctors had said, you probably never would.

"Sir?" a voice called from behind the windowed door. "Sir, you can't touch him."

"Who was it he was calling for," I snapped, needing to know more, an idea forming in the back of my mind. One that scared me, consumed me.

"Sir?"

"When you took the jacket off the first time, he ran around screaming for someone. Who was it?"

"I don't know sir, but he was shouting 'Boss'."

My hand clenched tighter around your chin. Dear God…

"You really shouldn't touch him; he doesn't like it."

"He'd want me too."

"Why would he want that?"

"Because I'm the one he's been looking for."

Your eyes met mine, and for the first time since you had been captured and tortured for information by the enemy for information, they became clear.

"Boss?"

And somehow I was forgiven.