The past is a gaping hole. You try to run from it, but the more you run, the deeper it grows behind you, its edges yawning at your heels.
The metaphors. The similes. Two companions as reliable and true to the Max Payne series as a pair of Desert Eagles and a lifetime's prescription of painkillers. Gone. There's a bullet-shaped hole where the metaphors should be, and Rockstar are the ones fingering the trigger. Seeing the third game, it's like kissing your love goodbye, only to find she's already dead.
Looking back, you see the graphic novel cutscenes, the noir tropes... like a doomed romance, you only get the full picture in hindsight. The way the serious clashes with the surreal, the over-the-top meets the understated. You realise how the developers used the absurd to underscore the emotional content... and like any doomed romance, you finally realise just how they broke your heart. Mona, Vinnie, Vlad, Woden... they're all dead. And where you once had the memory of them, now all you've got is a drunken void where your memories should be. A gaping hole, growing deeper behind you.
Playing Max Payne 3, thinking about death is unavoidable. It's a weight chained to your ankles, a pocket full of stones dragging you into the sea. The death of the dream sequences. The death of the meta-TV shows. The death of the femme-fatale. Every sly wink and knowing nod made to the gamer, replaced with a scowl and a flip of the bird. It's like watching your own funeral, except it's not you in the casket, but a bloated old man with a shaved head and a terrible taste in shirts. Looking around, you see how things have changed. You're no longer a pastiche of noir cliches, but a character from Miami Vice. Where you once saw symbols in everything around you, painted onto the world like cave paintings, like hidden clues, now you see cheap moralising and Sunday morning preaching. Where you once saw the snows of the Fimbulwinter, and the beginnings of Ragnarok itself, now there's just the heat of a Brazilian summer's evening.
Metaphors. Similes. Metafiction. This is what I see when I look back. These moments, blinding as snow, they kill you, change you. You die and live again, remade.