However, the character continues to draw a steady stream of controversy, enmity, and head-banging from fans of the show, despite her death three years ago. The latest ruckus was sparked by the glowing terms in which she's been painted, and resentment that "the show is rewriting history."
Rewriting history on soap operas is a controversial in its nature, frequently pitting long-time viewers who remember the inceptions and evolutions of characters against new headwriters who may not have seen the show recently--if ever before. Some risks pay off--fans have largely embraced the additions of Stefan and Nikolas Cassadine--but not all. "That's not So-and-So," the fan says. "He'd never marry a woman who killed his sister."
In this instance, the show isn't the one rewriting history. Sonny Corinthos is.
Sonny Corinthos is repainting his life in broad strokes of guilt, regret, and pain, and in the process, he's burnishing the people in his life beyond their actual natures. He turns the people he's loved and failed into saints, focusing on their purity and the poison he brought to their lives. These women and children (and they are always women and children) are the defenseless innocents who suffered because of--or in spite of--Sonny Corinthos.
For all his love for them, he could not protect them. This is a pattern that stretches back to his childhood, where he could not protect his mother from his stepfather, much less protect himself. His childhood spawned the two driving impetuses that are finally butting heads today: the desire and need for control, and the desire to protect the innocent and the pure. This explains the "gummy bear mob," the head's attraction to Lily even as the heart was attracted to Brenda, and his need to mentor young men. It also explains his bittersweet relationship with his father, whom he holds at arm's length.
Sonny has lived his life behind the walls he's built, subject to towering rages.
Sonny's walls are falling down, and he can't shore them up.
Sonny Corinthos flagellates himself with his failures, and makes saints of the people he feels he has failed--Lily, their unborn child, Stone, his mother Adela, and Brenda; Jason, Robin, and surely Juan will join that company. Those who have died while "under his protection" are burnished bright with his guilt, and begin to assume disproportionate stature in his mind.
His failure to protect them is thus magnified by their looming purity. His love for them becomes poison. His presence signals their demise. Yet even as his fears magnify, he alternately pulls them toward him and pushes them away.
Lily's death offered Sonny the opportunity to wallow in his depths of self-loathing without the prickly truths and contradictions a living Lily would have engendered. She becomes the perfect woman for whom he was not worthy, the symbol of his future, the death of his hope. Sonny isn't seeing Lily up there; he's seeing his own self-criticism writ large.
Sonny's affection for her was real, as was his admiration and his friendship. His love for her in life was a ritualistic love, much as you might love the Virgin Mother or a Saint. It is precisely that sort of love that enables Sonny to make her the saint in his pantheon.
But what about Brenda, the masses cry, Brenda--the love of his life, his true love? What about Brenda? Some would argue that the wounds are too raw and too fresh for Sonny to handle, but the truth is that Brenda represents reality. Brenda doesn't fit into his sanctified molds, and would break Sonny's paradigm. She was earthy and passionate--and just as flawed as he. She challenged him in every possible way.