Used to the Darkness

[Cactus]

The crossbow had been through so much already. If one could imbue an inanimate object with a personality, with a history, there would undoubtedly be a story to tell. It was the reason that he had started referring to it by name; giving it characteristics that were not truly there. Min-jae was not a crossbow, he was a human being. What was more, he was a human being who still lived. One of only six people in the entire world who had come out of a version of Survival of the Fittest and lived to tell the tale.

Of course, lived was truly a subjective word, wasn't it?

Six people; two of whom had only seen a life expectancy of mere years after their ordeals. One of whom had vanished off the face of the planet, untraceable, unknowable. The other three, haunted by their experiences, the pain and the horror visible in their eyes. Claudeson knew exactly what that look felt like. He understood where it came from.

Without a mirror, he knew that he wore the same look upon his own face. ((Claudeson Bademosi continued from When You Kill What You Are Meant To, There is No Remorse))
Naturally, that wasn't the only thing he wore upon his face. The scratches from his encounter — rather, his murder of Emeka only stung occasionally now, as they had mostly scabbed over as the days had passed. Since he had opened his eyes on the island, Claudeson had found conflict at almost every turn, and his descent into wherever and whatever he felt now had started with a swift kick to the ribs, courtesy of Tyrell Lahti. His first encounter with Tyrell — on the island — seemed like a long time ago, when in truth it had been just over a week. For one week, his life had constituted of wearing an explosive collar around his neck and fighting for his life.

It was a losing battle.

As he sat, watching the dawn of a new day and studying the rising sun, Claudeson knew that he had been doomed to fail from the beginning. His emotions had been tumultuous and uneven for as long as he had been awake on that first day, going from unbridled adrenaline to the deepest depths of despair. The things that he had done, the actions that he had taken to get to where he was now, he knew that they were not his own. Well, they were, but he knew that he had a dark passenger along for the ride. It sounded sinister, like something out of a literary tale, but the simple fact was that in this, a very rare moment of clarity and peace of mind, he knew just how damaged he truly was. No matter what happened from here, there would be no going back to his world; the world that he had once known was no longer available to him. From the moment that he had spontaneously pulled the trigger on Bryan Merryweather and watched his face distort as the bullet did its terrible work, Claudeson knew — deep down inside — that things could never go back to the way they were.

The part of himself that still clung limply to his faith had stopped crucifying him at every step. Each moment that he spent with Lori was a moment that he had kept the dogs of war at bay, but when he'd made the decision to leave her behind, Claudeson knew that he had to face what was truly inside of himself. His own thought process was twisted, distorted, it had been left in shambles by his murderous intent while playing Survival of the Fittest — he was playing, there was doubt about that — the constant nightmares and the sheath of self-loathing the only constant to remind himself that he was still alive. For days, he had tried to get along, tried to persevere without giving in to the darkness that followed him around, and eventually, he had failed. Like most things in his life; like the student council election, like his attempt to reform Lori, like his attempt to step in to spare Tyrell from harm, he had failed. Even where he had succeeded, he had failed.

Perhaps it was not his action, but his intent that were flawed. Perhaps his faith had never truly abandoned him but had been replaced by something else. Something that exposed the deepest and darkest recesses of his mind for all to see.

"Bless me Father, for I—" Confessional wouldn't absolve him of anything. Not anymore. There was no priest to hear him, no confessional booth to sit in. It would not make him feel any better, and yet, he had to try. "— I have sinned."

The few birds that still lurked around the island twittered in the distance. No animals were near to him, yet hearing them gave him some comfort that nature had not chosen to abandon him as he had once surmised that his faith may have.

"It has been several weeks since my last confession. I have," his voice was uneasy, "taken a life. I have committed murder. Three of them."

There it was — plain and simple. No justification, no obfuscation, just facts.

The truth hurt.

"I have forgotten my Faith and turned my back on my teachings. I have lured people in for the sole purpose of using them toward my own gain. I have wallowed in my own misery and I have spoken ill of the dead. I have revelled in the misfortune of other people. I deserve nothing but pain and punishment." No one would absolve him. There was no one to hear his confessional.

"Yet," the sun was starting to poke through the horizon, "I fear that my own issues began far before these trials. I saw the darkness within myself. I believed myself above it."

So many events, so many times where he saw himself as more virtuous than the people he went to school with. There were countless instances that he could recall — any time volunteering at the homeless shelter, running the blood drive at school, running for student council, even manning the door at Swiftball — he had judged people time and time again. Where was his virtue? Where could he actually say that he acted in a manner that only benefited other people? Each act, each time he had put himself forward, there was always an angle, there was always a way that he was to prosper on the misery of others.

"I was wrong."

Even in the fight that he had interceded, he had not done so to protect Tyrell or the Carters. He had only done so because of the rush that he got manipulating a situation to his desired conclusion. It was a scuffle that he had no true bearing or stake in; he had interjected regardless of that.

"The darkness," he swallowed, "was never beneath me. It was a part of me. Forgive me, Father."

Claudeson looked down at the crossbow, seated in his lap.

"You cannot, can you? You cannot forgive me, nor can you bless me, or damn me, or anything. You cannot do any of that, because you will not speak to me. You will not show me a signal or a sign. You will not, or can not. I will see no forgiveness for the things that I have done."

Slowly pulling himself to his feet, his aching muscles groaned as the effects of sleeping in the dirt made themselves apparent to him.

"I do not deserve it."

The darkness that had always been a part of him found some satisfaction in his self-damnation, but Claudeson knew that another part of him would mourn the sense of fulfillment that he got from at least trying to do things that were perceived as 'good', and likely had been since the moment he'd shot Bryan. That was the turning point, the one moment where the lines had stopped being blurred and had become clear to him. The moment where he had made his choice. Scanning the trees, Claudeson found what he was looking for relatively quickly — the terrorists had set cameras up all over, and one was aimed right at him.

"Mother and father, please do not pray for me. I do not deserve your prayers. Please," he looked down at the crossbow; at Min-jae. "Pray for Bryan. Pray for Emeka. Even," he gave his head a small shake, "pray for Bret. Their souls are clear. Forgive me, not for what I have done, but for what I have been. Amen."

That was it, there was nothing else he needed to say, nothing else to put behind him. Whatever would happen for his parents in the future was beyond him, out of his hands. He would not be there to see it. The darkness within him was no longer a burden, it was but a passenger. He would not fight it any longer; indeed, after nine days, he was used to it.

As for what happened next? There was but one more person that he needed to seek out, to right a wrong. He had perpetrated several over the last week, but one in particular stuck out to him. He had tried to play God, and it had burned him.

Claudeson had stopped someone from taking their own life and as a result, people had died.

It was time to right that wrong; darkness be his guide.
((Claudeson Bademosi concluded in Something to Believe In))