Short breaths. In and out, keep the pace. Try not to slow down. Fight through the burn, it'll go away.
All great advice, excellent pearls of wisdom to hold onto when going for a run. Claudeson Bademosi knew them all, and yet still, he knew he had to do things his own way. On the final stretch towards his home, his legs were on fire, his lungs close behind, and rather than slowing down to walk the last bit, he sped up. Now, his lungs burned even more.
He welcomed the agony; he deserved it.
((Claudeson Bademosi continued from The Good in Everyone))
Perhaps deserved it was too strong of a word, but the constant cloud that had been following Claudeson around for the better part of the week hadn't managed to go away, and over the course of the year, the only thing that had helped him combat it had been a good, hearty run. At first, it had been difficult to go even a mile at a time - months later, he had just run eight miles, which was more than he'd ever been able to do before. He ran around streets, through parks, along main roads, and even down darkly-lit dirt paths before circling back to his own neighbourhood. As he approached his street, he picked his pace even more, hearing nothing but the pounding of his own footfalls and the panting that was coming from seemingly everywhere at once.
To the uneducated eye, it might appear as though Claudeson Bademosi were running from something, and perhaps - in a manner of speaking - he was.
Rounding the corner onto the crescent that he lived on, Claudeson grimaced, feeling his thigh muscles screaming at him as he pounded the pavement. The warm Tennessee evening proved to be a wonderful backdrop for some exercise, so the air that he took in was welcoming and the slight breeze provided relief for the sweat that was covering him, soaking his shirt and dripping down his back. Just a few more meters and he'd have made it back the entire way. A longer run than he'd ever chosen to undertake before.
It made sense, on this particular Thursday evening; he felt worse than he ever had before.
The two tended to synchronize. The longer the run, the darker the cloud.
Claudeson finally hit his front lawn, and as he did, he felt his legs finally give out from under him. Controlling his tumble down to the cool, well-maintained grass, he rolled onto his back and looked up at the night sky. The stars were out in full force this evening, with only a few clouds swirling around to obscure the moonlight that tumbled down onto the street. Between that and the streetlights that lit his neighbourhood, Claudeson's evening run had been successful and not altogether dangerous. He'd seen no shadows lurking in the paths, no potential muggers or assailants ready to pounce from a dark corner. In fact, on the particular path that he'd gone this evening, he'd barely seen anyone. A few cars, maybe a cyclist or a dog-walker at one point.
Otherwise, the run had been his and his alone.
As he lay back on the cool grass of his front lawn, he listened to the sounds of his breathing and waited for his heart rate to slow. Adrenaline had taken him far, but it was now time to cool down and hope that the rush boosted his spirits as it had so many times before. As he felt the blood running through his aching legs, he heard the thick whooshing sound of his front door being opened. Claudeson didn't have to look up to know who was standing at the door, and after a moment, the expected voice broke through the silence.
"So is that your new bed? Are you going to choose to become one with nature?"
The powerful voice could only have one owner: his mother, Ifechukwu Bademosi. A practiced public speaker, her voice boomed out overtop of him, seemingly coming from everywhere. That was, of course, one of the benefits to being a pastor - you tended to have a lot of practice projecting your voice. On this particular evening, her tone was motherly, yet almost mocking of his sprawled-out position on the front lawn. Claudeson couldn't help but smile. His relationship with his mother was a strong one; she was everything he could have wanted in a maternal figure, and he aspired to have her sense of joviality alongside such conviction in one's belief. Glancing back at her, he rolled over and slowly pulled himself to his feet, his actions answering his mother's query.
"That's what I thought. Why don't you come in and get some water in you? You will need it if you're going to sit on a bus all day tomorrow."
Nodding, he grimaced as his legs reminded him of the run, one step up the stairs to the foyer at a time. As always, his mother was correct. The big George Hunter High School trip to Washington was the following day and while he knew his thighs would be aching, any way to mitigate the bad feelings would be welcome.
That always seemed the priority, these days.
Shutting the door behind him, Claudeson slowly followed his mother into the well-lit kitchen area within their house. The Bademosi family was not exceptionally wealthy, though the one area that they had perhaps splurged on was a renovation to their kitchen. Both of Claudeson's parents enjoyed the art of cooking, and it was not uncommon for him to find his mother, swarming the various appliances while singing a hymn or a prayer out loud. The kitchen was a joyful place, decorated and cheerful, while still being meticulously cleaned with almost any implement one could think of. Dragging himself over to one of the stools that sat beside the island in the centre of the kitchen, Claudeson allowed himself to slump down, taking the strain off his legs. A glass of water seemingly materialized on the counter in front of him, his mother having expected his arrival and prepared accordingly. That was very on-brand for her; Ifechukwu was meticulous in both her personal and professional lives and she was rarely surprised by much of anything. Claudeson held his mother in high esteem, she was a role model for him in virtually every way and he often found himself seeking her council and her wisdom. It wasn't as though his father didn't offer his own pearls of wisdom, but when Ifechukwu spoke, people listened. Her natural charisma gravitated people towards her and Claudeson was no exception. Having allowed himself a few moments to catch his breath, he grasped the cool glass and wasted little time downing the liquid within, feeling the cool salvation as it gradually made its way down his throat.
"So now that you have gone and tired yourself out, are you prepared?"
Claudeson blinked questioningly at his mother. "W-what?" What trial or tribulation was he supposed to be preparing himself for? The question seemed fairly formal and his hesitation only brought a smile out of her.
"For the trip, son. Have you made sure to pack a swimsuit and a sturdy pair of shoes for all of the walking about?"
Oh. His expression relaxed, and he allowed himself a smile. Sometimes he forgot that his mother was simply that: just a mom. She wasn't always required to be the powerful head of their church, speaking at the behest of the Lord and guiding the congregation. On rare moments, she could just simply be mom.
Those were his favourite moments.
"Yes, I'm all ready to go. Except for the shoes," he gestured to the front door, "there is nothing left to pack."
Ifechukwu leaned forward a little bit, opening her posture up and dropping the last of her matronly pretense. It was a way that Claudeson only saw his mother rarely, but it almost made her seem younger than her years - more of a peer than a mother.
"I'm a little envious, you know." Her smile was infectious. "When I was a young girl, we were unable to go on trips like this. To go off and see the sights one last time before you move on to make your way in the world," she straightened up and collected the glass from the table. "I am glad you have the opportunity."
Smiling at his mother, Claudeson knew that her upbringing had been rather different than his. Being a first-generation American himself, both of his parents had immigrated here in search of a better life for themselves and their progeny and an equal opportunity for his parents to establish and serve the Christian church. They had succeeded on both counts, and he knew that he was incredibly fortunate.
"Me too."
So much bubbled beneath the surface at that very moment, as he looked at his mother. There were so many things he felt like saying, but those things all felt as though they came from a different voice, a different mind. So many of them were hurtful, they were sour, and their origin was impossible to understand. He said none of them out loud, and he hated himself for thinking them in the first place.
"I should go and shower off now."
Ifechukwu nodded and moved to go and wash the glass in the sink. Slowly, Claudeson rose from the chair, his legs still aching, the smile having dropped away in exchange for a frown. Gaze aimed firmly inward, Claudeson started to make his way out of the kitchen, before his mother left him with one final instruction.
"Be sure to have a word with Him before you go to bed. His grace will guide you, through the bad times," she winked at him, "and the good. Good night, Claudeson."
He barely managed a nod before he made his way out of the kitchen.
The Echoes of Silence
two-shot; Thursday, May 31, 2018: the evening before the GHHS Senior Trip
His skin still stung as Claudeson pulled the plain white t-shirt over his chest. His formerly paunchy midsection felt a bit leaner, likely from a combination of his appetite fading away as well as his repeated reliance upon running as an escape. The hot shower after his run had felt wonderful on his aching legs, his muscles crying out for relief as he'd stood in the shower under the running water. At one point he'd allowed the stream to aim directly in his face, removing most sensory stimulation as the water poured over his shower cap, down his shoulders and all over his body. For a brief moment, his body felt well.
After that, though - Claudeson had gotten lost in his thoughts, and as often happened, he turned the tap and made the water hotter and hotter, until it was scalding his skin. He'd stood under the stream for as long as he could before slamming the tap all the way to the other direction and shocking himself back to reality with an ice-cold blast.
It was penance, of sorts. He only wished he knew what he was penitent for.
Sometimes he knew, sometimes he didn't. Some days, he felt his thoughts going to a dark place, thinking awful things about those around him. Perhaps it was as innocent as silently wishing a classmate would trip over a shoelace, or casually wondering how many diseases another would end up with. Numerous times, particularly after that evening in the park, he'd found his mind wandering to any number of potential futures for Tyrell Lahti and Wyatt Carter, and it wasn't until he found himself deriving satisfaction at an imagined set of awful misfortunes that the feeling in the pit of his stomach yanked him back from such a terrible place.
Claudeson's face often wore a kind smile, eyes ready to accept those who came upon him, to help where necessary and act in service, as so instructed by his church; by his mother. He enjoyed service; he appreciated being able to lend a helping hand. But as of late, that smile that once came ever-so-freely seemed to be harder and hard to conjure. It had been a busy year; a stressful one for all of them. Everyone would understand if he wasn't overly jovial most of the time, right?
Yet still, he tried.
But right now, on his own, on the evening before what should have been the event for George Hunter High School's graduating class of 2018, Claudeson Bademosi couldn't feel the excitement, nor could he feel the anticipation that he should have about this particular trip. Instead, he looked down at his now fully-packed suitcase and just felt wrong. All the suitcase said to him right now was that time was passing him by, that this was yet another instance in which he was being selfish and only thinking of himself. It had been an oft-private thought of his lately - that he clouded his selfishness with good deeds, and that he didn't deserve the enjoyment that a trip like this would entail. His mother had said earlier on that she envied him, which made him feel ill. He was not someone to be envied. He didn't deserve to be envied. She was a stronger person than he was, and she was the one who should have had a break from her tireless work in the community.
Claudeson sank down onto his bed, seated at the side of it, still looking at his suitcase.
To think, that less than an hour before, he'd been on the precipice of passing judgement upon Ifechukwu Bademosi. The notion made him feel even more awful than he already did. Who on Earth was he to do that? While his parents had taught him that God would always be in his corner, he had not once been left wanting. His upbringing had been loving, nurturing, and wonderful. Even when his mother had trying times building her congregation or his father was away organizing a church retreat, they had always made sure that he never felt as though he were being neglected. Plus, if ever he did find himself alone and needing wisdom, the Lord was always there to guide him through it. For him to think such a thing, what kind of a man was he? What kind of audacity did that take to even consider the thought, to pass that sort of judgement?
The suitcase became blurry in front of him.
Wiping his eyes, Claudeson remained fixated on the bag. Packing it hadn't taken more than a few moments once he'd returned home from school; picking everything out had been elementary, and he'd gone virtually on autopilot. When the signups for this particular trip had come out earlier in the year, Claudeson had been eager and excited. Those were two feelings that he couldn't remember having. They seemed far away, like memories of a time that he couldn't quite recall.
He felt so lost.
Sniffling, Claudeson rubbed his eyes once more and bowed his head, closing his eyes. Aside from running, which often helped raise his spirits and keep him on an even-keel, prayer was the other weapon in his arsenal with which he combatted the cloud within his mind.
"Lord, please help me," he began, his voice soft and weak. "I feel as though I do not deserve the gifts that you have blessed upon me. I realize that you are testing me. But I feel lost. I need your guidance."
Voice cracking briefly, Claudeson stopped for a moment, gritting his teeth to try and regain at least some of his confidence. He felt unworthy to be asking Him for anything.
"I have been on the brink of casting judgement upon my peers, for reasons which I do not understand. I look down with disdain on those who are less fortunate or different than I. Lord, I have always considered myself a man of faith whose heart is open to those around him, so why must I think such dark thoughts? Why have you decided to test me in this way?"
The desperation in his words was evident, and while he started at barely a whisper, his voice built as the outrage started to rise within him. Come to think of it; this wasn't fair. Claudeson had devoted his life to helping those around him, sometimes at great personal sacrifice to himself or his reputation. He could have gotten into serious trouble watching the door at that Swiftball party, for instance. While he'd cultivated relationships within the police department through his volunteer work, what would they have said or thought about him if he were caught presiding over a party that had as much casual drug use or underaged drinking as that? It could have been disastrous for his own reputation and his own standing within the community, not to mention his future prospects. But still, he had done so, because Mikki had asked, and when someone asked you for help, it was your duty to give. That was how he felt within his heart.
Which was why he felt so conflicted. He wanted to help; he wanted to enrich the lives of the people around him... and yet?
He needed an answer.
"Please, Lord. I need guidance. I need a sign, something to explain to me why I feel such conflict. Such hatred."
He did feel hatred; he realized. But it wasn't toward his community. Nor was it directed at his parents. Claudeson didn't even truly hate those whom he felt were disdainful of spirit, like Tyrell, the Carter boys, or even Faith, whom had bested him in the election. It had been his right; should have been his path to take! No, he did not hate any of them. He barely pitied them. Instead, his heart was filled with hatred for one individual in particular, one person in the entire world whose existence he could not stand.
Claudeson Bademosi hated himself.
Eyes shut, he waited for an answer from the Almighty, waited for a feeling, for a beacon in the darkness of his mind; something that told him, things will be okay, Claudeson. Everything is going to work out. For some form of answer to his prayer.
He waited for forty-five minutes, eyes closed, head bent.
Forty-five minutes and nothing.
Opening his eyes, Claudeson came back upon the packed suitcase once more. It looked exactly the same as it had when he closed his eyes. Nothing had changed in his room, the light still shone at exactly the same temperature, nary a flicker to be seen. The suitcase got blurry again as a different kind of dread filled his heart.
There had been no answer to his prayers. God had turned his back on him.
He felt truly alone, with nothing but the darkness in his heart, the self-loathing in his mind, and now a stinging sense of loneliness along with it. Laying down upon his bed, Claudeson wrapped his arms around his shoulders. After a moment in that prone position, he softly began to cry. It was an ugly sound and it didn't help him feel any better about himself. But he couldn't help it. There was no one who could help him. He had done something, or he had thought something, and God had abandoned him. He had deemed Claudeson unworthy of his attention. He had failed whatever test the Almighty had put upon him. After all of the hours of dedication and service, this was the result.
He was a failure.
The soft sounds of sobbing continued on; for how long, he wasn't sure. Eventually, his eyes ran dry of tears and he lay in despair, until the exhaustion caught up with his body and consciousness mercifully decided to depart, to spare him any more sorrow. His last thoughts before he fell asleep were for the upcoming school trip.
Perhaps he'd find what he was searching for in Washington, DC.
He hoped; he prayed that he'd find his answer there.
It was his last hope.
((CLAUDESON BADEMOSI CONTINUED IN THE DC TRIP))
After that, though - Claudeson had gotten lost in his thoughts, and as often happened, he turned the tap and made the water hotter and hotter, until it was scalding his skin. He'd stood under the stream for as long as he could before slamming the tap all the way to the other direction and shocking himself back to reality with an ice-cold blast.
It was penance, of sorts. He only wished he knew what he was penitent for.
Sometimes he knew, sometimes he didn't. Some days, he felt his thoughts going to a dark place, thinking awful things about those around him. Perhaps it was as innocent as silently wishing a classmate would trip over a shoelace, or casually wondering how many diseases another would end up with. Numerous times, particularly after that evening in the park, he'd found his mind wandering to any number of potential futures for Tyrell Lahti and Wyatt Carter, and it wasn't until he found himself deriving satisfaction at an imagined set of awful misfortunes that the feeling in the pit of his stomach yanked him back from such a terrible place.
Claudeson's face often wore a kind smile, eyes ready to accept those who came upon him, to help where necessary and act in service, as so instructed by his church; by his mother. He enjoyed service; he appreciated being able to lend a helping hand. But as of late, that smile that once came ever-so-freely seemed to be harder and hard to conjure. It had been a busy year; a stressful one for all of them. Everyone would understand if he wasn't overly jovial most of the time, right?
Yet still, he tried.
But right now, on his own, on the evening before what should have been the event for George Hunter High School's graduating class of 2018, Claudeson Bademosi couldn't feel the excitement, nor could he feel the anticipation that he should have about this particular trip. Instead, he looked down at his now fully-packed suitcase and just felt wrong. All the suitcase said to him right now was that time was passing him by, that this was yet another instance in which he was being selfish and only thinking of himself. It had been an oft-private thought of his lately - that he clouded his selfishness with good deeds, and that he didn't deserve the enjoyment that a trip like this would entail. His mother had said earlier on that she envied him, which made him feel ill. He was not someone to be envied. He didn't deserve to be envied. She was a stronger person than he was, and she was the one who should have had a break from her tireless work in the community.
Claudeson sank down onto his bed, seated at the side of it, still looking at his suitcase.
To think, that less than an hour before, he'd been on the precipice of passing judgement upon Ifechukwu Bademosi. The notion made him feel even more awful than he already did. Who on Earth was he to do that? While his parents had taught him that God would always be in his corner, he had not once been left wanting. His upbringing had been loving, nurturing, and wonderful. Even when his mother had trying times building her congregation or his father was away organizing a church retreat, they had always made sure that he never felt as though he were being neglected. Plus, if ever he did find himself alone and needing wisdom, the Lord was always there to guide him through it. For him to think such a thing, what kind of a man was he? What kind of audacity did that take to even consider the thought, to pass that sort of judgement?
The suitcase became blurry in front of him.
Wiping his eyes, Claudeson remained fixated on the bag. Packing it hadn't taken more than a few moments once he'd returned home from school; picking everything out had been elementary, and he'd gone virtually on autopilot. When the signups for this particular trip had come out earlier in the year, Claudeson had been eager and excited. Those were two feelings that he couldn't remember having. They seemed far away, like memories of a time that he couldn't quite recall.
He felt so lost.
Sniffling, Claudeson rubbed his eyes once more and bowed his head, closing his eyes. Aside from running, which often helped raise his spirits and keep him on an even-keel, prayer was the other weapon in his arsenal with which he combatted the cloud within his mind.
"Lord, please help me," he began, his voice soft and weak. "I feel as though I do not deserve the gifts that you have blessed upon me. I realize that you are testing me. But I feel lost. I need your guidance."
Voice cracking briefly, Claudeson stopped for a moment, gritting his teeth to try and regain at least some of his confidence. He felt unworthy to be asking Him for anything.
"I have been on the brink of casting judgement upon my peers, for reasons which I do not understand. I look down with disdain on those who are less fortunate or different than I. Lord, I have always considered myself a man of faith whose heart is open to those around him, so why must I think such dark thoughts? Why have you decided to test me in this way?"
The desperation in his words was evident, and while he started at barely a whisper, his voice built as the outrage started to rise within him. Come to think of it; this wasn't fair. Claudeson had devoted his life to helping those around him, sometimes at great personal sacrifice to himself or his reputation. He could have gotten into serious trouble watching the door at that Swiftball party, for instance. While he'd cultivated relationships within the police department through his volunteer work, what would they have said or thought about him if he were caught presiding over a party that had as much casual drug use or underaged drinking as that? It could have been disastrous for his own reputation and his own standing within the community, not to mention his future prospects. But still, he had done so, because Mikki had asked, and when someone asked you for help, it was your duty to give. That was how he felt within his heart.
Which was why he felt so conflicted. He wanted to help; he wanted to enrich the lives of the people around him... and yet?
He needed an answer.
"Please, Lord. I need guidance. I need a sign, something to explain to me why I feel such conflict. Such hatred."
He did feel hatred; he realized. But it wasn't toward his community. Nor was it directed at his parents. Claudeson didn't even truly hate those whom he felt were disdainful of spirit, like Tyrell, the Carter boys, or even Faith, whom had bested him in the election. It had been his right; should have been his path to take! No, he did not hate any of them. He barely pitied them. Instead, his heart was filled with hatred for one individual in particular, one person in the entire world whose existence he could not stand.
Claudeson Bademosi hated himself.
Eyes shut, he waited for an answer from the Almighty, waited for a feeling, for a beacon in the darkness of his mind; something that told him, things will be okay, Claudeson. Everything is going to work out. For some form of answer to his prayer.
He waited for forty-five minutes, eyes closed, head bent.
Forty-five minutes and nothing.
Opening his eyes, Claudeson came back upon the packed suitcase once more. It looked exactly the same as it had when he closed his eyes. Nothing had changed in his room, the light still shone at exactly the same temperature, nary a flicker to be seen. The suitcase got blurry again as a different kind of dread filled his heart.
There had been no answer to his prayers. God had turned his back on him.
He felt truly alone, with nothing but the darkness in his heart, the self-loathing in his mind, and now a stinging sense of loneliness along with it. Laying down upon his bed, Claudeson wrapped his arms around his shoulders. After a moment in that prone position, he softly began to cry. It was an ugly sound and it didn't help him feel any better about himself. But he couldn't help it. There was no one who could help him. He had done something, or he had thought something, and God had abandoned him. He had deemed Claudeson unworthy of his attention. He had failed whatever test the Almighty had put upon him. After all of the hours of dedication and service, this was the result.
He was a failure.
The soft sounds of sobbing continued on; for how long, he wasn't sure. Eventually, his eyes ran dry of tears and he lay in despair, until the exhaustion caught up with his body and consciousness mercifully decided to depart, to spare him any more sorrow. His last thoughts before he fell asleep were for the upcoming school trip.
Perhaps he'd find what he was searching for in Washington, DC.
He hoped; he prayed that he'd find his answer there.
It was his last hope.
((CLAUDESON BADEMOSI CONTINUED IN THE DC TRIP))