Re: Valediction
Posted: Sun Sep 15, 2019 10:50 pm
He watched it all. Every millisecond of horror was bleached into his brain, forevermore. The sudden eruption of blood and brain matter, the macabre contortion of Bryan's features as they twisted and then exploded backward — every microsecond of information imprinted itself within his mind. It would be there when or if he ever slept again. It would remain once he awoke. The final seconds of Bryan Merryweather's life were now as much a part of him as any belief or thought that Claudeson Bademosi had ever had.
The dead man in front of him blinked, tried to say something, and then it was over. The body tumbled to the ground only moments after he let his left hand fall away from its shoulder. From Bryan's shoulder. He mustn't forget that.
Only a moment later, the pistol tumbled from his right hand and clattered to the floor. His muscles felt weak, tired. His mind — everything was blank. It was quiet, the sound of the rain on the roof all that reminded him that he had not put the trigger to his own head and discharged. What had he done?
Did it matter?
No one would approve, no one would understand. He didn't even understand. Everything was a lie. Everything that he had ever known was false, and that meant that life was just this meaningless set of circumstances that were as random as any pattern that the rain coming down off of the roof created. Bryan had been a good person — the best. He didn't deserve any of this, and so Claudeson had done the only thing that made sense. He had spared Bryan from the indignity of dying in a long, drawn-out fashion at the hands of some sadistic unhinged classmate.
It was the right thing to do.
Maybe it was the first truly unselfish act of his entire life.
Claudeson's legs gave out from under him, and he tumbled to the ground. He was weak. Every muscle in his body stopped working. So there he lay, beside the husk that had once been Bryan Merryweather, waiting.
Listening.
Empty.
He lay there for an eternity — perhaps it was only an hour or two. He didn't know. It didn't matter. Slowly, the puddle of blood trickled across the floor. He watched it creep towards the medical kit that he'd discarded from hs pack earlier. He felt absent. Hours passed, and he didn't think. Didn't move. Just watched the slow creep of the blood, across the floor.
At one instance, it approached a piece of something that he eventually understood was brain matter, and enveloped it. Still, he watched.
Eventually, the blood met the white first-aid kit and stained the side of it with a deep, dark crimson. The crimson had sprayed everywhere. The floor, the table, his pack, his clothes. A bitter taste had been upon his lips, which eventually he understood was Bryan's blood.
Another sin, in the eyes of 'God'.
It didn't matter. It never had.
He tested his legs out; they had started working again. Slowly, he climbed to his feet, barely bothering to glance down at himself. Indeed, his clothes were covered in blood spatter. Once, he might have cared. But now, it didn't matter. Nothing did. He didn't deserve to be saved any more than Tyrell may have. So why should he even try? Somewhere along the line, a black hole had opened up where his soul had been.
Intellectually he knew that he should feel awful for what he had just done.
He knew what Bryan was feeling right now, because he echoed it.
Claudeson felt nothing at all.
It took him only a few minutes to collect his supplies, his weapons, and what he needed from Bryan's pack before setting out into the rainy jungle once more. There was nothing left for him here, and he knew that it was more fitting for him to stay the night out in the rain. He deserved as much.
He could barely see where he was going as he dragged the broken husk that had once contained the hopes and dreams of a boy named Claudeson Bademosi into the jungle and away from the stark reminder of everything he'd lost.
((Claudeson Bademosi continued in Inhibition))
The dead man in front of him blinked, tried to say something, and then it was over. The body tumbled to the ground only moments after he let his left hand fall away from its shoulder. From Bryan's shoulder. He mustn't forget that.
Only a moment later, the pistol tumbled from his right hand and clattered to the floor. His muscles felt weak, tired. His mind — everything was blank. It was quiet, the sound of the rain on the roof all that reminded him that he had not put the trigger to his own head and discharged. What had he done?
Did it matter?
No one would approve, no one would understand. He didn't even understand. Everything was a lie. Everything that he had ever known was false, and that meant that life was just this meaningless set of circumstances that were as random as any pattern that the rain coming down off of the roof created. Bryan had been a good person — the best. He didn't deserve any of this, and so Claudeson had done the only thing that made sense. He had spared Bryan from the indignity of dying in a long, drawn-out fashion at the hands of some sadistic unhinged classmate.
It was the right thing to do.
Maybe it was the first truly unselfish act of his entire life.
Claudeson's legs gave out from under him, and he tumbled to the ground. He was weak. Every muscle in his body stopped working. So there he lay, beside the husk that had once been Bryan Merryweather, waiting.
Listening.
Empty.
He lay there for an eternity — perhaps it was only an hour or two. He didn't know. It didn't matter. Slowly, the puddle of blood trickled across the floor. He watched it creep towards the medical kit that he'd discarded from hs pack earlier. He felt absent. Hours passed, and he didn't think. Didn't move. Just watched the slow creep of the blood, across the floor.
At one instance, it approached a piece of something that he eventually understood was brain matter, and enveloped it. Still, he watched.
Eventually, the blood met the white first-aid kit and stained the side of it with a deep, dark crimson. The crimson had sprayed everywhere. The floor, the table, his pack, his clothes. A bitter taste had been upon his lips, which eventually he understood was Bryan's blood.
Another sin, in the eyes of 'God'.
It didn't matter. It never had.
He tested his legs out; they had started working again. Slowly, he climbed to his feet, barely bothering to glance down at himself. Indeed, his clothes were covered in blood spatter. Once, he might have cared. But now, it didn't matter. Nothing did. He didn't deserve to be saved any more than Tyrell may have. So why should he even try? Somewhere along the line, a black hole had opened up where his soul had been.
Intellectually he knew that he should feel awful for what he had just done.
He knew what Bryan was feeling right now, because he echoed it.
Claudeson felt nothing at all.
It took him only a few minutes to collect his supplies, his weapons, and what he needed from Bryan's pack before setting out into the rainy jungle once more. There was nothing left for him here, and he knew that it was more fitting for him to stay the night out in the rain. He deserved as much.
He could barely see where he was going as he dragged the broken husk that had once contained the hopes and dreams of a boy named Claudeson Bademosi into the jungle and away from the stark reminder of everything he'd lost.
((Claudeson Bademosi continued in Inhibition))