But can you make the world believe what you have done? Or are you stuck cursing what the world has done to you?
I'm sure you're rather pleased to see that I made it out of my ordeal alive, and yet none too worse for the wear. Fascinating, isn't it? How one can inspire fear simply by keeping you alive? It's a method, that is certain. Is this what we're sentenced to, to live in additional fear? To have our breath hitch at every shadow? I've paid my dues, paid my price in order to not be afraid anymore.
And yet... and yet...
It's a Catch-22. Run, and you throw away your pride, what makes you a human. Kill, and you throw away your humanity anyways. That's what all this is about. It's not a matter of how much you win
but rather how much you lose.
And that's what I did. I lost. I wasn't careful, I let my pride once again overtake me, thinking that letting Thomas go out for a little while would be of no conceivable consequence. I remember the opening of the door, the sound of heavy combat boots on the wood floors, the click of a safety being flicked off, being hemmed in with no possible way out. I remember the feeling of something -electricity- coursing through my body, leaving my vision dimmed and my ears ringing. But everything else stretches into eternity, nothing but muted faces and wide, sick grins. The feeling of a needle in my arm, almost like the embrace of a long rejected, but familiar friend. From then, there is only hum and fog. Hum and fog and fear.
I don't understand.
I don't understand what I'm so scared of. What causes the swell of anxiety in my chest whenever I try to remember? When I even consider leaving the Cafe, my knees shake in terror and it feels like my heart is going to burst out of my chest
It's pitiful. Shameful.
And now? Reports of incidents are only happening more often. The killsquads have only become more brazen, more skilled. And my research? For all the work I did, it proved... inconclusive. And now I have an official audit on my hands, examining the failure of both myself, my district, and my Handler. Which means a Higher... a Higher up will be coming to the Cafe to preform what amounts to an interrogation.
Because a tactic used by a killsquad was observed to be shockingly similar to a tactic I've developed. A tactic that I built for the use of the organization, and the organization only.
And now we now know the word that is on the tip of everyone's tongue. Traitor. As I change the dressings on my burns from being tazed over and over and the track marks on my arm. Traitor. It echoes in my mind as I try to do more research and co-ordinate defences. All these years, and now I'm facing ribbing when I go to somewhere to submit reports. Traitor. Facing punishment and execution for a crime I didn't commit.
I didn't want this.
But we all know this isn't about what I want. It wasn't about what Jefferson wanted, either. The minute I was in my right mind and I read that log, I knew. I bloody knew. What other Jefferson was there? Who else would he choose? My friend. Jefferson was my friend. And now he's nothing more than a shot deer at the side of the road. I'm angry and disgusted and god knows what else -pulling things like this while toting "morality" all the way...
Is this all we are to you...?
Things to be used?
... let's hope I survive that audit. But at this point, well, I'm convinced that the alternative may not be that bad.