Order 66 was perhaps one of the most awful things you've ever done. To this day, you find yourself deeply disturbed by it. You remember the most horrific moments vividly.
Scattered bodies. Faces stuck in pained expressions. Hands reaching out for one another. Glazed over eyes and burned limbs. This wasn't the worst of it.
The worst of it was the children. The briefly horrified faces of the young Padawans have been imprinted into your mind. Your nightmares consist of them, Padmé, your mother, and your former Master. You failed all of them.
Being a Sith Lord is highly dependent on raw emotion. To be as strong as you are, you have to wallow in a lot of things. Self-pity, anger, sadness – all of these work.
Anger works the best, you think. You remember your earlier moments of the Dark Side. You were so full of rage, your apartment began shaking. Some vases broke, along with a mirror.
Sometimes, you think being an almost-monster is better than being a Jedi. You remember being a teenager and not feeling anything. You'd meditate and feel emptier than a black hole.
(They called that serenity. Serenity never felt peace to you. It always felt eerie.)
While their motives were filled with some good intent, the Jedi could not raise children well. To deprive a child of their emotions is to starve them. Starving children weakens and slowly destroys them.
Kenobi, though he tried vehemently, didn't raise you well. Not that it was his fault. His Master had died and you were thrust into Kenobi's arms. His wounds were still fresh and bleeding, but the Council saw no blood.
No, it wasn't Kenobi's fault. He loved you like a brother, this much you know. You were so close, the cut bond between the two of you still hurts. It was so quickly severed and yet, it aches like a burn. Mustafar left you limbless, but Kenobi brother-less.
You will never know forgiveness. If you see Kenobi, you will kill him like you should have years ago. You will cut him to pieces like he did you.
(You owe that much to Padmé. To yourself.)
If the Force accepts you upon your death, you'll be lucky. You'll see the ranks of dead Jedi. They'll hate you. Perhaps Padmé will be there, but she'll hate you too. Your mother will see you, but she'll never acknowledge it.
(That'll be your punishment. The Force will embrace you, but your former loved ones will not. Their eyes will burn holes into where your heart should be. You'll let them.)
You'll never know forgiveness. Not for yourself or any others. Forgiveness is a Jedi trait. You are not a Jedi, you killed them all. You are a Sith Lord, you'll throw yourself into lava again before forgiving anyone.
You, when on Coruscant, live in Padmé's former apartment. You discovered this after a long campaign a couple months into your apprenticeship with Sidious. He told you to take a few days off and rest. The old bastard had given you her apartment just to hurt you.
It worked, of course. The moment you walked in, the door had slid shut, and you broke. You fell to your knees and sobbed. The apartment briefly shook with the weight of your grief. You felt your chest ache in a way it hadn't since Padmé's death.
(That ache feels horribly familiar, yet so distant.)
If you feel carefully, tugging on the lines that connect everything to the Force, you can faintly recognize Padmé's Signature. The concentration of Force within her was low to begin with, so the time doesn't help. It decayed over the past few months, but it's still there.
You try not to do this often because it takes much of your physical and emotional energy. Yet, you can't help yourself. This faint, lingering spark of Force helps you cope. In your apartment, you feel the parts of Padmé she left behind without knowing.
The faint signal, along with some old datapads filled with pictures of you two, are all you have left. You remember taking many of the pictures. You refrain from looking at them because it hurts far too much.
You see those images and feel far away. In one, Padmé and you sit on her couch. You don't recognize yourself. You're smiling, your irises still blue, and the scar down your eye fresh. Padmé leans against you, her hair splaying like a waterfall.
You are not the man Padmé loved and married. You were once Anakin Skywalker, but you are not now. You are Darth Vader. You are not the Chosen One. You will never bring balance. You have murdered, tortured, and broken many beings. (And will continue to do so.)
The Galaxy is in the long night and you are the darkness.