Justice and truth. Two things that you leave at the door, if you really understand. Somehow, in those early years, the finding, exposing of truth seemed too much like the lies you strived to reveal. Stripping down evidence harshly blended into denying that you've lost everything you hoped to accomplish. Not believing, as that would be even too much for you, but convincing yourself that you needed to believe that what you were doing was the right thing. When it turns out you're wrong, no choice left for you, you flee to the person who's been stable all along. The instigator.
There's no way you could explain to anyone that you don't hate this man. He destroyed you, destroyed everything you could have had, but he also made you. He made the man hidden behind the flamboyant exterior. Fabricated, like the truths you so desperately clung to. Like the choppy attempted thank-yous you tried to exchange with those who helped. Those who tried to 'save' you. They'd never understand that salvation was never an option.
Choices? Other people may have had them, but you were never asked if you wanted to be blanketed in deceit for all those years. Then again, other people would be outraged and broken at such a thought, but it passes fleetingly in your mind. You find other past times much more amusing than your own shattered past.
You never cared when they accused you. When he accused you. Standing in front of you like the ridiculous fool he was, pointing a finger as if that would lift his own guilt. The guilt you saw all too clearly in his eyes. Hidden behind past tenses, old stories, and times of before, but you saw through all that didn't you. You saw through his faltering attempts at friendship, he was just like all the others. The pity in his features as he glanced your way, it was all too evident. The way he shouted in the courtroom, his evidence obvious by the way he cringed when you shot him down. And shoot him down, you did. You shot him hard. You enjoyed the proverbial pulling of the trigger, but the crunch of fallen pride, of fallen hope, justice and truth was ever so much more satisfying.
As you well know, justice and truth are two things that you leave at the door, if you understand how things work. These things, these ways of denial. Denying that you're not your own person, denying that you're not ruining the people you deem guilty, denial that you've not lost any humanity left in your blood. Blood that is easily spilled, it seems.
You look at the autopsy report. It's not important, as nothing is, really. It's not important but you still find your throat choked, tears springing to your eyes. And you realise, slight surprise on your features, that you're not crying for him, per say, but for yourself. For the humanity you thought you'd crushed behind bars, and for the steps it took for that self-forged cage to open. Crumbling support, gripping the wall of the morgue as your knees give out, you realise that with this passing hour, everything has changed. The doors have all opened, the doors you took so much care to close and lock, like your memories. With this passing minute you found the instigator of your person, the cause of the past 15 years of your life going the way they had, gone.
Coping. Something you never learned. One of the many mind-games you were never adept at, unlike your vast mental weaponry to destroy others. Destroy others? You realise dimly that in doing so, you destroy yourself. Or, rather, the 'you' that's been forged. Him. You understand suddenly how pointing the finger may relieve guilt. You could pawn this off on him, sure. Would it change a thing? No. You'd still know who did it all, who really was responsible for the war. The war between who you used to be and who you've become. No one can honestly say for sure who you are, and you know it. Are you the cruel prosecutor who will stop at nothing for a 'guilty' verdict, as the rumours claim you are? Are you the accused murderer who was shown freedom for the first time in 15 years? Or, are you the forged remains of that 9-year old boy whose father had just been shot in front of him?
You've never really been able to decide which one you'll be. Once again, you find yourself choosing who you want to be, as there is no longer a natural person hidden behind your lies. As you've never let others help you find that inner person. You honestly believe you're insane, now, that there is no hope for you. How ignorant, to think so highly of yourself. There is help for everyone; some small part of your mind knows this. This tiny, whispering part of your mind that tells you to talk to someone. Talk to him, he's never turned you away before. It pleads for salvation, pleads to find someone to understand.
You identify it as the last human part of you. Even as the rest of you dies, it's trying so hard to keep you alive. So hard to keep you sane. It was this part of you that eventually drove you to leaving that note, that confession that could have easily been misinterpreted if simply skimmed. While writing it, you left clues as to what was really going on, you knew that he would understand, even if he claimed otherwise on the outside. You also knew that he would claim otherwise. To share the secrets of the heart is no small feat, after all.
The note would keep you tethered to existence, to what you believed was your only existence. Insanity was moving increasingly closer, only one option. Flee. Flee for all you've had, all you can have, and for your sanity. You cannot exist in this world created by the instigator if he himself is gone.
So flee you did. And when you finally return, you will find that there was much more going on than even you knew.