Author's Notes: So I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter. Mostly because it sprang out of my refrigerator and tackled me to the ground. I'm still sore. Lol. Anyways, so… yeah. Not a whole lot actually happens in this chapter which is what I'm worried about. And the pacing. :/ But I kinda enjoyed this chapter in that it was very interesting to write. AND THE QUOTE. Omg, the Bible?! It was the weirdest moment EVER when I found it. It was on someone's DA account and I was like * points* "OMG!!" and thus this was born.
Warnings: Well… this is probably not the greatest way to use the Bible… it's not meant to offend, but I guess it could. So yeah, if you're opposed to Bible passages being mixed in with WM, read no further.
34. Isaiah 57:4
"Israel's watchmen are blind
The passage comes to him unbidden. A snippet of a memory from before he existed. From before he emerged from the grime and ash and sin into the dark truth. He would think until I had seen the light, but there is no light to see. Everything is dark. It's dark all the time now, and always solitary. He is alone. His false self had friends once. Or at least colleagues. That weak, tremulous shadow of his true self needed companions, needed to belong. The word and idea disgusts him now as does his previous desire to aspire to the idea. He was weak then, flimsy, disgusting. He does not miss his former self any more than a cancer patient would miss a tumor, a sick, bloated cyst leeching the life and potential from an otherwise healthy body. He'd been the only one to be cured.
They all lack knowledge;
He no longer desires to belong anywhere. Understands now how foolish and unnecessary and compromising it is to do so. The other so-called "costumed heroes" are blind, weak, as sickeningly complacent as he had been. Believing that they could bow out, that they were no longer needed. Like dispensing justice was a hobby that could be cast away at will, as if they could free themselves from the duties they all took on.
They are all mute dogs,
It is raining, and the rungs of a fire escape ladder are slippery under worn gloves. He does not worry about slipping. He does not worry very much anymore. There is no room for self-indulgent concerns. He is the only one left. The last line of defense in a city that would be besieged by sin and corruption and filth and if it already has then it is his job to be rid of it. Nobody else will do it anymore. Nobody else will take up the call. He leaps down the rest of the way onto the grubby concrete below. Descends into the mud.
They cannot bark;
He hears a scream. Later, he will call the sound the "first bubbling note of city's evening chorus" and maybe he'd find the imagery apt now, but right now he thinks of nothing. Is busy batting down a phantom memory of flashing grins and someone beside him, answering the call. Someone who would speak up against the rising tide of degradation and squalor. Who would take action. As it is, the memory is not his and it is only a minor distraction. There is no one here and he runs to the sound, accompanied by his shadows.
They lie around and dream,
When his fist connects with the would-be rapist's nose, he feels nothing. But it is not apathy. He knows what apathy is. Knows what indifference can do to a being who would otherwise be a savior of men. When he feels nothing, it is because he cannot bear to feel anything anymore. Because when he forgets, and begins to feel things, they descend upon him, their screaming unbearably loud, echoing that phantom-self that still yet clings to a single effervescent thread of life. But when he, that gleaming beacon of protection and omnipotence, feels nothing, it is because he has forgotten how to feel. Because he has forsaken that painful burden of humanity. Has probably forsaken humanity in general in favor of dreaming among stars and fractals. Never ending. "Nothing ever ends," is his sole belief. Only he's wrong.
They love to sleep.
Some things end. Things like resolve and determination and friendship that should have been enduring and stable and always there have already ended. And now in their absence comes complacency and laziness and a softness that doesn't just rest in smiles and brown eyes. If nothing ever ends, then he's not sure what to make of the absence of a familiar presence at his shoulder and of the words "I quit". Quitting means ending and ending means alone and it always comes back to that word and it tastes bitter still as he watches the criminal's bloody eyes roll back into his smashed and ruined face to sleep eternally. To sink back into the oblivion everyone is destined for. And he isn't tired. He isn't.
They are dogs with mighty appetites
He cannot afford to be tired. The filth and scum and the depraved of the city is never tired. They are always there, a ready-made sense of purpose squirming beneath his feet and if he can only smash them all, crush their revolting bodies under his heel before they can spawn. Filth begets filth, scum begets scum and he is above that now, born again at the expense of innocent blood and gap-toothed smiles and a good mother's tears. He will not belittle that sacrifice and as he walks away from the ruined corpses of rotting men, he tries to think of that. He reminds himself of his purpose and the chorus of ghosts that tear at him and rip apart his mind agree. They will call for more bloodshed and he will oblige. He is at their disposal, as penance for his sins. And they are voracious.
They never have enough
They are voracious and they call out to him in time with the city. In time with the next would-be victim, with the next piece of filth he will eliminate from the world. There are cries everywhere and he has to answer them all. He must. For every time he fails, every time he cannot meet the needs of they who spur him on with their pain, another wraith joins his company, and he will shoulder their pain as his own. He owes it to them, they whom he has failed. They have fallen into oblivion undeserving even as they reached up frail arms plaintively for him to save them, for him to do what he swore he would do. Their pain becomes his pain because it his punishment. He's cleaned himself out to make room for their suffering. He doesn't know how much room he has left. There's never enough room.
They are shepherds who lack understanding;
That's why he must be alone. He's realized this already. Those who would want to help, those who would try to share the burden will never understand. And they wrap themselves in their complacency like a shawl and smile for the world like painted dolls, unreal and distant in their beauty and perfection. They claim their dream is to make a heaven, but they share it with horrors painted over with gold and embellished with lies and justifications. They don't see that they welcome with open arms the vices and filth they claim to abhor. They are no different, and they cannot see it.
They all turn to their own way
So they turn away from their duty. From those who need them. And he is left to clean the rot they have left behind. They are no longer honorable people, they have become tainted and unclean, soiled all. Only he remains above it all.
Each seeks his own gain."
Only he remains to fulfill his duty to the dead, to those he has failed. He is always alone, flanked by his wraiths and their accompanying pain. He doesn't allow the words can't take it anymore to enter his mind. They won't let him quit.
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A/N: Sigh. Now I feel weird. Lol. Rorschach's head is weeeiird… And more depressing days ahead, with a special-guest appearance!