Third Person: Logically, Godot knew that if he were a sane man, he should have been relieved to be spared the icy grip of death.
But Godot was not a sane man. Patience was its own reward, but perdition had only left him wanting. The endless white tile of the ceiling and the steady beep of the ECG were the soul of tedium; the grit-laced aftertaste of loneliness left him tired. He was old. Worn out. The hollow emptiness that echoed inside him... the betrayal of his due... the burden of truth--his truth, the real truth... no. He was not sane. Not by a long shot.
He resented it. He felt cheated, bitter--a bitterness deeper than that harsh black brew--and his anger burned hot, searing what was left of his soul like the very flames of hell. This--the lifting of his sentence--was anything but a reprieve. This was no blessing. Death. A finish. At this point in his life, it was all he'd wanted, and he'd waited for it; just making it through the day was that day's goal, each day its own mundane ordeal. Enduring it was a long, tiring process, and he knew the next step--a step increasingly overdue--was death.
Mia. Death would be a relief. A release--into her arms, from the increasing pain and weariness of living. Living on. He didn't know if she was waiting for him, but he was waiting for her. His guilt, his anger, his contempt and all the blame he carried... this dead, shambling husk would be shed, and whatever happened next would happen as it did. The world after death would, if nothing else, have her there. But it wasn't his guilt he wanted to escape. His guilt would come with him, he knew--his purgatory and perdition, all of it. As it should be.
The burdens he carried he had brought on himself.
So he'd waited. And then, finally, it was his turn to go. They'd come to inform him of his fate the night before, as the law dictated; his surviving family (ha...!) would be told after the fact. The news was almost a relief. Was a relief. At last the waiting was over. He hadn't wanted to rush, eagerly, into the arms of death, but neither would he take his own life to get there. He knew better--it wasn't what she would have wanted, and death, for him--for everyone--must come naturally, or as naturally as a death like his could be. Should come naturally. He'd been patient. Waiting.
For her.
His fists clenched. The ill-kept machinery of his creaking body wearing down or the long drop and a short stop--either one would have been fine with him. But this... he grit his teeth, grinding them against the rising sense of having been cheated of what was rightfully his.
...rightfully his...?
The emotion drained out of him--slowly at first, then all at once the pot of stale brew was chugged down cold, extinguishing the inferno and reducing it to mere smouldering embers. He had no right to that--to lay claim to that kind of relief. Maybe living was his punishment--keep going, that was what he had been told to do. Keep going, just a little longer, a little longer...
He sighed, removing his visor in order to rub the bridge of his nose, feeling the deep ridge of the scar that ran across it.
Re: Godot || Ace Attorney || Reserve
But Godot was not a sane man. Patience was its own reward, but perdition had only left him wanting. The endless white tile of the ceiling and the steady beep of the ECG were the soul of tedium; the grit-laced aftertaste of loneliness left him tired. He was old. Worn out. The hollow emptiness that echoed inside him... the betrayal of his due... the burden of truth--his truth, the real truth... no. He was not sane. Not by a long shot.
He resented it. He felt cheated, bitter--a bitterness deeper than that harsh black brew--and his anger burned hot, searing what was left of his soul like the very flames of hell. This--the lifting of his sentence--was anything but a reprieve. This was no blessing. Death. A finish. At this point in his life, it was all he'd wanted, and he'd waited for it; just making it through the day was that day's goal, each day its own mundane ordeal. Enduring it was a long, tiring process, and he knew the next step--a step increasingly overdue--was death.
Mia. Death would be a relief. A release--into her arms, from the increasing pain and weariness of living. Living on. He didn't know if she was waiting for him, but he was waiting for her. His guilt, his anger, his contempt and all the blame he carried... this dead, shambling husk would be shed, and whatever happened next would happen as it did. The world after death would, if nothing else, have her there. But it wasn't his guilt he wanted to escape. His guilt would come with him, he knew--his purgatory and perdition, all of it. As it should be.
The burdens he carried he had brought on himself.
So he'd waited. And then, finally, it was his turn to go. They'd come to inform him of his fate the night before, as the law dictated; his surviving family (ha...!) would be told after the fact. The news was almost a relief. Was a relief. At last the waiting was over. He hadn't wanted to rush, eagerly, into the arms of death, but neither would he take his own life to get there. He knew better--it wasn't what she would have wanted, and death, for him--for everyone--must come naturally, or as naturally as a death like his could be. Should come naturally. He'd been patient. Waiting.
For her.
His fists clenched. The ill-kept machinery of his creaking body wearing down or the long drop and a short stop--either one would have been fine with him. But this... he grit his teeth, grinding them against the rising sense of having been cheated of what was rightfully his.
...rightfully his...?
The emotion drained out of him--slowly at first, then all at once the pot of stale brew was chugged down cold, extinguishing the inferno and reducing it to mere smouldering embers. He had no right to that--to lay claim to that kind of relief. Maybe living was his punishment--keep going, that was what he had been told to do. Keep going, just a little longer, a little longer...
He sighed, removing his visor in order to rub the bridge of his nose, feeling the deep ridge of the scar that ran across it.
Mia...