for philosophy_20: lack of god
Aug. 3rd, 2008 04:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
heroslayerGabriel had realized he was broken when he'd taken that first look at Brian Davis' head. It had been a slow realization, one that came after the pain and the hysteria had subsided, but it came nevertheless. And the fact that, in stealing the other man's telekinesis, he was a little closer to whole had come shortly after. It was like a puzzle, one half-complete, and with every kill he made and power he stole, he was a step closer to perfection. One jagged-edged, bloodstained piece closer to having what he'd been rightfully denied, to being able to see the whole picture.
What he hadn't realized, however, was that there were far worse ways of being broken than in terms of abilities. Such as psychologically. Such as he was, now, curled in a shuddering ball of watchmaker in the unfinished room at the back of his apartment, fingers sticky with blood.
He hadn't meant to kill Chandra. He'd loved Chandra. So their relationship had been strained, so the man had starting refusing his phone calls again - it didn't matter. The Indian had been the closest thing to a father figure he'd had in years. He'd opened his eyes to a realm of possibility that he'd only dreamed about before. And then he'd taken it all away, by turning him away. He'd been scared of him. He'd betrayed him. He had meant to kill Chandra.
He couldn't decide. It didn't matter.
The one thing that he couldn't find the critcal flaw in was dead. The man he loved with all his boyish heart and hated with every fiber of his being was dead. His hands bore signs of the crime. He'd done it. He'd done it, and all he wanted was for that same said man to walk into the door and tell him it was alright, give him absolution. It would never happen.
Oh, but he burned for forgiveness. He would scream for it - sing and dance for it, if that's what it took - if his throat didn't already ache, voice broken from screaming into his wrists as he hadn't dared to touch his face. Not with these hands. Not with the stain on them. And without Chandra to give it to give him what he so desperately wanted, right now, who would?
His mother? Nononono. Not that. He couldn't deal with that - with her - now. She'd see the grim under his nails, even if he washed his hands, and she'd know. Just as she knew everything he'd done as a child, her eyes everywhere. She'd see how broken he was, what a monster he'd become, and he couldn't deal with that. He'd lost one of his family figures today, he didn't want to push another away, even if she never listened and always saw and made tuna fish sandwiches even though he hated them.
But if not to family, where did monsters go to beg for pardon?
God. He listened to anyone who needed Him, or so he'd learned as a child.
Pulling himself to his knees, shoulders twitching with the weight of what he'd done, he pressed his fingers to the wall, scratching out words. He couldn't go to church, sure the priests would view him with the same merciless attention as his mother, so he would have to leave a message to Him as big as he could manage. As many times as he could manage, like a boy who'd done wrong in school and had to resign himself to writing the same sentence on the black board, over and over.
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Forgive me Father for I have sinned. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Forgive me Father ...
He wrote until there was no more blood on his hands. Then he wrote until his hands bled. And in the end, there was no sign from God, no forgiveness that he might have needed. In the end, there was no God.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 666
What he hadn't realized, however, was that there were far worse ways of being broken than in terms of abilities. Such as psychologically. Such as he was, now, curled in a shuddering ball of watchmaker in the unfinished room at the back of his apartment, fingers sticky with blood.
He hadn't meant to kill Chandra. He'd loved Chandra. So their relationship had been strained, so the man had starting refusing his phone calls again - it didn't matter. The Indian had been the closest thing to a father figure he'd had in years. He'd opened his eyes to a realm of possibility that he'd only dreamed about before. And then he'd taken it all away, by turning him away. He'd been scared of him. He'd betrayed him. He had meant to kill Chandra.
He couldn't decide. It didn't matter.
The one thing that he couldn't find the critcal flaw in was dead. The man he loved with all his boyish heart and hated with every fiber of his being was dead. His hands bore signs of the crime. He'd done it. He'd done it, and all he wanted was for that same said man to walk into the door and tell him it was alright, give him absolution. It would never happen.
Oh, but he burned for forgiveness. He would scream for it - sing and dance for it, if that's what it took - if his throat didn't already ache, voice broken from screaming into his wrists as he hadn't dared to touch his face. Not with these hands. Not with the stain on them. And without Chandra to give it to give him what he so desperately wanted, right now, who would?
His mother? Nononono. Not that. He couldn't deal with that - with her - now. She'd see the grim under his nails, even if he washed his hands, and she'd know. Just as she knew everything he'd done as a child, her eyes everywhere. She'd see how broken he was, what a monster he'd become, and he couldn't deal with that. He'd lost one of his family figures today, he didn't want to push another away, even if she never listened and always saw and made tuna fish sandwiches even though he hated them.
But if not to family, where did monsters go to beg for pardon?
God. He listened to anyone who needed Him, or so he'd learned as a child.
Pulling himself to his knees, shoulders twitching with the weight of what he'd done, he pressed his fingers to the wall, scratching out words. He couldn't go to church, sure the priests would view him with the same merciless attention as his mother, so he would have to leave a message to Him as big as he could manage. As many times as he could manage, like a boy who'd done wrong in school and had to resign himself to writing the same sentence on the black board, over and over.
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Forgive me Father for I have sinned. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Forgive me Father ...
He wrote until there was no more blood on his hands. Then he wrote until his hands bled. And in the end, there was no sign from God, no forgiveness that he might have needed. In the end, there was no God.
Muse: Gabriel Gray (Sylar)
Fandom: Heroes
Word Count: 666
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ooc
Date: 2008-08-03 06:35 pm (UTC)Re: ooc
Date: 2008-08-03 06:55 pm (UTC)As does the fact that you liked this. Thank you.
Re: ooc
Date: 2008-08-03 07:36 pm (UTC)You're very welcome!!