Work Text:
You stand on the edge of the precipice, staring down at the abyss, a darkness not quite known and not quite unknown.
There are words hanging in your mind, words you heard and words you imagine were told behind your back; they’re ones you think are true. There are a hundred whispers buzzing around in your head, a thousand more breaths you didn’t dare take.
Fool. Demon. Murderer.
You don’t want to listen. Patricide. You don’t have a choice. There was only one gun. You grip your arm as if it could change what you did. As if you could alter the past. Prevent that guilty arm from throwing your father’s life away.
There are eerie colors, a face you know more than anyone else’s, flashes of light and the glint of metal. A deafening sound, short, full, profound. It echoes. You scream. There’s another one. (shot? scream?)
You think about the little spot of dust on your left shoe. You think about the scream and how foreign and piercing it feels. You think about the emergency lights and how you first thought you were underwater. You think about the rage and the argument and the way he gripped your father’s lapels. You think about the brief smile your father shone you when he pressed the button to close the doors. You think about how you never heard a gunshot before but know exactly how it sounds. How can you? How is any of this logical?
Your eyes shoot open. Everything around you is gray. Dark. Cold. Lost. (are you? or are you still trapped?)
Everything is a blur.
Your hand hovers in front of you, shaky and unrecognizable. Is this you? Is this hand yours? Is this hand responsible? Did you seal your own fate? Were you a victim? Were you too young, too scared, too ignorant?
Fool.
This is your room. It’s big and empty. The moonlight is shining through the window. You’re not in that small cage of metal. You can breathe. You’re not trapped. There’s air all around you, there is so much air. But you don’t deserve it.
You, Miles Edgeworth, will always hold your breath, for as long as you live. That one secret, you will take it to the grave.
Tomorrow, you’ll be a demon.
You lie back down and hope for a dreamless sleep.