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Under Damon's mattress, there are four papers.
The one on top is the most recent. It's a will – well, a crude imitation of one. It used to be part of the notebook he shares with Moriko, but he ripped it out as soon as he wrote it. He doesn't want Moriko to think about his death. He sees it as an inevitable fact, a ticking time bomb, but she doesn't. She talks about the future like they have one. So did Kaan.
She does, Damon thinks. I don't. He's made peace with that statement, that Moriko would thrive without him. Still, in the event he did die, Moriko would be the only person he cares about still alive, since Arnold was nearing the end of his life. The ‘will’ simply read:
“Moriko–
All of my belongings are yours now. Do with them what you wish.
Damon.”
His lips purse. He knows exactly when he wrote this. It was the day after Arnold told him his cancer was terminal and could kill him. He grabs it from the small pile and sets it to the side, his hands shaking. He knows what comes next. It's a companion piece to the will.
The one below it is a suicide note. Damon can't remember exactly how long it's been since he wrote it, but he knows he wrote it here, in the pathetic excuse of a closet he and Moriko made into a bedroom. Ever since Arnold's brain tumor worsened, Damon swore to himself that, if his cancer killed him, Damon would kill himself. He'd have no purpose after, so what would be the point in staying alive? As far as he was concerned, he was an extension of Arnold and nothing more.
It was a private thought, and not one he intended on sharing, but he needed to be prepared. In the event that Kaan wasn't able to fix Arnold, Damon would take a gun to his mouth and put a bullet through his brains. His fingers press tightly into the paper as he holds it. At the time he wrote this, he had no idea he was going to be tested again; at the time, he had no idea he'd be tested right alongside a person just like himself.
He can't tear his eyes away from the paper. It's been a while since he's read it. He's been too concerned with making sure everything around the warehouse was in order, double and triple checking everything and tending to Arnold's every whim. It was exhausting. His limbs are still tired. He's unable to stop himself from reading his own uncharacteristically messy handwriting.
“Moriko,
I'm sorry. I didn't have another choice. This is all that's left for me to do. Please know this wasn't your fault. You were the best part of my life. You were why I stayed around so long. I simply couldn't do this anymore.
If Arnold and/or Tsuki are still around, they can provide for you; go to Tsuki first. If they can't, I have a small amount of money in my duffel bag. It isn't a lot, but you can survive off of it for a small amount of time. I wish I had more to give you, I apologize. You can sell my belongings, if you'd like.
I hope your life is better than this going on. You deserve it. I didn't. That isn't a self deprecating opinion, it's merely a fact. Whatever you choose to do with yourself, if you stay with this organization or not, know that I would be happy. Do what's best for you – in my honor. I did what's best for me. Do note that I don't think what I did is the solution for you, though. You're young. You have a life and a chance. Use it.
I'm sorry again. I wish I could express how sorry I am, but I'm no good at apologies, as I'm sure you are well aware. I don't regret doing this, but I am deeply apologetic for doing this to you.
I love you, and I apologize,
Damon W.”
His hands itch to crumple it, to tear it to bits, to burn it. His eyes sting. Only a few hours ago, Damon was telling Kaan how he would die alongside Arnold. Now, he can't imagine doing so. The devotion, a loyalty which was already wearing thin with each passing test Damon was forced to observe, has died. Moriko has freed Kaan from his shotgun collar, so if Arnold were to drop dead now, Damon wouldn't grieve. He tells himself that as he puts the note on top of the will.
Below that, there's a note to Moriko. It's one he wrote late at night, when they had just begun moving into this warehouse. Damon remembers writing it, vaguely; he knows he wrote it when Arnold was more conscious and having fits about testing his apprentices again. They had gone soft, apparently. Damon clenches his jaw at the memory. I bet he doesn't think that now.
He glances at the letter. It's much shorter than the last one, and it's not part of the set, not really – although, Damon realizes, he probably would have left this alongside his will and suicide note if he went through with his plan. He bristles. There's no use thinking about that. He's going to live for at least another few hours. What happens after that is undetermined, but he refuses to die here. Not in the same building as Arnold. That satisfaction isn't earned.
“Moriko,
I don't want you repeating the contents of this letter, nor do I want to see this letter after I've handed it to you. This is for your eyes only, and it must be kept private.
I believe Arnold is wrong. You aren't weak. Surviving the house isn't an easy task. I need not remind you of the lives lost there. We're fortunate enough to make it out together. I wish others could be here, too, but that's unrealistic to think about, and not the point of this note.
The point is, I want you to know that I am glad you survived. You earned it. Not many people have survived these traps, and doing so is a sign of strength, especially for someone as young as you. You were tested unfairly, and yet you still became stronger because of it. I'm proud of you.
Damon.”
His hands are gentle as he lays this note back onto his thin, bare mattress. He didn't deliver this note to her because of how traitorous it was at the time. He almost wants to laugh. He used to be so afraid of countering Arnold; he was as recent as four hours ago. His throat was sore now from yelling at him about how wrong and stupid he is and always has been.
He sets that paper away from the rest. This is something he'll give to her when they find a place to sleep for the night.
The fourth note is an older suicide note. This one is more addressed to Arnold than anyone else. It's old. He wrote it before he even got put in the nerve gas house. This note, combined with the uptick in the cuts on his arms, was what landed him there in the first place. It's much more cold and factual than the more recent one. The memory of writing it is foggy, barely there. He remembers the aftermath more than the creation.
“To whom it may concern,
I apologize for not persevering. This act goes against everything my mentor has taught me, but it's a necessary act nonetheless. Explaining myself is unnecessary and will do no good, as I truly don't believe anyone could understand why I had to do this. All you must know is that I'm not as strong as I was made out to be. Thank you for having faith in me, even if it was misplaced.
Damon Woods.”
“Damon! Are- are we ready?” Moriko’s voice calls from the makeshift operating room.
Damon closes his eyes. No, he wants to respond, and I never will be. Let's stay here. Let's stay here with the man who saved us and the man I killed and let’s just fucking die here, like we were always meant to. He takes a shaky breath and looks down at the papers.
All of their bags are packed. All four of them. Damon's backpack is practically ripping apart at the seams. It's halfway filled with Moriko's stuffed animal collection; the other half is full of the essentials for both of them – hairbrushes, toothpaste, toothbrushes, deodorant, and Damon's spare glasses that have had a crack in them since the nerve gas house. His duffel bag rests against his thin leg. His generic, gray blanket he got from Goodwill that never lost its cigarette smell is what took up most of the space, but an extra jacket, a pair of socks, his half empty box of razor blades, and his wallet were thrown on top. It's all he owns.
Moriko comes into the room, hands and clothes stained red. He sees her out of the corner of his eye, and he acknowledges her by only giving her a glance. His body hunches further in on itself. He doesn't want to see her after firing the gun, after making her touch a man that's bleeding out, after reading these notes.
“Damon…?”
He looks at the notes.
“Damon, I- I know I'm bothering you, but you didn't respond, so I… I didn't know if you're ready to go or what…”
He puts the third note in his duffel bag.
“Grab your things,” he replies in a hoarse, quiet voice. “They should be by the door.”
There's a moment of silence as Moriko grabs her bags and slings them around each shoulder. Then, she asks, “You're sure this is everything? I don't want to leave a-and find out I left my lucky comb or anything.” She laughs nervously.
He looks at his bags. Is that everything?
Impulsively, he grabs the other papers and stuffs them into his bag. He zips it up, then puts both of his bags on his back. He turns to face Moriko, but doesn't look at her. He doesn't know if he could anyway, but Kaan's fresh blood on her hands doesn't help any.
“It's everything,” he affirms. “Your comb is in my backpack. We can check in the car if you're concerned.” He swallows thickly. “The authorities are on their way to assist Kaan?”
“Yeah. They should be here any minute, I would think. I-it's been, like, thirty minutes, I think? I dunno, I can't really, uh, see my watch.” Another nervous laugh.
Damon inhales. He turns his head and looks at this room. It's empty, horribly so. The posters Moriko hung up with Dollar Tree stickers are off the wall and in one of her bags. The blankets, sheets, and pillows are gone. All life has left it and has been stored in their four bags.
He turns back to Moriko.
“Then let's go.”