Work Text:
God. It's tough waking up in the morning. My head pounds, my heart hammering in my ears to the beat of it. I struggle to open my eyes, bleary from the obvious lack of sleep. How could I possibly convince myself to sleep after spending so much time unconsciously living someone else's life? I'm exhausted, every bit of me. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually. Just…all of it. It's all too much. But it's not like I can do anything about it. Of course I'm the one that just has to be the crash test dummy. The missing link. The one who has to be put through the ringer. It's times like this, where I'm holed up in some dank basement, resting on the cold, hard, dirty ground that really makes me put my life into perspective. Why me? I try not to spend too long dwelling on that particular question, but it's impossible to avoid. Whatever. I already have enough going on. No need to add an existential crisis on top of that.
I force my eyes open, my vision slightly blurred. I groan as I raise myself up from the cold stone floor. Shaun will probably make fun of me for being a dramatic little wuss but he's not the one being shoved into a fucking Animus every day. Jesus. You want to know one of the worst parts about living in some secluded, old-ass basement in the Middle of Nowhere, Italy? The silence. The fucking silence. There's nothing to distract you, to linger in the peripherals of your senses. No background noise to quiet the voices in your head. And God, the voices. The Bleeding Effect is one nasty son of a bitch. No one else is awake, and I know for a fact I'm not falling back asleep anytime soon. So I do what I do when I manage to get some precious time away from the others. I wander. I'm not supposed to for "security purposes" and "the sake of compromising the mission," but who can blame me? I'm in Italy. Might as well act the part of the lost tourist.
I find my way out of the basement using my phone flashlight, carefully navigating through the piles of rubble. It's still dark outside, enough to see some stars, but the sun is starting to peak over the horizon. I easily scale the old Auditore household, using the old cobblestones and boarded-up window for leverage. Roofs arent's the comfiest places to sit, sure, but I've found that they're good spots for reflection.
I don't like thinking about my life too hard. It's just a constant reminder of how sad of a person I truly am. When I'm not working, I'm curled up in a long-forgotten corner of the basement, losing my mind. I genuinely struggle to get up and out of my makeshift bed most days. The constant chant of "Why me?" keeps repeating itself in my head. I guess there's just one word for it: I'm depressed. Simple. But it's really not. If this wasn't something I struggled with, I would be able to work better. But, then again, I think it's the work that's making me depressed and insane. I mean, I'm constantly living Ezio's life, experiencing his highs and lows, and it feels like I rarely get to live through my own. Sometimes I feel as if I don't know who I am anymore. It's scary. I don't have the time to really get to know myself, not when the literal state of the world depends on me and I have to do everything in my power to prevent the end of it. But I at least have the small bit of time I have now.
I'm not really sure when depression hit me hard. I've been moving too fast for too long to really take notice. One thing I do notice is that whenever my life slows down for even a second, it kind of settles over me like an awkward, slightly moist, uncomfortable weighted blanket. No matter what I do or how decent I can convince myself that I feel, I can't get out from underneath it. The pressure of it all, the massive black hole where my personal identity once was, it's too much for me to bear most days. I've thought about trying to talk to Shaun or Rebecca about all of this, but how much could they really understand? That pompous British asshole barely shows me respect as it is, and Rebecca is always busy tinkering with something or another. I wouldn't want to interrupt. I wouldn't want to burden anyone with my feelings, because no one should have to understand or empathize with what I'm feeling. And yet a part of me longs for someone to talk to.
Ever since Lucy died (you fucking killed her you idiot) , I haven't really felt totally comfortable opening up to anyone else. Again, I have Shaun and Rebecca, but they're just always in the middle of something. Doing their fuckin' jobs like how they're supposed to. Unlike me. I'm supposed to be the cool stoic guy, you know, savior-of-the-whole-world, and all that. I don't need feelings. I'm just supposed to…be. I don't know how, but I've got this idea in my head that the other two expect me to be a perfect, stereotypical superhero. I feel that if I tried to talk to either of them about my feelings, that picture-perfect image would shatter. They would hate me. They would think less of me. I don't know. When I really think about it for more than a few seconds, I realize how silly it is. But it is something I genuinely fear. Maybe one day I can work up the courage to say something to one of them. I scoff to myself. I can't believe it sometimes. Me, a trained killer and skilled freerunner, someone who regularly jumps off of high places and who basically does undercover spy missions for a living, someone who grew up in a murder cult, afraid of talking about his feelings. It would be pitiful and hilarious if it was someone else's sad situation and not my own.
I can tell I've worked myself up. I noticed that my face hurts. Without even realizing it, my face has twisted into a scowl and my brow furrowed. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and look back up at the remaining stars above Monteriggioni, attempting to shoo away the dark storm cloud over my head. It really is beautiful out here, and here I am, ruining it with all of these negative thoughts. I genuinely hope that I can get help for this once my entire ordeal is all over. I highly doubt that I'll live to see the other side of this anyway, but on the off chance that I do, I should probably talk to someone. I lie still on the roof, my hand behind my head, letting my thoughts drift elsewhere, preferably to someplace happier.