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"i'm sorry."
how ridiculous. foolish, if his sister were to comment on it herself. how could two words repair cracks along fault lines? he had everything to be sorry for, after all. he could have been more specific. he could have sounded more apologetic.
sorry for leaving you behind? sorry for not replying to your letters? sorry for abandoning your idea of who i was? sorry for changing too much? sorry for-
sorry for what?
for what, indeed. for what? for everything? that was far too general a statement. that could never hold its weight in court. where was the evidence for his apology? where is the proof of what he is apologizing for? how shameful. such a terror cannot be reduced to this incompetent mess.
in all fairness (which he did not uphold for years), it would not have been feasible to name all his mistakes. every word of his was wrong. every action, every decision, every living moment since fourth grade.
on any other day, he wouldn't have cared. he would have let the newspaper accusations slide. all publicity was good publicity, after all. his name would be known, either for greatness or for intimidation. yet, this was not any other day.
everyone was talking, and not in his benefit. no longer were they in awe. no, they were in anger. everything they have known was corrupt and wrong.
well, everything he's known was corrupt and wrong too.
no. this was unbecoming of him. what a childish act, attempting to gain sympathy by justifying his situation. justifying? justice? that was not a word. no. all that existed was victory. anything less was to be discarded.
silence made the office suffocating, as if it was some hollow rectangular prism. silence made the room dark, as if the electricity had been out for hours. silence made the mood uneasy, as if he had to fight just to get a breath of air. he swore he heard the grating noise of metal against each other just before coming to a painful stop. but maybe, maybe that was just a figment of the imagination. thus, the silence remained, until a voice just as terrifying as the original horror behind the metal doors fifteen years ago whispered to empty air.
"i'm sorry for being wrong."
for someone so eloquent, this can't have been real. what was this, the vocabulary of a toddler? surely he was better than that. surely he could clearly name what he did wrong. a young child, maybe nine or ten, could have done better.
down below, far removed from the sun brought to its knees, were those children. ordinary people. ordinary people who lived their lives. ordinary children whose lives were uprooted too, by no fault of their own.
no, the fault was on him.
those people who he attacked with his accusations? their justice came in the harsh words thrown at him throughout those three days which just passed. those people who he put behind metal bars against their will? their justice came when he was left behind those as well. those people who he sent to the gallows?
he could send himself to the gallows. that would be payment enough.
except it wouldn't be. those people he killed (because it's true. he murdered them in his pursuit of glory.) had important places in the lives of the people they met, whereas he could never leave behind a gap if he never took up meaningful space. and heavens above, it was easy to see that all his meaning was stripped away, only leaving behind bitterness where strength used to be.
so there weren't any other words to describe him other than "wrong". there wasn't any other way to say it after all. why would there be? why try to find other ways to say the truth instead of facing it directly?
even when the truth was that he had to die?
if he were a better person, if he were like the victims he took everything from, if he were a person who did not have to die, he could have found synonyms to further emphasize how despicable of a person he was. what kind of legacy did he have so far? it was only fair that he was on the receiving end of it. after years of breaking others' hopes, it was only right that his hope be broken. thus, it was not right that he accepted for that hope to be restored.
this was so utterly stupid. everything circled back to death. death that affected his life. death that he caused. maybe, his own death as well?
no! no, surely there had to be a more reasonable way to recover. he can't just take away his existence. however, he did not just exist. he existed as a force of terror. one wrong move on their part, and they die. one thing forgotten on their end, and he takes advantage of it like a predator ambushing prey.
it was only logical to wonder, would it have been better if he was left to rot in that cell like his victims? yes. anything would have been better.
anything would have been better than taking the space, of breathing the air, of enjoying the freedom of the people he stole from. he already took too much. too many memories were stained. too many lives were destroyed. too many innocent people were dead.
he's stealing everyone's air.
that was the worst offense of all. in attempting to flee from the truth, he inadvertently circled back to being the perpetuator. which fourth grade child had their dreams crushed because of his actions? which cycle did he continue?
so much of him was wrong.
the only reasonable response to that would be death, right?
yes, it would be. he should not be here. he has taken enough from people. he did not deserve to stay. he did not deserve to live. he did not deserve anything at all.
so why, why, why was he still here? why was he in a fancy office instead of a damp jail cell? why did he have cold tea in a dainty teacup on the table in front of him, instead of the bare minimum water that so many had? why did he have a golden lamp illuminating the tears soundlessly falling down his face instead of the lack of light that so many had to live with? why did he keep taking and taking and taking? and why was it, why was it that all he ever gave back was heartbreak?
he had to take something from himself as well.
it was settled, then. he should take his own life.
there was nothing left to fix or do. he might as well be impulsive, since all his carefully planned strikes up until this point were only against others. all that was left for him was a messy, unplanned hit.
it was too painful to rise from his chair, but he had to. even in a chair, he was already taking up too much. emptiness would better suit the chair. he had nothing left to do except write a final note, if only to tell others who enter his office (without permission, but he will no longer have authority in the afterlife) not to try to find him ever again.
so he stood. in a drawer somewhere, its face and handle with gold details, there was the smoothest paper he had, and black brush pens. he took to his table two sheets of the paper and his newest brush pen.
this was an unexpected celebratory moment. finally, the villain is killed by his own decisions! finally, justice for all! he needed this to be perfect for the convenience of the first person to find it.
on the first piece of paper, he tested the pen. its ink ran across the page gracefully, unlike him, a coward who was deciding at that very instant to haphazardly flee. after enough brushstrokes, he was sure. his pen was ready. his paper was ready. he was ready. he was about to write his final words. until-
knock. knock. knock.
distantly, he thought the knocking pattern was familiar. it was tired, yet cheerful. it was soft, yet bright. it was a reminder of years long gone, years when the night sky held hope of future reunions. maybe, maybe it was someone he knew. maybe it was someone who cared.
but he can't let someone care!
no one cared when victims died. no one cared when the innocent died. he didn't care. the world only cared enough to fear him.
he can't let anyone care about his death!
"go away."
when the knocking repeated, he balled his fists. in anger? in sadness? in despair? he did not know. all that he knew was that this was too warm. this was too kind. he screamed louder, trying to force away both the person outside his door and the doubts in his mind.
"get out!"
he waited. a heartbeat passed, then another. he heard muffled footsteps growing softer and softer. finally, he was truly alone. alone to comprehend the kindness the universe tried to send.
he did not deserve this kindness.
yet, how could he refuse? how could he, when the kindness surrounds him in a way he hasn't felt in practically forever? when the cameras were turned away and he was left to experience the kindness alone, would he still be called out for being wrong?
yes. yes he would. yes, for his mind was adamant on not being silent. for as long as he was not content, for as long as he was impure, he had to turn away from this kindness.
his hands shook as he gripped his brush pen, still capped. why? why would the world make him doubt? outside his window, the cityscape shone with various lights, yet the sky was dark as ever. it was as if it was a sign: the higher, the more devoid of light.
it only hit his heart then. did he want to be alone in death?
it did not matter. he had to be, if only to set the world straight and make everything right.
but heavens, he would be lying if he said he was fine with being alone right now.
more footsteps were heard approaching his office door, but they walked by just as quickly.
somehow, that was the final straw. then came a shaky breath (of undeserved air). then came the signs. he tried his hardest not to let more tears fall. he had to at least keep some greatness in death.
as he turned his chair and stared out the window, he realized he was too late. his heart freely fell as he curled in on himself.
try as he might to deny it, he needed someone, anyone, to prove him wrong. a final sign. someone to believe that he was sorry. someone to believe that he was wrong. someone to believe that being wrong does not mean having to die.
but all chances were gone. he pushed away the knocking. he pushed away the kindness. he had to atone.
however, weakness wasn't atonement. wishing for more wasn't atonement. crying and hoping someone would come for him was selfishness. hugging himself while trying to feel warmth was wrong.
ordinary people see their life flashing before their eyes before they die. but he was not of those ordinary people whose lives he broke. so instead, he saw different moments of his life.
he saw a past version of him having a hint of goodness and actually standing up for those who had no one on their side. he saw people who tried to find him when to the rest of the world he once knew, he was gone. finally, something recent played itself in his vision. he saw the blue of direct noon and the yellow of sunshine believing in him.
he had to forget all of those. he never deserved any of those. he had to turn away.
but as the seconds passed by, it became more of an impossibility. no- he cannot falter! he had to atone! the decision was his to make: atonement or death! he had to choose! he had to choose!
so he took a deep breath. and another. and again, until he was stable enough to not let any more shameful tears fall on his perfect page.
he uncapped the brush pen and wrote in stunning calligraphy, making sure not to smudge anything on the note. he could at least let his final action be right.
this was not freedom. this was not atonement.
atonement meant forgetting. atonement meant acting as if the blue never held him. atonement meant living as if he could fix things and undo all the damage he'd done. truly, he was a failure, enough so to not even repair the damages he's caused. he could never atone enough.
atonement was long gone.
so, hopefully, his final note could be enough of a relief, an apology, and a celebration for everyone and everything else.
finally, it was decided.
prosecutor miles edgeworth chooses death.