“I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate.” ― Albert Camus, The Stranger A man sat upon the edge of a foul lake, his tall silhouette hunched as he leaned against the dock. The lake was revolting, truly- writhing with massive serpentine creatures that churned the red liquid into a greasy foam, breaching up in an attempt to attack and consume one another. He almost felt a sense of kinship with them- they shared his hell, after all. Everything was like this. Disgusting. And yet, Malone felt like he belonged here. Rotting from the inside out, wrapped in a lingering decay that no one else seemed to care enough to wipe away. It was simply reality, and it is something that should be accepted without complaint. He, like the world, was a loathsome being, molded to be such by this place. Malone, for some reason beyond his knowledge, lived without knowing how to interact with people. He was awkward and entirely unworthy of the simple embrace of connection. He was even more unsure about how anyone truly knew how to interact with others- whenever he would see two friends chattering together, it never fails to baffle him. But it's okay. He fits in here. He's just as disgusting as everything around him. The tall man stood, turning away from the lake. Something within him twisted at the sight of it, which he found strange. That's a rather new sensation, usually his body simply bent to his whims without protest. He looked up to the large walls surrounding the district. Their usage was contradictory and confusing to most, looming overhead like the ribs of some beast, but Malone was pretty sure he knew why they were there. As a child, he remembered exploring the base of the walls during his aimless wanderings. They had been clearly rebuilt many times over, layer upon layer of mismatched stone and mortar, dating back to some forcefully forgotten past. There had been an incredibly pathetic attempt to cover it up. Pathetic. Like him. He looked up at the top of the wall. It would be so easy to scale the stone, leap over, and finally escape this dreadful place. Maybe that will finally give him the freedom and satisfaction he had been silently hoping for. Maybe they were lying about the dangers outside, just as they lied about so much else in his life. Maybe, somewhere distant- or perhaps just over those walls, was a paradise. Perhaps the scouts simply have not found it. Maybe that's their purpose, to bring everyone salvation. Yet why keep innocent humans from a paradise? Were they all sinners, in some past life? Is this a form of punishment for transgressions they could not even remember? What's the point of punishing a forgotten crime? Malone immediately backed up several paces- something about the thought of his entire life being a punishment gave him a weird feeling. He didn't want to think about it, or even look at the walls anymore. Besides, he belongs here. Everyone does- everyone, from the oldest woman, clawing at her last thread of life with the desperation of a starving animal latched onto another's remains; the most adventurous person, venturing out in a final, arrogant attempt to put their name in the twisted, mocking history of this mephitic place and winding up as another nameless corpse; to the smallest child, clinging to a stuffed animal as the gaping maw of hell opened before them. No humans truly deserve salvation, right? After all, it was humans that drove everyone here. Humans who imprisoned themselves here. Humans, driven by personal gratification and greed. Humans, humans, humans.. Malone was sick of it.
