Post by Meatball-kun on Aug 16, 2014 6:55:07 GMT -6
'It's hot in here.'
With everything else going on, this was the thought that managed to wrestle its way to the forefront of Chuck's mind. The sun was exceptionally bright that day. Chuck sat in his car, his eyes closed behind dark sunglasses. Sweat clung to his skin. His face burned. But Chuck didn't move. The car had since turned into a sauna. For a brief moment, Chuck was tempted to move...but he knew what he would need to do once he opened that door.
It was rounding out the first month since Chuck had been home. His phone, now with several cracks spread across the screen, told him he had eighty-seven missed calls. Most of them from Sofia. Some of them from Jess. A couple even from Chris. It seemed the entire family was trying to get hold of him. And here was Chuck, melting away in a locked car in a deserted parking lot. Resting under the sun.
'I should probably move.'
The thoughts spoke to him, ringing through his head. He hadn't had much communication since he left the house. The occasional conversation with the bartenders. A chat with an old friend here and there...but for the past month, Chuck had spent as isolated as possible. That's just how he did things. That's how he preferred it.
'But you already knew that. You knew that when you married her, it wasn't going to work. You can't keep lying to yourself, Charlie: You're better off alone.'
It was almost as if there was an entirely different person who existed in Chuck's head. His thoughts seemed to have a personality all their own. They told him the things he didn't want to hear...but maybe the things he needed to hear. Maybe these were the things he spent all this time denying.
Chuck opens he door of the car. A blast of cold air rushes in, crashing over his face in an awesome wave. Chuck takes a deep breath, and rubs sweat away from his eyes. He slowly steps out of the car. His knee ached. It was doing that a lot lately.
He finds himself in the parking lot of a large church. A steeple rises high above the lot, with a large cross perched atop the roof. It's empty. Chuck expected as much. It was a Thursday afternoon. But Chuck was familiar with this place. He'd been there before...many times, in fact. But that was a lifetime ago. It isn't long before he spots what he's looking for: A small yellow cottage tucked away in the corner of the grounds behind the church. Here, a young man, just in his late twenties, kneels in the dirt, digging away at his garden. Chuck walks across the field, the memories slowly rushing back. He'd spent a lot of time here. It was a simple yard, a field of grass, bordered by the church on one side and a pond on the other. It was on the edge of this pond where the cottage sat. Chuck himself had only been inside that house on two occasions. The first was the day he met its previous occupant, when Chuck's family had first moved to this area. Chuck was young at the time. He didn't yet realize just how important that church would become as he matured. The second time...
-----------------
January 21, 2006
The Chu-
----------------
Chuck shakes the memory out of his head. No. The second time didn't matter.
Chuck Matthews: "This is how you spend your Thursdays, Father? Slaving away in a garden?"
The young priest jumps at the sound of Chuck's voice. He looks up at Chuck, holding up his hand to shield the sun from his eyes. He smiles wide.
Fr. Michael: "Charles Matthews."
Chuck can't help but crack a smile. He'd known Michael Hughes for a long time. The two had been close friends for years, but when Chuck began wrestling, they lost touch. Michael had always been around when Chuck needed him though...and now, more than ever, Chuck needed help.
Fr. Michael: "I can't say I expected to see you today. When did you get in?"
Chuck Matthews: "This morning."
Fr. Michael: "And you didn't come to mass today? I expected better of you, Charlie."
Charlie. That alone was a testament to how close the two were. There was something strange about the name. Everybody simply called him Chuck. And he preferred it that way. He introduced himself to strangers as Chuck. His fans and coworkers called him Chuck. His friends called him Chuck. Only his family called him by his full name, and only his closest friends could get away with calling him Charlie. Michael was one such friend.
Chuck Matthews: "I'll be sure to catch Sunday's reading."
Fr. Michael: "Funny enough, I've got a great sermon on friendship this week. I think you'll enjoy it."
Chuck nods. Michael brushes the dirt off his knees and takes off his gardening gloves. He stands at his full height, looking at Chuck. A warm smile crosses his face, and he clasps Chuck in a friendly hug.
Fr. Michael: "How have you been? Please, come inside."
He motions towards the house.
Chuck Matthews: "You own the place now? What happened to Fr. Tom?"
Fr. Michael: "He retired, and left the place to his successor."
Chuck Matthews: "And you wound up here?"
Fr. Michael: "Funny how things just sort of work out, isn't it?"
Chuck Matthews: "God works in mysterious ways?"
Fr. Michael: "I suppose He does."
Michel holds the door for Chuck, who steps inside. He couldn't remember much of the interior of the house from when he was a kid, but it seemed like not much had change, despite the change in its inhabitants. The walls looked as though they hadn't been repainted in years. The decoration had a 50's feel to it, though Chuck noted that the house was in good repair. There was relatively little in the house. A stove and refrigerator in the kitchen. A small television in the living room. Through a door near the back of the house, Chuck noticed a twin bed, made nicely, and next to it, a sturdy oak desk, where piles of papers and books sat.
Fr. Michael: "A little smaller than what you're used to, I'm sure."
Chuck Matthews: "It suits you."
Fr. Michael: "But not you?"
Chuck frowns.
Chuck Matthews: "I had my reasons."
Michael nods solemnly.
Fr. Michael: "Nobody thinks any the less of you for it, either. I know I would have much rather you left than you go through with it and wish you hadn't."
The two were in the seminary together. They'd spent their first years as undergrads, focusing primarily on theology. Michael eventually earned a double-major in Theology and Chemistry...a combination Chuck found a little odd. At the time, Chuck was working at a gym to help him pay his way through school, and he was just getting involved in wrestling. When the wrestling career took off, and Chuck was given the opportunity to see the world, he backed out of the seminary...a move which Michael was less than fond of at the time. But it wasn't the visions of fame and fortune that called Chuck away. It was family. Things changed in Chuck while he was on the road. His aspirations changed. He realized that a family was far more important to him than anything else. He wanted to be a husband. A father.
Look at how that turned out.
But while Chuck was chasing fame and fortune in the wrestling world, Michael was taking vows of poverty. Of celibacy. Of obedience. That was not the life for Chuck.
Fr. Michael: "So what brought you back here anyway, Charlie?"
Chuck shakes his head.
Chuck Matthews: "I've had a lot on my mind."
Fr. Michael: "You know my door is always open."
Chuck Matthews: "Yeah...yeah, I know. That's why I came here."
Michael moves around the kitchen, filling a tea kettle with water and setting it on the stove.
Fr. Michael: "Tea?"
Chuck shakes his head.
Chuck Matthews: "No. I'm alright. Thanks."
Fr. Michael allows himself a small smile, and takes the extra tea bag anyway. He sits at the kitchen table, waiting for the water to boil.
Fr. Michael: "Please. Sit."
Chuck slumps in the chair opposite Michael.
Fr. Michael: "Now...tell me what's on your mind, my friend."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Chuck Matthews: "I need to get my head in the game.
I suppose it's come as no surprise to anyone though, right? I mean...I don't exactly have it made right now. Not personally, at least. It's been tough. Yeah...it's definitely been tough. But that's not important. Whatever it is that goes on outside the ring, that's not important. I have a job to do. I don't get paid to sulk and throw myself a little pity party. I get paid to fight.
But I suppose that's easier said than done.
These last few weeks, I've been off my game. I know I've been off. I've felt off. I watch the matches, and I look off. I make rookie mistakes. I'm not wrestling my style of match. I'm slipping.
And yet, by some strange chance, I'm still winning.
Now THAT has to be a massive thorn in everyone's side, doesn't it?
Although, I do have to applaud you. I have to give a hand to the powers, those hotheads trying to figure out how to crack my code. I mean, if there's ever been a time to get to me, this would have to be it: Get him while he's weak. Get him while he's vulnerable. When his head isn't in it. When he's distracted. When he's slowly losing his drive.
And even then, they're failing. And it's sad. Even as I'm slowly falling apart, slowly losing my touch, I'm still winning matches. I'm still getting the job done. I wonder if that irritates you all? I wonder if it gets under your skin? Even at my worst, I'm toppling whatever obstacle you throw at me.
And so, I suppose it was only a matter of time before you brought out the big guns. Enter Chris Strike.
I think this is usually the part where I explain why Chris Strike is the man they chose to stop me. I start talking about why he's a logical choice. Why he's seems like a legitimate threat. Why he's not, in fact, a threat, and why I'm going to stop him anyway.
But for reasons I'm not sure of myself...I can't. I'm sure, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I've got a million and a half reasons why I should be able to beat Chris Strike. And, sure, on a good day, I don't doubt I WOULD beat him.
But there's a block...and it's not the opponent. There's something bigger. Something...else. Something deeper that I can't quite put my finger on.
I'm hurting. I suppose I should stop denying that. I'm battered, and I'm beaten, and I don't know how much more I've got left in me. Not physically. Nah...Lord knows I've got a lot of years left in this business. But mentally. Something in my head that I can't shake.
I guess we've seen it, haven't we? I've been in one hell of a slump this last month. Don't pay attention to my wins. I think if there's one thing we know, it's that my wins don't mean a whole lot. But those matches...they're bad. There's no way around it. I haven't been at my peak. I haven't been wrestling the way Chuck Matthews wrestles. I've been sloppy. Careless mistakes. Letting things slip away from me.
I'm slowly falling apart.
And you know what the cruelly ironic part of the whole thing is? When I stop to think...really sit down and focus, I know damn well it's my own doing. Shit, I can beat Abby Park nine times out of ten, and I won't have a problem doing it. I'll beat Kliff Ulysses no sweat...and yet, I haven't had any matches in EXODUS that have come so close as those two. I haven't had those moments that people watch and think "Damn, I think they figured out how to beat him."
But is that because they've figured it out? Or because I've lost a step? They've gotten close to beating a man who, for the better part of the last month, has been in this rapid decline. You've seen it. I've seen it. And I've done nothing to stop it. Just sat here and let it happen. I've become complacent. I've accepted my successes, and paid no attention to the fact that with each success, I've gotten a little bit softer. I've left a little bit more behind.
Something...something though...it's keeping me going. It keeps me going back to that arena, keeps me walking towards that ring. Keeps me fighting through one match after another. Going through the motions. Enter. Fight. Hollywood Impact. Pin. Leave. A spear here. A near-fall there. And the wins just sort of fall into my lap. Like I'm just pulling the same tricks, over and over, and hope that they'll work just one more time.
Eventually, they won't. They can't.
And I suppose that's your job, Chris. I think management is sending you in so that you can figure out the way to crack the armor. Figure out the way you can stop me. Keep me from moving forward.
But I'm telling you myself: I don't think I can beat you. Not now, anyway. There's too much weight. There's a pressure, weighing down on the very core of my being, and I can't seem to shake it.
Perhaps you beating me is what I need to snap back to reality. Perhaps it's what I need to get my head back in the game.
So for the second time in my tenure here, I willingly walk to the slaughter. As I did in the Crucible, I enter with the hopes that someone will best me. Hoping that the same old tricks won't work again. I've put my faith in you, Mr. Strike. Your reputation precedes you. You've made a name for yourself. I don't expect I'll beat you. How could I? Chris Strike, riding a wave of momentum, against a walking ghost in Chuck Matthews.
...of course, that's what I said two weeks ago. And two weeks before that. It seems that I walk in with the expectation to lose, and I win because I underestimate the ineptitude of my opponents. For all of his hype, Kliff couldn't beat me. For all her anger, all her intensity, Abby Park couldn't get the job done.
Maybe I'm too good. Maybe I really am as good as they say. Maybe, even with my mind off the match, I can still find it in me to compete. To win.
Maybe.
And what will I do then? What happens when, in all my efforts to fail, I continue to succeed? What happens when Chris Strike, for all his bravado, for all his accolades, for all his talent, still can't find a way to stop a man who has, for the better part of the last month, been on autopilot?
Then...I don't even know what then. There will be no more barriers left to cross. Nobody left that I can't beat. And all of this...the burden I've placed on my own shoulders...the mounting pressure that I've brought upon myself...for what? I will continue to elude my awakening. I'll await an opponent that will never come: Somebody who can snap me back to reality. Somebody who can help me to realize that I need to get back in control, or I will never again succeed.
So be the man, Chris. Beat me. No...destroy me. Pick me apart. Humiliate me. Make me realize that the shit I'm pulling just isn't going to fly...and if I have any hope of continuing my career in EXODUS...in wrestling, even...then I need to get this sorted out, and fast. EXODUS does not need you to win this match. No...I need you to win this match.
Because if you don't? Then I'm afraid there will simply be nobody left who can. There will be no catharsis. No punishment for the things that I've done. That I do. That I am yet to do.
And this confession will mean nothing.
With everything else going on, this was the thought that managed to wrestle its way to the forefront of Chuck's mind. The sun was exceptionally bright that day. Chuck sat in his car, his eyes closed behind dark sunglasses. Sweat clung to his skin. His face burned. But Chuck didn't move. The car had since turned into a sauna. For a brief moment, Chuck was tempted to move...but he knew what he would need to do once he opened that door.
It was rounding out the first month since Chuck had been home. His phone, now with several cracks spread across the screen, told him he had eighty-seven missed calls. Most of them from Sofia. Some of them from Jess. A couple even from Chris. It seemed the entire family was trying to get hold of him. And here was Chuck, melting away in a locked car in a deserted parking lot. Resting under the sun.
'I should probably move.'
The thoughts spoke to him, ringing through his head. He hadn't had much communication since he left the house. The occasional conversation with the bartenders. A chat with an old friend here and there...but for the past month, Chuck had spent as isolated as possible. That's just how he did things. That's how he preferred it.
'But you already knew that. You knew that when you married her, it wasn't going to work. You can't keep lying to yourself, Charlie: You're better off alone.'
It was almost as if there was an entirely different person who existed in Chuck's head. His thoughts seemed to have a personality all their own. They told him the things he didn't want to hear...but maybe the things he needed to hear. Maybe these were the things he spent all this time denying.
Chuck opens he door of the car. A blast of cold air rushes in, crashing over his face in an awesome wave. Chuck takes a deep breath, and rubs sweat away from his eyes. He slowly steps out of the car. His knee ached. It was doing that a lot lately.
He finds himself in the parking lot of a large church. A steeple rises high above the lot, with a large cross perched atop the roof. It's empty. Chuck expected as much. It was a Thursday afternoon. But Chuck was familiar with this place. He'd been there before...many times, in fact. But that was a lifetime ago. It isn't long before he spots what he's looking for: A small yellow cottage tucked away in the corner of the grounds behind the church. Here, a young man, just in his late twenties, kneels in the dirt, digging away at his garden. Chuck walks across the field, the memories slowly rushing back. He'd spent a lot of time here. It was a simple yard, a field of grass, bordered by the church on one side and a pond on the other. It was on the edge of this pond where the cottage sat. Chuck himself had only been inside that house on two occasions. The first was the day he met its previous occupant, when Chuck's family had first moved to this area. Chuck was young at the time. He didn't yet realize just how important that church would become as he matured. The second time...
-----------------
January 21, 2006
The Chu-
----------------
Chuck shakes the memory out of his head. No. The second time didn't matter.
Chuck Matthews: "This is how you spend your Thursdays, Father? Slaving away in a garden?"
The young priest jumps at the sound of Chuck's voice. He looks up at Chuck, holding up his hand to shield the sun from his eyes. He smiles wide.
Fr. Michael: "Charles Matthews."
Chuck can't help but crack a smile. He'd known Michael Hughes for a long time. The two had been close friends for years, but when Chuck began wrestling, they lost touch. Michael had always been around when Chuck needed him though...and now, more than ever, Chuck needed help.
Fr. Michael: "I can't say I expected to see you today. When did you get in?"
Chuck Matthews: "This morning."
Fr. Michael: "And you didn't come to mass today? I expected better of you, Charlie."
Charlie. That alone was a testament to how close the two were. There was something strange about the name. Everybody simply called him Chuck. And he preferred it that way. He introduced himself to strangers as Chuck. His fans and coworkers called him Chuck. His friends called him Chuck. Only his family called him by his full name, and only his closest friends could get away with calling him Charlie. Michael was one such friend.
Chuck Matthews: "I'll be sure to catch Sunday's reading."
Fr. Michael: "Funny enough, I've got a great sermon on friendship this week. I think you'll enjoy it."
Chuck nods. Michael brushes the dirt off his knees and takes off his gardening gloves. He stands at his full height, looking at Chuck. A warm smile crosses his face, and he clasps Chuck in a friendly hug.
Fr. Michael: "How have you been? Please, come inside."
He motions towards the house.
Chuck Matthews: "You own the place now? What happened to Fr. Tom?"
Fr. Michael: "He retired, and left the place to his successor."
Chuck Matthews: "And you wound up here?"
Fr. Michael: "Funny how things just sort of work out, isn't it?"
Chuck Matthews: "God works in mysterious ways?"
Fr. Michael: "I suppose He does."
Michel holds the door for Chuck, who steps inside. He couldn't remember much of the interior of the house from when he was a kid, but it seemed like not much had change, despite the change in its inhabitants. The walls looked as though they hadn't been repainted in years. The decoration had a 50's feel to it, though Chuck noted that the house was in good repair. There was relatively little in the house. A stove and refrigerator in the kitchen. A small television in the living room. Through a door near the back of the house, Chuck noticed a twin bed, made nicely, and next to it, a sturdy oak desk, where piles of papers and books sat.
Fr. Michael: "A little smaller than what you're used to, I'm sure."
Chuck Matthews: "It suits you."
Fr. Michael: "But not you?"
Chuck frowns.
Chuck Matthews: "I had my reasons."
Michael nods solemnly.
Fr. Michael: "Nobody thinks any the less of you for it, either. I know I would have much rather you left than you go through with it and wish you hadn't."
The two were in the seminary together. They'd spent their first years as undergrads, focusing primarily on theology. Michael eventually earned a double-major in Theology and Chemistry...a combination Chuck found a little odd. At the time, Chuck was working at a gym to help him pay his way through school, and he was just getting involved in wrestling. When the wrestling career took off, and Chuck was given the opportunity to see the world, he backed out of the seminary...a move which Michael was less than fond of at the time. But it wasn't the visions of fame and fortune that called Chuck away. It was family. Things changed in Chuck while he was on the road. His aspirations changed. He realized that a family was far more important to him than anything else. He wanted to be a husband. A father.
Look at how that turned out.
But while Chuck was chasing fame and fortune in the wrestling world, Michael was taking vows of poverty. Of celibacy. Of obedience. That was not the life for Chuck.
Fr. Michael: "So what brought you back here anyway, Charlie?"
Chuck shakes his head.
Chuck Matthews: "I've had a lot on my mind."
Fr. Michael: "You know my door is always open."
Chuck Matthews: "Yeah...yeah, I know. That's why I came here."
Michael moves around the kitchen, filling a tea kettle with water and setting it on the stove.
Fr. Michael: "Tea?"
Chuck shakes his head.
Chuck Matthews: "No. I'm alright. Thanks."
Fr. Michael allows himself a small smile, and takes the extra tea bag anyway. He sits at the kitchen table, waiting for the water to boil.
Fr. Michael: "Please. Sit."
Chuck slumps in the chair opposite Michael.
Fr. Michael: "Now...tell me what's on your mind, my friend."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Chuck Matthews: "I need to get my head in the game.
I suppose it's come as no surprise to anyone though, right? I mean...I don't exactly have it made right now. Not personally, at least. It's been tough. Yeah...it's definitely been tough. But that's not important. Whatever it is that goes on outside the ring, that's not important. I have a job to do. I don't get paid to sulk and throw myself a little pity party. I get paid to fight.
But I suppose that's easier said than done.
These last few weeks, I've been off my game. I know I've been off. I've felt off. I watch the matches, and I look off. I make rookie mistakes. I'm not wrestling my style of match. I'm slipping.
And yet, by some strange chance, I'm still winning.
Now THAT has to be a massive thorn in everyone's side, doesn't it?
Although, I do have to applaud you. I have to give a hand to the powers, those hotheads trying to figure out how to crack my code. I mean, if there's ever been a time to get to me, this would have to be it: Get him while he's weak. Get him while he's vulnerable. When his head isn't in it. When he's distracted. When he's slowly losing his drive.
And even then, they're failing. And it's sad. Even as I'm slowly falling apart, slowly losing my touch, I'm still winning matches. I'm still getting the job done. I wonder if that irritates you all? I wonder if it gets under your skin? Even at my worst, I'm toppling whatever obstacle you throw at me.
And so, I suppose it was only a matter of time before you brought out the big guns. Enter Chris Strike.
I think this is usually the part where I explain why Chris Strike is the man they chose to stop me. I start talking about why he's a logical choice. Why he's seems like a legitimate threat. Why he's not, in fact, a threat, and why I'm going to stop him anyway.
But for reasons I'm not sure of myself...I can't. I'm sure, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I've got a million and a half reasons why I should be able to beat Chris Strike. And, sure, on a good day, I don't doubt I WOULD beat him.
But there's a block...and it's not the opponent. There's something bigger. Something...else. Something deeper that I can't quite put my finger on.
I'm hurting. I suppose I should stop denying that. I'm battered, and I'm beaten, and I don't know how much more I've got left in me. Not physically. Nah...Lord knows I've got a lot of years left in this business. But mentally. Something in my head that I can't shake.
I guess we've seen it, haven't we? I've been in one hell of a slump this last month. Don't pay attention to my wins. I think if there's one thing we know, it's that my wins don't mean a whole lot. But those matches...they're bad. There's no way around it. I haven't been at my peak. I haven't been wrestling the way Chuck Matthews wrestles. I've been sloppy. Careless mistakes. Letting things slip away from me.
I'm slowly falling apart.
And you know what the cruelly ironic part of the whole thing is? When I stop to think...really sit down and focus, I know damn well it's my own doing. Shit, I can beat Abby Park nine times out of ten, and I won't have a problem doing it. I'll beat Kliff Ulysses no sweat...and yet, I haven't had any matches in EXODUS that have come so close as those two. I haven't had those moments that people watch and think "Damn, I think they figured out how to beat him."
But is that because they've figured it out? Or because I've lost a step? They've gotten close to beating a man who, for the better part of the last month, has been in this rapid decline. You've seen it. I've seen it. And I've done nothing to stop it. Just sat here and let it happen. I've become complacent. I've accepted my successes, and paid no attention to the fact that with each success, I've gotten a little bit softer. I've left a little bit more behind.
Something...something though...it's keeping me going. It keeps me going back to that arena, keeps me walking towards that ring. Keeps me fighting through one match after another. Going through the motions. Enter. Fight. Hollywood Impact. Pin. Leave. A spear here. A near-fall there. And the wins just sort of fall into my lap. Like I'm just pulling the same tricks, over and over, and hope that they'll work just one more time.
Eventually, they won't. They can't.
And I suppose that's your job, Chris. I think management is sending you in so that you can figure out the way to crack the armor. Figure out the way you can stop me. Keep me from moving forward.
But I'm telling you myself: I don't think I can beat you. Not now, anyway. There's too much weight. There's a pressure, weighing down on the very core of my being, and I can't seem to shake it.
Perhaps you beating me is what I need to snap back to reality. Perhaps it's what I need to get my head back in the game.
So for the second time in my tenure here, I willingly walk to the slaughter. As I did in the Crucible, I enter with the hopes that someone will best me. Hoping that the same old tricks won't work again. I've put my faith in you, Mr. Strike. Your reputation precedes you. You've made a name for yourself. I don't expect I'll beat you. How could I? Chris Strike, riding a wave of momentum, against a walking ghost in Chuck Matthews.
...of course, that's what I said two weeks ago. And two weeks before that. It seems that I walk in with the expectation to lose, and I win because I underestimate the ineptitude of my opponents. For all of his hype, Kliff couldn't beat me. For all her anger, all her intensity, Abby Park couldn't get the job done.
Maybe I'm too good. Maybe I really am as good as they say. Maybe, even with my mind off the match, I can still find it in me to compete. To win.
Maybe.
And what will I do then? What happens when, in all my efforts to fail, I continue to succeed? What happens when Chris Strike, for all his bravado, for all his accolades, for all his talent, still can't find a way to stop a man who has, for the better part of the last month, been on autopilot?
Then...I don't even know what then. There will be no more barriers left to cross. Nobody left that I can't beat. And all of this...the burden I've placed on my own shoulders...the mounting pressure that I've brought upon myself...for what? I will continue to elude my awakening. I'll await an opponent that will never come: Somebody who can snap me back to reality. Somebody who can help me to realize that I need to get back in control, or I will never again succeed.
So be the man, Chris. Beat me. No...destroy me. Pick me apart. Humiliate me. Make me realize that the shit I'm pulling just isn't going to fly...and if I have any hope of continuing my career in EXODUS...in wrestling, even...then I need to get this sorted out, and fast. EXODUS does not need you to win this match. No...I need you to win this match.
Because if you don't? Then I'm afraid there will simply be nobody left who can. There will be no catharsis. No punishment for the things that I've done. That I do. That I am yet to do.
And this confession will mean nothing.