Day 50: Depression
The museum was quiet in the aftermath of the battle, the echoes of violence and death still lingering in the air. The looters were gone, their bodies scattered across the atrium, the blood slowly drying on the cold stone floor. The group had won, reclaiming their home with a hard-fought victory, but there was no celebration, no relief—only the heavy silence of survival.
Eli stood at the edge of the atrium, his back to the others as they began the grim task of clearing the bodies and fortifying their defenses. His knife was still in his hand, its blade stained with the blood of the men he had killed. He stared down at it, his mind numb, his thoughts distant.
They had taken back the museum. They had fought together, just as Cass had said they would. But as Eli looked at the blood on his hands, the cold reality of what he had done began to settle in. The looters had been a threat, yes, but the way he had fought them, the way he had killed them—it wasn't just about survival. It was something darker, something that had come from a place deep within him, a place he didn't want to acknowledge.
The others worked in silence, their faces drawn and tired, but there was a sense of unity among them, a shared understanding that they had done what they needed to do. But Eli felt none of that. He felt only the growing distance between himself and the people he had fought beside.
He took a step back, moving away from the group, his movements slow and deliberate. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, of questions he couldn't answer. Why had he fought so hard? Why had he killed with such ferocity? The answer gnawed at him, a bitter truth that he couldn't push away.
He had killed the looters because he wanted to, because he needed to. It wasn't just about protecting the group, about taking back their home. It was about something else, something selfish. He had been driven by a desire to fix something that couldn't be fixed, to make the pain go away, to erase the scars that marked his face and soul.
Eli walked through the museum, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him like a physical burden. The others were nearby, but he kept his distance, not wanting to face them, not wanting them to see the truth in his eyes. The helmet on his head felt like a prison, trapping him in his own mind, in the realization that he had crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed.
He had told himself that killing the looters would make things right, that it would fix everything. But now, in the cold light of day, he knew that wasn't true. The scars were still there, the pain still lingered, and no amount of blood could change that. He had killed not out of necessity, but out of a selfish desire to feel something other than the emptiness that had consumed him since the day his world had ended.
As he walked, Eli's thoughts spiraled further into the darkness. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had become something he didn't recognize, something twisted by the pain and the anger that had been festering inside him. The others had fought to survive, to protect each other, but he had fought for something else—something that felt wrong, even though he couldn't fully understand it.
Eli found himself in a small, dimly lit room at the far end of the museum, a place where the walls were lined with old books and forgotten relics. It was quiet here, the silence pressing in on him from all sides. He sat down on a dusty bench, the knife still in his hand, his thoughts a tangled mess of regret and self-loathing.
He had wanted to believe that killing the looters would make things better, that it would bring him some kind of peace. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had been lying to himself. He had killed them because he couldn't stand the pain anymore, because he had wanted to lash out at the world that had taken everything from him.
Eli stared at the knife in his hand, the blade still wet with blood. The sight of it made him sick, made him want to throw it away, but he couldn't. It was a part of him now, just like the scars, just like the anger that had driven him to this point.
He knew he should go back, should rejoin the others, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. The distance between him and them was too great, the truth of what he had done too heavy to bear. He was no longer the person they had known, no longer the Eli who had fought to protect them. He was something else now, something shaped by the violence and the darkness that had taken root in his soul.
As he sat there, alone in the quiet room, Eli's thoughts turned inward, his mind grappling with the realization that he had killed not just to protect the group, but to try to fill the void that had opened up inside him. He had been looking for something, anything, to make the pain stop, to make the world feel right again. But all he had found was more blood, more death, and a deeper sense of loss.
The others might have forgiven him for what he had done, might have understood why he had fought the way he did, but Eli couldn't forgive himself. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed them, that he had let his own selfish desires guide his actions, rather than the need to protect and survive.
Eli knew that he couldn't stay in the museum forever, that he would have to face the others eventually. But for now, he needed the distance, needed the time to come to terms with what he had done, with who he had become.
He closed his eyes, the weight of the helmet pressing down on him, the darkness of the room swallowing him whole. The scars, the burns, the pain—they were all still there, unchanged by the blood he had spilled. And now, he was left with the bitter knowledge that no amount of killing could ever make things right.
The world was broken, and so was he.