Day 51: A Quiet Departure
The museum lay in darkness, the remnants of the day's battle casting long shadows through the silent halls. The group had finally settled down for the night, their exhaustion overcoming the adrenaline that had fueled them earlier. The atrium, now fortified once more, had become a makeshift camp where they huddled together for warmth and security.
But while the others slept, Eli remained awake, his thoughts churning restlessly. He couldn't shake the growing sense of unease that had taken root inside him, the knowledge that he no longer belonged here. The distance between him and the group had only grown since the battle, the guilt and self-loathing festering like an open wound.
As he lay on the cold stone floor, staring up at the ceiling, Eli knew what he had to do. He couldn't stay—not like this, not after everything that had happened. The scars on his face, the pain in his heart, they were a constant reminder of the person he had become, of the violence that had consumed him. He had tried to find redemption in the blood of the looters, but all he had found was more emptiness.
The group had welcomed him back, had fought beside him, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he had betrayed them in some fundamental way. He had killed for reasons that had nothing to do with protecting them, and that betrayal gnawed at him, making it impossible for him to stay.
Carefully, so as not to wake the others, Eli rose from his spot and moved to the edge of the atrium. His heart pounded in his chest, but his mind was made up. He couldn't be part of the group anymore—not when he felt so distant, so disconnected from them. They would be better off without him, safer without the darkness that had taken hold of him.
He had made his decision.
Eli moved quietly, gathering the few supplies he had left. He laid them out on the floor, each item placed with a sense of finality. His backpack, filled with rations and water, his spare clothes, the small first aid kit he had kept in case of emergencies—all of it was set aside. The only thing he kept was his knife, the blade that had become an extension of his will, of the person he had become.
The knife was still stained with blood, and as Eli held it in his hand, he felt a strange sense of comfort in its weight. It was a reminder of what he had done, of the line he had crossed, and he couldn't leave it behind. It was the only thing that felt real to him now, the only connection he had left to the world.
Once he had laid out his supplies, Eli pulled out a scrap of paper and a pencil he had found earlier. He hesitated, the words stuck in his throat, but he knew he had to leave something behind—something to explain why he was leaving, why he couldn't stay.
He began to write, his hand shaking slightly as he put his thoughts into words.
---
I'm sorry.
I can't stay. I can't be part of this group anymore. I thought that killing the looters would make things right, that it would fix what's been broken inside me, but it didn't. All it did was make me realize how far I've fallen.
I'm not the person you knew. I've become something else, something I don't recognize. I killed them not just because I had to, but because I wanted to. I wanted to feel something—anything—that would make the pain go away. But now, all I feel is guilt.
I'm leaving because I don't want to hurt any of you. I don't want to bring the darkness inside me into this group, into this place that you've all fought so hard to protect. You deserve better than that.
Please, take care of each other. You're stronger together, and I know you'll survive. I'm sorry I couldn't be the person you needed me to be.
—Eli
---
Eli read over the note once, his chest tightening as he realized that these might be the last words he ever shared with the group. He folded the paper carefully and placed it on top of his supplies, where someone would find it in the morning.
With a final glance at the sleeping figures of his friends, Eli turned and made his way to the museum's entrance. The night was cold, the air crisp as it filled his lungs. The world outside was dark, silent, as if it was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
Eli stepped out into the night, the weight of the helmet pressing down on him like a shroud. The knife hung at his side, the only thing he had left to carry with him into the unknown. He didn't know where he was going, didn't know what he would find out there, but he knew he couldn't stay.
The museum, once a place of refuge, had become a prison. And now, Eli was leaving it behind, walking away from the people who had tried to save him, from the life he had known. He was walking into the darkness, into the void, with only the cold and the silence to keep him company.
He didn't look back. He couldn't. The distance between him and the group was too great, the weight of his decision too heavy. All he could do was keep moving, keep walking, until the museum was nothing more than a memory.
Eli's footsteps faded into the night, the sound swallowed by the darkness that stretched out before him. He was alone now, truly alone, with nothing but the knife in his hand and the scars that marked his soul. The world was broken, and so was he.
And as he disappeared into the shadows, the only thing left behind was a note, a few words scribbled on a scrap of paper, and the lingering echo of an apology that might never be heard.