Luke stood amidst the wreckage, the cries of the suffering and the whispers of doubt melding into a cacophony that overwhelmed his senses. The scene before him, of people grieving and cursing the monsters, mirrored the darkest moment of his life—the memory of his parents' deaths.
His mind conjured the image of his father, hanging lifelessly from a rope, and his mother, her body lying in a pool of blood on the floor. The stark horror of that moment fused with the present reality, creating a surreal and suffocating tapestry of pain and helplessness. He felt the same crushing weight of failure and despair as if the universe had conspired to replay his worst nightmares.
The murmurs grew louder, speculations about his authenticity as a mage spreading like wildfire. Each whisper felt like a dagger, piercing his fragile resolve. Luke could hear them, could feel their eyes boring into him, the weight of their collective doubt pressing down on his soul. His breath became shallow, his heart raced, and his vision blurred with tears he refused to let fall.
His feet moved of their own accord, driven by a primal need to escape the suffocating pressure. Luke didn't know where he was going, but his subconscious led him towards the cathedral. It was the only place that seemed to offer a semblance of sanctuary amidst the chaos.
As he stumbled through the ruined streets, the world around him became a blur. The desperate cries, the pleading eyes, and the accusing whispers all blended into a nightmarish swirl. He felt like he was drowning, each step heavier than the last, his legs trembling with the effort to keep moving.
The cathedral loomed ahead, its towering spires offering a promise of refuge. Luke pushed forward, each step a battle against the crushing weight of his past and the impossible expectations of the present. He needed a moment to breathe, to think, to find a way to navigate the impossible situation he found himself in.
Luke burst through the cathedral doors, his breath ragged and his heart pounding. It was a stroke of luck that he hadn't crossed paths with Father Wingate, Sister Maria, or the children. Any encounter might have led to conflict, questions, or pleas that he couldn't handle in his current state. The cathedral, miraculously unscathed by the monster's attack, stood as a silent witness to his turmoil.
He hurried to the boys' bedroom, his mind a whirlwind of desperation and fear. He tore through his belongings, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. The bed was upturned, clothes and items scattered about as he searched for one thing: his briefcase. It was one of the few remnants of his world, a tether to the life he had been ripped from. Finding it, he opened it quickly to ensure everything was still there. His tattered suits, his magic trick items. Satisfied, he locked it again.
His mind screamed at him to run. Where? Anywhere but here. He couldn't stay. The people were beginning to suspect him, their expectations weighing on him like a millstone. He couldn't meet their hopes, couldn't fulfil their desires. He was just an imposter, and it was only a matter of time before they turned on him. It would be better to leave before their faith turned to hatred.
As he turned to leave the room, his foot caught on the edge of the bed frame. He stumbled, and the briefcase slipped from his grasp. The sudden fall, combined with the overwhelming tide of emotions within him, broke something inside. Luke stood up and lashed out, kicking the bed with all his might, his screams echoing off the stone walls.
"Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!" Luke's voice rose. Louder and louder with each word.
His rage was blind, consuming. He turned his fury on the stone walls, his fists pounding against them. The cuts on his hands, already raw from his earlier ordeal, reopened, blood flowing freely once more. But in his shattered state of mind, he felt no physical pain. The only pain that mattered was the one in his heart—the agony of not knowing what to do, the despair of feeling utterly alone and inadequate.
His punches grew weaker, his screams hoarse, until he finally collapsed to the floor, spent. He sobbed, the tears mingling with the blood on his hands, the weight of his trauma crushing him. The memory of his parents' deaths mingled with the present horrors, creating a storm of grief and guilt that threatened to drown him.
Luke had always tried to be strong, to be the person others needed him to be. But now, in the quiet, empty cathedral, he could no longer hide from his fragility. The expectations of the people, the trauma of his past, and the terror of his present all came crashing down, leaving him a broken, sobbing mess on the cold stone floor.
He had no idea what to do next. Running seemed like the only option, but even that felt like a betrayal—to himself, to the people who believed in him, and to the memory of his parents. He wanted to scream, to punch, to break something. But most of all, he wanted to be free of the crushing weight of expectations that he could never hope to meet.
Luke staggered to his feet, wiping his tear-streaked face with the back of his hand. He grabbed his briefcase once more, clutching it like a lifeline. He had to get out. He couldn't stay here, not anymore. As he made his way to the main hall of the cathedral, a figure stopped him in his tracks.
Gareth stood there, his face a mixture of concern and confusion. The cathedral, dimly lit, cast long shadows, adding to the sombre atmosphere.
"Where are you going?" Gareth's voice was neither demanding nor threatening, but genuinely questioning.
Luke looked at Gareth, his eyes red and puffy from crying.
"I'm leaving," he replied, his voice slurring and sniffing from the aftermath of his emotional breakdown. The screaming had strained his voice, making it louder and rougher than usual.
Gareth stepped closer, his brow furrowing.
"Why?" he asked gently.
Tears continued to flow down Luke's cheeks.
"I can't do it," he choked out. "I can't fucking do it. The people want me to heal them, to take away this fucking nightmare. And I can't do it. I'm normal. Just fucking normal, like you, like everyone else. What else should I do? I can't satisfy them. So I'm fucking leaving."
The words spilt out in a torrent, raw and unfiltered. Each expletive was a manifestation of his anguish, his sense of failure, and his desperation. Gareth's face softened with understanding, but before he could speak, Luke continued his tirade.
"You don't understand," Luke said, his voice rising.
"The people need you," Gareth began, but Luke cut him off.
"Need me?" Luke shouted, his voice echoing in the cavernous hall. "Are you fucking stupid, Gareth!? How can the people fucking need me? They're starting to think I'm a fraud, a total deceiver. Or maybe it's just your delusion? Your delusion of still wanting me to act as a mage to Purewood even though the fuck I ain't!"
Luke looked into Gareth's eyes, searching for any sign of doubt, but found none. For the first time since the attack, he felt a glimmer of something other than fear and despair. He felt a tiny spark of hope. But that spark quickly turned to frustration.
"You think I'm special?" Luke said, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation. "You think I can do something no one else can?"
Luke threw his briefcase at Gareth, who caught it awkwardly, his eyes wide with surprise. He then reached into his pouch, his hands shaking, and pulled out his smartphone.
"Here," he yelled, tossing the phone to Gareth. "This is everything that made you think I'm a mage. All these gadgets, all these tricks. It's all bullshit!"
"Luke, what are you doing?" Gareth fumbled with the phone, his face a mixture of confusion and concern.
"I'm done!" Luke screamed, his voice echoing through the cathedral. "If you want a mage so bad, then you become one. Take the phone, take the briefcase, take all of it. I don't care anymore. If acting the part is so simple, then you do it. Because I quit."
Gareth stared at the phone in his hand, the weight of Luke's words sinking in. He looked back at Luke, who stood there, breathing heavily, his face a mask of anguish and defiance.
"Luke," Gareth said softly. "These things don't make you a mage. You do. Your courage, your determination, your willingness to stand up when others can't—that's what makes you special. Not these gadgets."
Luke's eyes filled with tears again, his anger slowly dissipating.
"But I can't be what they want me to be," he whispered. "I can't heal them. I can't bring back the dead."
"No one can," Gareth replied, stepping closer. "But you can still be there for them. Not as a mage, but as Luke. The man who gave them hope when there was none."
Luke looked at the phone and briefcase in Gareth's hands, feeling a mix of relief and guilt. He wanted to run, to leave it all behind, but Gareth's words held him in place.
"Just take it one step at a time," Gareth said gently. "You don't have to have all the answers right now. Just be there for them. That's all they need."
Luke nodded slowly, the weight of his decision settling on his shoulders. He wasn't sure if he could do it, but for the first time, he was willing to try. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, ready to face whatever came next.