He steps off the bus, back in The World, carrying only the baggage of a lifetime spent in agony. He recognizes this place, this town. Did he ever leave, he wonders. A slight feeling of belonging comes over him, if only for a moment he feels almost safe. As he walks down the streets, he thinks of his friends, how long has it been, he's not really sure. He stops at one house, and then another, no familiar faces. Stops at a payphone to make some calls, but no one answers. It doesn't take long for him to realize that they are all gone. They've gone on with their lives, love and loss, success and failure, it doesn't really matter. All he knows is that they are no longer there, he has been forgotten by those who mattered most, and so he must now rebuild his life, but did he ever have a life?

So he walks, and he sees many people. As he walks, he sees them stare at him with their judicious eyes. He wants desperately to be one of them, to be able to live. He wishes he could erase himself, and the things that have shaped him, but he knows he cannot. Why? Why can't he know the joy of a meaningful existence? He tells himself that the others are not real, that he is true and real, and that they are living a lie. But he wonders, are they in fact the ones who are real? Is he the one who is wearing the mask of self-righteousness? He doesn't know the answers, and he doubts he ever will. But for the time being, he can let go of it, bury it in his mind, add it to the never-ending baggage he already owns. He's done this before, and he knows all too well how to hide the pain. And so he continues this meaningless journey. And he sees more people, and they are all the same, always the same, it never changes, it never has and it never will. So time after time he must bury it, push it inward and tuck it away in that secret place, a place he cannot show, a place even he himself is too afraid to explore. He has his freedom, but he doesn't want it now. He wanted to get out the Country, that damned Country, but sometimes he wishes he had died there, and been spared this miserable play of fear, sadness, anger. The pain keeps growing, and he ignores it. It hurts, but it's easy to dismiss what the masses think of him, there not so important that he cannot tune it out, isolate himself and keep his sanity. So he keeps on moving, while The World around him is living.

He stops for a moment, and he sees her. This woman, a woman unlike any other, she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. She possesses true beauty, not like the others, and certainly not like any sight he has witnessed ever before. Throughout his life - for lack of a better word - he has seen only ugliness. She is so different, so extraordinary, almost angelic. Can she be of this World? A feeling of comfort comes over him as he looks in astonishment at her, is this happiness, is this what it feels like? Has it been so long since he has felt happiness that he cannot remember, or is it that he has never been happy before. He gazes into her eyes, into eternity, into some place, some wonderful place. Not The World, especially not that damned Country, but somewhere else, a place where he could live again. A place where he could experience the feelings that so many others take for granted, the emotions that fill us with life, that make us alive. He is overwhelmed with strange and unfamiliar emotion. Is this love that he feels? Is he feeling love for her, for himself? Is he capable of love, he wonders. He has never felt anything but pain and anguish, and so he doesn't know. Love? Does it really matter, he doesn't know what love is, but he knows that for once he is able to let go of the pain, to let go of his agonizing demons. And this moment, while he watches her, seems to last forever, until the moment is shattered. She turns, and looks at him. Those eyes, more beautiful than anything could ever be, connect with his, he is alive. But suddenly, he sees it, he sees the look of disgust in those beautiful eyes. He stands there, in his tattered clothes, ripped and scorched by his past, his battered body, his face scarred by the dreadful enemy that has denied him the chance to live, nevertheless, these are the marks which define him. She looks at his scars, she has none, or maybe she has hidden them. As he stands there, in awe of her, she turns away, never to look back again, and in that single moment, any glimmer of hope for his happiness is lost. He asks himself why, but sadly he knows the answer, he knows himself and his place - or rather the absence of a place for him in The World - all too well. She has taken his only chance for life, and torn it from him. Why did he feel happy, he realizes he should not have been so foolish to think that his anguish would ever change to joy. But this time, he cannot ignore the pain, he cannot simply bury this one away, and pretend he doesn't care. His secret place can hold no more agony, it is full, so he cries, like he has never cried before. And the demons of his past are released, and they haunt him. They haunt him day and night, like a never ceasing nightmare.

He understands now, or is this simply the realization of what he has known all along, but was afraid to acknowledge. He knows, with certainty now, that his Hell is complete, and he must lie here forever. His body lives, but inside he has embraced Death, a fate which was destined to him. So he fades away, slowly, unwanted, unloved, forgotten, damned for eternity. He wants to blame someone, but he has only himself to blame. He was what he was, he is what he is, this he cannot change. He could only have existed as himself, and that was his first and last mistake. He was real, true, and he presented himself as such, and this was his undoing. Now he exists, but only for the sake of agony, saddness, he exists only to feel pain. So this is Victory? Bullshit.

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