Casen fumbled with the bottle in his hands, struggling to unscrew its cap. The last hours had left his hands unsteady, and he could hardly find the strength to twist off the plastic from its threads. Still, the water was something he greedily drank, finishing it within several large gulps. He had been sweating. His winter clothes were damp, dirty, torn, and bloodied. Casen himself smelled of death, fear, gunpowder, and alcohol. A dizzying concoction of smells had assaulted his now attuned nose, its dulled sense having been the last thing to occur to him for the past week. Now, it had finally caught up.
His head throbbed with pain and the still persistent ringing from gunfire. The Skippers had told him this would take time, but how long would he have to wait for the pain to end? How long until the mist that still permeated most of reality cleared, and he could see rightfully again?
It did not matter. These were temporary things. The PDA next to him finally dinged with confirmation that his message had been sent to San Francisco. If he was lucky, it could mean the end to his troubles. If he was unlucky, then he was not certain what would come. Titles and stamps clogged the newly printed Fugitive's name: Traitor, Terrorist, Ex-... Ex everything. Ex-Special Agent, Ex-Husband, Ex-Human. His life danged in the cyberspace, hinging upon the message that now skipped through the American dream.
Casen was a fool to set foot into Twin Pines. Maybe it was the moment he did that sealed his fate. Maybe it was when Flaker even mentioned the idea to him. Or, perhaps, it was when he kissed his wife for the final time, and said his goodbye for the time being.
Shit. He should've spent more time with her. More time with their son. If he had, surely the memories of them would have been something he would have clung onto. Instead, all he felt was dread. A strange type of dread, that of which few men ever feel. The dread that spells damnation, that your name itself would be plastered upon the news as Traitor. Once Michele saw that, there would be no going back. They would be well past the point of no return. This thought alone is what spiraled his stomach into a knot, twisting with sickening swirls of undigested beer.
The truth is a fickle thing. It's a social concept, something we made up with the idea that it actually is what happened. It changes from time to time, but everyone knows it. To many, the truth of the matter could soon be that Casen Ford had masterminded the Massacre of Twin Pines.
But he knew better. Casen knew, somewhere, that was not what they now called him. He had not been the one to have caused his own insanity, nor the one to hammer an ice pick through his own skull. He was not the one who saved his mind, nor the one who dragged him through the woods towards an abandoned shack, a piece of steel clutched in hand that spelled "Beretta 9x19mm". He was most certainly not the one to burn down Twin Pines.
Trust is a social concept, another fickle thing, fragile and insecure. Throw it into the wrong hands, and it may very well end up in the hands of betrayers. And, you? You will be powerless. You will become the Traitor to which the world regards.
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