{Contextualization: Today after digging up old files on my student Google Drive saved on my current Google Drive, I found out this lil' story. Considering I wasn't wanting in making a story today, this was an easy one to convert to Steemit formatting. Things are just slightly changed or polished up. This is in honour to @f3nix and @calluna, for their love of the Stranger by Albert Camus. Currently, @f3nix is hosting the current week of Finish The Story with his prompt and I as mod. @calluna is hosting Tell A Story To Me under the @bananafish family umbrella. Go check out those contests, done by honorable people unlike this sack of flesh, skin, neurons and bones. Anyways, this is taking place in the Magistrate-Meursault scene and my homework assignment was to recreate that scene, given some extreme vulgar liberties, in the Magistrate's eyes. By the time y'all are reading, it shall be Friday and I hope your Friday will not be bothered by knife-wielding maniacs or jack-ærses (of which I had to face them yesterday by the time yah had to deal with them)...}

- Rapport Meursault -

Officially, 1030, suspect Meursault had entered into the investigation room and had been seated. Meursault was present in tan suit and pants, sweating like a pig as if the Sun had beaten on him and a tad stressed to the predicament of being lugged around by MPs.

1045: After he had been seated more calmly and taken in by the chair, I had arisen and sat on the table, legs crossed and leaned in. I joked a simple one at that, trying to lighten his soul - or so I thought he had one - and maybe getting into him easier. After all, a stubborn, heated subject is unlike butter but, actually, pure steel to even the strongest of attacks. He seemed to receive it well and parsed a joke straight back at me - I couldn’t hold it and chuckled.

1105: Offering some good Italian wine to further soothe his spiritless spirit, I was taken a bit back when he just said no. Thinking him those types, I just moved on to the subject:

“Here stated from the police report, you were yay-say a year ago on the crime scene, armed with revolver, popping off a shot to then wait and pop off four more and then arrested. What say you Monsieur Meursault? Why the discrepancy of not only firing again, but waiting for such?”

Meursault had remained unphased, not even his body twitched to what had been stated. In fact, I jerked back to his inaction; the typewriter, the usual tapster, just stopped typing. The typing noises returning, Meursault leaned in and my ears were all open to his words:

“Monsieur, I don’t know.”

“Meursault, you know I can’t work with that.”

“I didn’t kill him out of spite, nor revenge, nor for fun nor as a hitman.”

“Those only answer the purpose of shooting him the first time. I ask for why again?”

“It had just happened...”

The first of my career that I have seen any one not only not know why they had done it but even pose it with a serious face. Even a child that believes not why they did it would get a vague semblance of knowing why and what they have done. He only knew the what; but the why? Like a miner in a dark cave with no carbide lamps in hand to then explode it all and never understand the why or even how! Yet I pressed:

“Monsieur Meursault, do you believe in the Almighty; the lord and savior of us all?”

“No.”

1140: And for who knows how long I and the typewriter just froze in place, I may have just hallucinated but the typewriter pricked the paper and I saw the word: “no.” So I pulled up a rag and swiped the dry sweat across my face, my mind still recovering from... the response. It certainly wasn’t one I was expecting but the one I had gotten and had to deal with. The faithless man was like me: wiped sweat off like, breathed like me, sat like me and walked like me. Yet without a piece of his heart for the Almighty?

“Monsieur Meursault e-e-excuse me for a moment. But you do not believe in the Almighty? If I may inquire on the matter, but you do not believe in the Almighty or haven’t found the Faith given by the Almighty?”

“I do not believe in the Almighty.”

“Don’t don’t?”

“Don’t.”

1210: I wiped my face off, sweating more from the apparent lack of belief in the Almighty than this heat that crept into the room with its many million needles injecting heat into my body. I should be dead with this double heat, but this cold attitude neutered all other heat - slowly killing my sense of the World, threatening to destroy it. My legs took me to the cabinet, my hands pull back the doors, arms reached for the cross and so Monsieur Meursault saw the Almighty’s image in the flesh. I felt my head boiling over, I swear I even saw steam coming off of me due to this atheist in my ranks.

“Do you know who this is, Monsieur Meursault?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me the name and their importance of such a great figure?”

“Jesus Christ, a person that had died in the name of the Christian god.”

“Correct. Do you think Christ died for our sins?”

“Yes, but I don’t know how this has to do with what I am here for.”

1230: I was already at the edge of boiling over and just kicking Meursault out of the room and pushing the case forward so the law can decide his fate. Placing the cross back into the cabinet and closing it, I called in the MPs. Marching in like the perfect troops they were, they took him away and I commented “Bonne journée, Monsieur Diable.” He seemed to give a smile and I chuckled so hard that only the slam of the door could dare compete. The typewriter leaving soon, I began right away at the report.

Final comments: Meursault clearly has no knowledge of why he had done what he done and is Faithless - completely. But criminal? No verdict, request that missionaries go into his cell.

--------------------------------

Two Things: This entire week has just been one conflict after another - mainly with online friends - and my only response to farcical nature of this tragedy being on repeat literally every single day: I am a big factor of this being caused.

Taking ten steps forward and pressing on to ignore looking at the whole picture: I knew I was going to eventually have these conflicts with people, where my stubbornness would be toxic for them, where I would go on a limb and just not know when to keep my peace and ultimately make a friend pissed off. I can go ad infinitum (argument of Infinite justification) on each lil' case I have just been involved with my friends. But no, I accept the fact of having contrasting cultures with them, that the events of my horrid past had breeded this stingily defensive creature that is me, that I have these memories way too often triggered and that I finally decided to act upon them instead of repressing them hard beyond conscious recognition.

In this case, I really only have two Steemit friends to apologize here: @calluna and @f3nix. @calluna for the fact that I had nye-on stressed her with constant arguments and pure stubbornness that might as well killed me if I thought I could've held my breath in forever. @f3nix for the fact of recent mistreatment and using him as a punching bag after I had landed myself in an unfortunate incident that I like him and I to only know; and I want that "real-life" incident to stay quiet amongst us two. Do I deserve their mercy? Up to them. What have I really done to make amends: nothing in the sense that I cannot even be allowed to change in my environment without stepping into fifty other bear-traps and the fact that I am pretty blind to not see those bear-traps.

I find myself a bit in Meursault other than doing things based upon the things I know can make me happy and accepting that uppercase M Meaning doesn't exist. The fact that I (SPOILERS AHEAD, no more relevant info after this) can understand why he shot four more times at the nameless Arab after a long pause after his killing shot. Especially the four knocks on the door of unhappiness. I want to say, like Meursault, that the heat (my sociological-economical-psychological makeup paired with recent contingent events in "real-life"and on the Internet) caused me to act upon the poor, subdued and dead Arab; however I know, unlike Meursault, that people will laugh at me and think me totally in control of even my own body.

But the price I accepted as an eighteen years young person taking on and faking as young as 25 years young is that I would be treated harshly for the smallest mistake I will make. For a while, it had worked; then my emotionally snapped state started to heal up, leading me back into sanity when I had enjoyed the fruits of being insane and emotionally in turmoil. To slowly re-recognize all the small social cues and finally feel everything with every word that I saw when I had enjoyed literalness and being numb to every other pain as this main pain had finally killed all my emotional neurons. But it hadn't and now I am left with such sensitive feelings that it shall evoke these memories in a snap but I won't be rewarded with an emotionally sterilized state.

All in all, this is merely an explanation and NOT A JUSTIFICATION of myself. A self-criticism of who I am. But all good self-crits end upon something of improvement, but what can I improve upon when I further realize that I am not broken into a million pieces but that some of those pieces were swept or vacuumed away from life? How can I improve myself when chunks of myself have been obliterated? Do I just build upon the holes of my life? Do I just sow the holes up and pretend to be okay? Do I just accept them and hope to not suffer another emotional snap which could outright make me black out mentally and socially?

I don't know even one answer to any of them. I seek guidance, I want to be lead and handled around from place to place told this is X and this Y, to not have to learn everything THAT EVERYONE JUST SO HAPPENS TO KNOW and not fake it until I make it. I want to be cradled, made into a puppet, burn the World and make the World hear me... But I won't even get the satisfaction of any of that, for accepting the price of pretending to an adult and hiding from various Cyber-bullies and trolls is that I am already to be perfection. To know everything and be the best of my caliber that my place had produced. That every little fuck up can be recovered within a heart beat. To know how to do and not give an iota of how to be. To be what everyone else lacks so they don't have to think of themselves but feel whole when I am around.

To have everyone comforted and cared for by me. To shut up about my problems and lick my wounds. To be forced into a chooser and never be able to beg. To be everyone's little bag to punch into so that they can actually go on and do the serious work. When I told some of them that my biggest hope was that my legacy would be dead in the mire but everyone out of it, I wasn't lying. I want to be forgotten like the unknown pharaohs of Egypt now only part of the grainy sands. I want to be obliterated by the rot of time like the now bleached colours of Greco-Roman statues and the Coral Reefs in the oceans. I want to be treated as a mere Void, the one our galaxy circles around if you ever care to look at that photo of the Milky Way, and die being treated as a mere point. Yet dragged I am, like that black hole, to endlessly consume and possibly never give back but the tiny phantom photons we do get readings off from time to time.

When I die, I want to be treated like the Cynic Diogenes of Sinope. Grab my body and chuck it into Nature, let Nature take back what I possess of hers. But unlike Diogenes's reputation, I want to be completely forgotten, all my works erased, memories of me expunged and all people I unfairly treated compensated. But not even the Universe will honour this wish by which the Pessimistic people claim we are living in, where the worst thing that can happen will happen. Guess I and them are in the same boat: the worst thing for us is that the worst thing hadn't happen nor can it less purposefully provoked into existence. And at this point, lethargy rules over my body to even let that happen.

So as a long about way of saying sorry to all those that I have been in conflict with: I am sorry.