Forgiveness

Am I a failure? Chaos wonders as he considers the sheer chasm that he is staring at, three hundred feet straight down to the angry, foaming sea below. It's raining now, the harsh wind driving rain into his face that feels like a thousand slaps, a thousand disapproving words from everyone he's ever known; and the soft hissing of the rain sounds like the heavens are answering him with a single, sibilant Yessss.
He looks down, actually begins to step out, and then pulls his foot back sharply. In doing so, Chaos nearly overbalances, ending his own indecision with a single cosmic accident. Or maybe it's not an accident, if the rain is to be believed. He's sure he's crying, although it's hard to tell where the tears stop and the rain begins. His face is soaking wet.
He weighs his life, the disappointments that he's caused, the friends that have become enemies.
His name wasn't always Chaos. He had a name once, a proper name that was given him at birth by two loving parents who'd had nothing but high hopes for their newborn son. But that name has receded, his new name gaining more and more relevance as he's caused more and more damage to the ones he loves until even Chaos himself cannot remember his given name. Christ, what a mess.
He closes his eyes, feeling the way the wind whips and tugs at him, beckoning him towards that release, that long fall towards...
No one really knows what happens at the bottom. That's why religion has been invented: to give people an answer to that question, that question and many others that are unanswerable without applying the magic wand of a benevolent god, or God, if you believe in a god mighty enough to merit capitalization. Chaos holds no such beliefs, although at times he wishes he did.
At times like this, for example.
He sits down, unable to make a decision one way or another.
His car is parked a few feet away, close enough that he can still go back. But to what? he wonders aloud, and there is no good answer. There is no one left back there, no one that cares about him enough to accept him after all that he's done. And, by some cruel twist of irony, the only people that he cares enough to return to are the same people that he believes will be better off if he were simply gone.
He could disappear, resurface somewhere else, give himself a proper name or at least rediscover the one that he has since forgotten through misuse and dishonesty. He is a worthless human being. No one will miss him. Except for...
No. Best not to think about that. Even if he'd wanted to, that bridge is burned. What he did is still too recent, the scars too fresh.
Still, the idea of a new start, away from people who stare at him with disapproval or outright hatred, neither of which he denies them, is extremely appealing. He could go to Europe , start out right in France, maybe. He doesn't speak French, but that actually might be an advantage. It seems that speaking to people is when his problems begin.
Chaos cradles his head in his hands, suddenly all too aware of the boundaries between rain and tears, as the tears come hot and fast now. They are scalding him, punishing him for his wrongs. He doesn't care. He's earned the pain, earned it and a lot more. He stands, pacing back and forth between safety and the lip of the cliff, each time telling himself that this is it, this time he's just going to end it all, and not only that, he's going to do it at a run, by God. For once in his miserable life, he's not going to do anything half assed. He's going to do it right. But he doesn't do it, not the first time, and not the fourth time.
The car beckons him.
He believes in forgiveness. Of course he believes in forgiveness. Without a God to pray to, forgiveness is the closest thing to a religion that Chaos will allow himself. Unfortunately, he's most often preaching forgiveness to those around him, rather than practicing it.
He stumbles, and for a brief, giddy moment, he thinks that he is going over, but he manages to catch himself. As soon as he catches himself, he wonders why he bothered. That's what he came up here for, isn't it? Chaos stands there, assaulted by the rain, the wind, the chasm with its siren song promising peace, promising closure, and above all, promising forgiveness.
Chaos looks at the chasm, then back at the car, then back at the chasm, back and forth, until he resembles a potential suicide risk less than he does an avid spectator at a tennis match.
Finally, with a deep breath, Chaos makes his decision.