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Apo doesn’t want to leave the prison, and it is a deeply conflicting feeling. The prison is dark, and it is miserable, and he struggles to sleep at night. He hasn’t seen the sun or breathed fresh air in weeks. Every day, every hour, every moment he’s down here, he’s reminded of what he’s done. None of that means he wants to leave, though, not really.
He’s helpless, really. Apo holds no power in this situation, no defense against the people who want him down here, who either wish him the same repentance and contrition he wishes himself or who wish him nothing more than punishment. But when someone has done what he’s done, caused what he’s caused, maybe helpless is what they need to be. Maybe helpless is what he needs to be.
His helplessness is that of a dog chained to a fence in the backyard, locked up so it stays right where it is, where they can see it, watch it, know exactly where it is at all times. Leave it there where it can’t do what it did again, can’t do what lost it the privilege to be free, to be trusted, to be where everyone else is. To be among the people who cared for it such that they put it outside, chained it up, declawed it or put a muzzle on it, whatever they needed to do, whatever was necessary.
A dog chained outside is there for a reason. The dog has lashed out, bit, clawed, torn, destroyed. Apo has destroyed, too. He’s destroyed Clearing 2, and some of Clearing 1, and he’s destroyed the trust people had in him, the relationships he had with almost everyone. Like the dog, he’s hurt people as well. So many people.
That is the reason he’s down here, and that is the reason the dog is chained to the fence. That is what necessitated it in their eyes, in the eyes of everyone else, in the eyes of the dog’s owners. That is what chained the dog, is what required it be stopped from making the same gory mistakes it made one too many times before, because it just can’t be trusted not to hurt, not to harm.
Apo is here because he has hurt people. He is here because the others don’t trust him. He is here so he cannot harm again. To leave, to run, to escape, is to deny that. To claim a trustworthiness he does not have, to take control of the hands that already hurt countless others. He can’t do that, can’t leave.
Sure, he wants freedom and happiness, wants a conscience that doesn’t threaten to crush him under the guilt. He doesn’t want to be in the prison. That doesn’t mean he wants to leave it.
He doesn’t want to escape, at least. There was a key stashed away in the cell that he would never use. Sillvia had given it to him, told him to use it and run, hide, leave before his absence had even been noticed. They’d refused to take it back, so it had gone under his pillow, where it’s going to stay.
He doesn’t want to leave like that, doesn’t want to break his chain and run out of the yard, escape into the night. But maybe if he sits and stays for long enough, if he’s sorry enough and docile enough, he can one day wash some of the deep-stained blood off of his hands. Just maybe.
Sometimes it feels like there’s so much blood on his hands that it would be better to cut them off instead. To cut out his tongue that he can still feel all of his lies on. Lose all the sinning parts of him until he’s clean again. Would he be let back in then? Would he be unchained and led inside and trusted, allowed to be good again?
If the dog could be gentle and silent, sit and bow its head and allow itself to be controlled, allow a hand to rest on its head, maybe the chain could loosen and the weight of the hand could lighten and the door would open once again. It’s a nice thought; a desperate hope, even.
——————
That thought isn’t the one Apo sees through. Instead a gust of wind blows the fence down, the chain left untethered. The dog looks between the opening door and the forests beyond and it runs and it doesn’t look back.
Apo escapes into the maze without ever wanting to, lets Bek lead him through the corridors to Clearing 2, regrets leaving as soon as the moment is over, as soon as the panic dies down. It was a split second decision, one made with adrenaline rushing through his body and everybody’s eyes on him. He’d take it back if he could.
It hasn’t been long. He isn’t far out into the maze, isn’t far beyond the blown over fence. He could go back. He could return, tuck his tail between his legs and bow his head and stay. Be chained up again right where they want him, where he needs to be. He could make himself helpless.
He wants to be back. Wants to lean back, expose his neck, his stomach, admit and show that he is guilty, that he is penitent. Show he can be trusted, can be good, that he won’t harm, won’t run again. He never wanted to. He never wanted any of this.
He doesn’t think he can handle offering that vulnerability. Not now. Not to them. When Magic finds him a few days later, though, he finds it in him, asks her to please just take him back to the clearing. It’s better if it's her, better if Apo is found instead of turning himself in, better if no one could misunderstand the situation and try to hurt him.
She doesn’t do it. Instead she tells him the truth about Bek; what she did, why she helped him escape, why she’s been trying to convince him to stay in the maze with her. Apo confronts Bek afterwards, tells her to survive on her own or go back to the clearing, and leaves without knowing where he’s going.
——————
Apo’s been alone in the maze for a while now; a runaway, a stray with no one to watch it, no hand planted on its head or holding onto its chain, a chain that weighs it back and drags behind it as it walks. He doesn’t want to be back in the prison anymore. He’s starting to realize that he never needed to.
He’s also starting to realize that maybe the dog did not need to be chained. Maybe the dog cannot be good in the same way again. Maybe it simply drags its unfixed chain with it for the rest of its life. Maybe that is all it can do. And maybe Apo can live with the guilt, with the reality of his actions, the reality of what happened, and maybe he can still move forward. Maybe moving forward is all he can do.