As I faded back into the awareness of my current presence, my mind showed me what a significant change had overrun me. I was a killer. I am a killer. But was I once a man? Is the capacity to be ruthless what it means to be human? Surely the world tells me so. Or is to reject the evil so inherent to man’s very nature what it means to truly become human?
It was only ever about choice…those brief moments when I might stare fate in the eyes. And defy him. I was never cursed with the ability to feel remorse. My only desire was to prove that I alone was able to dictate the course of my future. I was a hero to some, a villain to most. It’s a disease. I once felt such a strong contempt for those who wasted away trading sweet affection with the lips of a replenishing glass. Only later did I realize that killing was my glass, and it was never full. It’s a disease. How miserable to realize your are the mere insignificance you so readily scorn. It’s a…
But those beautiful moments of fulfillment. The euphoria, if only for a second, of watching the manifestation of my own will. And what greater will than to rule over death himself. But the truth is that I can’t even rule my own death. It isn’t chains that hold me. No, they at the very least allow the preservation of dignity. It’s not chains that hold me. It’s strings.
Death is a puppeteer.