Not I.

When the end became inevitable- ruthlessness drained from him like so much sour sweat. 

Dually castrated, both power and position irreparably severed, he became the culmination of everything he never was- but could have saved himself- if only he had been. Humble. Gentle. Meek. Qualities that if he had employed them outside of the present theater of derision, might have served him well. But at this juncture? 

I cannot say, said metamorphose did not cause my heart to stray. Even go out to him at times. In fact, I was never kinder to the old man- than during the whole week before I killed him. 

Yet, when alas the final fetid draft did cross his lips, I was left to wonder if perhaps a mistake had not been made. 

The elation I had envisioned his ultimate expiration would bring- exhibited itself instead- as a vast emptiness. Sans the nurture of my festering abhorrence- existence, became all but meaningless.

Yes, the boundaries which divide life and death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where one ends, and where the other begins?

Not I.

Len, at Len’s Diary with his post, Twitter Plague, turned me on to this monthly writing challenge provided by Heretics, Lovers and Madmen. Ooo it was fun. I am looking forward to the prompt reveal for November.


6 thoughts on “Not I.

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