Confessing to Murder

I dream of killing you, my hands entwined around your pale throat, veins bulging from your face like writhing worms, blood vessels bursting lightning strikes across the whites of your eyes as the last breath escapes your cold lips. You are the inheritor of my vengeance, the murderer of my innocence, the keeper of the key to my prison of rage. Fury flows like fire through my veins at the faintest whisper of your name just as a spell from a wizard’s lips ignites the æther into being.

You’ll never know the sting of an empty home, the maddening silence that creeps into your every thought, or the entirety of the cold, calculated pain that created me. I swam in tears shed for you wishing it was enough to drown me, to quell the sweet echoes of children’s laughter haunting me. You planted these seeds of death and nurtured them with your poison. Behold your creation, your destroyer, and your end.

I’ve risen from the ashes to be this avatar of hate and loathing. I only wish I could cleanse my soul of these toxins that are just as much a part of me now as I am of them. These things I confess to you with the only bit of mercy I’ve left to bear in hopes that you, the great toxicologist, were smart enough to create an antidote. For now, only through dreams of your death am I free, momentarily, of the torture you’ve sown into my life. For now…