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?
© 2019 Violet Lentz
You can read more Violet’s work at Thru Violet’s Lentz.