i. the idea is that the agonizing squeeze of misfortune after misfortune is the normal. seeing my own body cower beneath me; the dagger cold in my sweating palms, indenting my flesh with macabre intention. i plunge it through her neck and crimson spurts forth like i've struck a spring.
ii. the glinting blade is not the only thing that reeks of metal. the blood pooling beneath my feet, coating the floor in anguish. i watch as the last semblance of life twitches from her frantic limbs. she wanted this. i didn't.
iii. i kill me to preserve her innocence. i'm glad to have laid waste to my own self before she could be soiled by another's sins.
iv. then i witness her arising and yet again i pick up the dagger to send her careening back into torment. that is her eternal state, bloodied by the hands of her own soul.
v. someone for whom happiness is an omen for upcoming suffering does not deserve to eat of the sweet flesh it is made of. the fruit of joy must be picked by those that can appreciate the fleetingness of the taste. maybe i just haven't the affinity for it. thus, i must kill and i must die; the taste of blood in place of fruit.

“so what’s for dinner?”
well, depends. how rude were you today?

Conclave (2024)