Let us, for the love of God, stop pretending we’re strangers to blood.
I struck you because you struck my sister; you hit her so hard that she died.
And you expected me to do nothing? To let you walk away? To experience the freedom of life and movement she no longer enjoyed?
I’m glad, then, she didn’t tell you about me. Glad that we were estranged. Glad she never answered my letters, once I told her of my choice.
I will concede, however, that you fought valiantly that night, beating back our attackers, even killing two or three; I can’t recall.
Your blade flashed among their limbs, and you looked every bit the warrior, doing the work mostly in silence.
And when it was over, you tended to her first; your ministrations preserved her until she could get proper care.
But I remained still, and the marks were already in my neck; you should have killed me then, but I guess you thought they’d murdered me, and decided to let the authorities handle it.
The young fool, she believed you when you said you loved her, believed you when you said you could offer her better.
Instead, you only traded one darkness for another, your need for someone bending to your will as primal as ours, but without the power to make it happen.
Bewildered, she fled from you, but rather than seek a weaker victim, you hunted her; was the trophy of her mortality worth the effort it took to track her, and slay her like the wounded animal you made of her?
And now you die, by my hand, by the very damnation you said you’d rescue her from.
Some would call this divine intervention, but the divine has nothing to do with us; it’s simply an elegant veneer over visceral savagery, the age-old life- and- death drama played out between predator and prey.
There is no refinement or culture to us, just more time to learn, to polish our acts, and our silver. More time to stack our gold, build our libraries, and study humanity, gleaning from the fallen grains of its heightening depravity, and dizzying plunges into hedonism.
We increase as you decrease, and time is a merciless crucible to human frailty.
Seeing you now, slumping against the wall, the paste of your life’s blood smeared on it as you try to hold onto your sad, useless existence, and having the taste of your tobacco and whiskey-laden blood stinging my cold lips, brings to me a satisfaction beyond revenge.