The Blade of the Hand
The kind soul; the empathizer; even the lighthearted- bound to a thousand deaths by literature.
What’s left? The pain? The ruin? The cruel parts of the world? I continue writing, adding yet another knife to the mere words on the page. Who will be the next one to kiss the hands of Death?
Into the climax.
Will it be the jokester? The generous? Possibly the honest? Or maybe all three.
After: the brave. The faithful. The shy.
Personalities written away from the narrative.
And in the grande finale of it all, I kill off one last character with a stroke of a pen- my humanity.
My sentence is waiting to be finished. My mind is waiting for my decision. My pen is waiting kill. Jasper or Cyprus? Who will be next to feel the peace that comes with death?
I choose Cyprus in hopes that I will feel something. But I feel just as I did when I killed Kate, Bryce, Josh, and many others; nothing.
I have brought these characters to life in books, and novels and yet as I kill them I feel nothing. The more characters I kill, the less I feel of any emotion. Sadness and grief feel like dystopian emotions. Happiness and joy feel like utopian emotions. The only emotion I feel-if it even counts as an emotion- is nothing. My characters feel nothing when I put an end to their life, and I feel just the same. Maybe I kill them on purpose just so I won’t feel any “dystopian” or “utopian” emotions. I don’t kill my characters to fulfill my desire of murder. I guess I kill them on purpose wanting to feel emotion but get relieved when I don’t.