By Jack E. Lope

I don’t want you dead. At least, not anymore. I used to dream of the moment that you would draw your last breath. Every day for years I would put all of my time and energy into the preparation of your death, spending every second of my existence preparing, training and imagining all of the best ways to make you suffer. This thirst for vengeance was so strong that I ended up completely forgetting who I was outside of my hatred of you. I lost myself in my anger and despair, but that’s exactly what you want isn’t it? To take up as much space in people’s minds as possible no matter the reason. So no, I don’t want you dead, I want you forgotten. I want your name to fade from history along with any iota of information showing that you ever existed. I want for those that you killed to be remembered not for the horrible ways that you took their lives, but for the kind and amazing people they were in life. To be remembered for the great things that they accomplished outside of you and your cruelty, and to have their names and legacies unmarred by your existence.

 I want for those who suffered under your thumb to be able to live their lives happily without worrying about seeing your face in their nightmares. For any memory of you to fade from their minds, and for them to be able to look in the mirror without connecting your actions to the scars that you marred their bodies with. I want for your choices, your cruelty, your hatred, to fade from the records of history. For you to disappear completely, and despite how hard you tried to be remembered, no matter how high the cost, that it all accounts for nothing. And when the rest of the world forgets your name and your face and all of your horrible actions, I hope that I forget you too. That I am able to live my life free of the horrors that you inflicted upon every fiber of my being. That I am able to smile without being weighed down by the horrible things that you put me through. To dream peacefully of joyful memories rather than of the monsters you unleashed upon my life. Then, and only then, do I give you permission to die. Alone, afraid, and forgotten. With the knowledge that your great legacy, your pride and joy, is nothing more than a few pink scars and a bit of rubble in a forgotten city. So no, I don’t want you dead. I want you to live, to live and see exactly how little you truly matter.

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Jack is a New Mexico resident and lover of all things a little bit creepy. He enjoys writing short pieces of fiction and when not writing he is working as a baker or reading ghost stories in a tree.