Fill the World with Beauty

Kurt is hiding, huddled under the table and rocking gently back and forth with one hand clutching the old dog’s collar. His eyes never leave me, his face pale and streaked with tears as the policeman strides around the room. Aunt Mary, with her red nose and greying hair is attempting to pull him out. He won’t budge and he’s starting to moan softly in terror. He hates policemen.

“So you haven’t seen anything?” the officer is asking, “Heard anything suspicious or strange in the last few days?”

Aunt Mary is shaking her head, not really listening. Her attention is on Kurt, smoothing his ruffled hair and continuing to tug him out of his hiding place.

“How about you son?” the policeman is asking

I am filled with a bubbling rage, some demon deep within me stirring emotion I believe I had buried months ago. But it is surfacing now, erupting from my chest in a burst of intense anger.

“I’m not your son” I snarl

I am nothing to him and nothing to Aunt Mary. She is my mothers half sister and has spent the majority of her life on the small farm we are now forced to reside on. I feel nothing for her, no connection, no blood ties she so often speaks of when she has gulped down the drink that clutters the basement. I too have no respect for the police. For a fleeting moment I wish I was Kurt’s age, innocent enough to squash under the table and shut out everything I have seen and done. Except now Kurt has seen it too. He’s been exposed to true evil and real beauty. I’ve snatched away his innocence and I don’t regret it. My mind is plagued with memories of the last encounter with the police, of hearing sirens blazing and knowing every last trace of comfort and security was tarnished. When you lose you family, when you have to explain to your brother that you are all he has left other than memories of policemen tearing his world apart, you have to fill that emptiness with something else. My entire head is swollen with untouchable nothingness, clouded with confusion and grief. And there is only one thing that penetrates the engulfing fog.

The policeman is giving up now, thanking Aunt Mary for her time. She is showing him out, her face twisted in disgust, leaving me alone with Kurt. He is still holding the dog, blinking at me and silently begging me to make everything alright.

“Are we going to jail?” he asks trembling

I know I should reassure him, tell his that we are staying in Aunt Mary’s drink smelling farmhouse, safe and shielded from the nightmares I have exposed him to. But I don’t want safety and security knowing it could be snatched away at any moment. I’m thinking of the sanctuary of a prison cell, the comforting feeling of being enclosed and the things I can do to fill myself with the joy I have lacked for a long time. I’ll have a cellmate, a pale by with deep piercing eyes and unkempt hair. I’ll wait until the dark of some night when his snores fill my ears and I can almost picture the peaceful softness of his face in the bunk above mine. And then I’ll smile as I slither from my bed and observe him in the surrounding dimness. And then I’ll do everything that fills me with swelling happiness, the actions I have restrained all my life. There will be a knife under my pillow, and I’ll retrieve it as my heart begins to thud with anticipation. It will be like a scene from a comic book, a preview of what is to come in my life as the kind of person who dominates others nightmares.

But I have never told anyone why, there’s no origin story, no neat little boxes detailing my decline. No, “See last weeks issue when the central character spent the night in his local cemetery with his brother and dug up a grave, and witnessed the unthinkable”
No “see several years ago’s issue when he held his newborn brother Kurt in his scrawny matchstick arms and promised to protect him from everything”

There will just be me, the knife and the victim I have fallen in love with. I’ll press my hand onto his forehead, gently pushing him down as I draw the knife across his throat. This image is so clear within my head that I can almost fell his warm blood trickling over my fingers. His eyes are open a crack, pupils wide with pain and sweat beginning to pour down his pale face

“Please” I’m screaming deep within myself, “Please understand, I don’t hurt out of hate. The last thing my mother said to Kurt before she died was “fill the world with beauty”

He whispers it every night as he clutches her rosary. But this is beauty, not the false images society has fed us. Please don’t shelter your children from the documentaries they’ll make about my atrocities. Please, don’t stop walking alone at night. Death is beautiful too and I am too ugly to embrace it. I’m still alive because I am not worthy of dying the way my victims will. Please stop pretending I don’t exist”

It’s true, I have clambered into the bunk and wrapped my arms around the boy as his breathing becomes strained. The bed sheets, imprinted with the prison logo are becoming soaked in blood. I’m stroking the boys hair gently, begging him to understand. It’s a short period of pain for a lifetime of escape. A sacrifice worth making, the preview of next weeks comic. “Next issue see pale boy enter his own vision of afterlife, free from the torture he has endured throughout his time on earth.
They give you the price of the next issue, because the world is obsessed with money.
He is whimpering, croaky grunts because of the gaping slit in his neck. Yet I know he understands because he allows me to kiss him, bloods washing over my lips and filling my mouth with a sweet metallic sensation. I’m holding my victim as his shallow breaths slow to a halt and knowing I am witnessing something truly beautiful. It has not been warped by the media or diluted by a world dominated by wealth. It’s just me and my victim, holding each other in the blood soaked bed, in the comic book with no price.

Kurt isn’t like me though. He doesn’t understand corruption and death. He’s scared and confused and wants to go home.

“We’re going to jail, we’re going to jail” he’s moaning
Aunt Mary has shown the policeman out and is fumbling for her glass of vodka. I know I have to talk to Kurt about what’s happened, tell him he is not to blame. I’m leading him upstairs to the blackness of my new bedroom, littered with drawings of the pale boy and the injuries I plan to inflict on others.

His eyes are wide and I know he’s seen too much.

I’m thinking back to that night, slipping outside into crisp darkness, a shovel cutting into my shoulder as a carry it slung behind me. Kurt jogged beside me, a woolly jumper knitted by our mother thrown over his patched pyjamas. I’d taken him from his bed, wrenched his teddy from his arms and dragged him into the sharpness of the cold night air. He is silent for the entire walk to the cemetery, shivering with cold and looking around wildly.

“We can’t” he’s protesting, “We’ll get haunted”

I almost want to smile at his innocence; he thinks that the graveyard contains only spirits with the ability to possess. I am about to shatter his internal image of cartoon ghosts and cartoon tombstones, replace it with something that only in my vision of a perfect world will infiltrate children’s television. It is the vision of this which has dragged me from the bed where I never sleep, in the house where no one ever smiles. I’m begging, praying to no one in particular to allow darkness to dominate.

“Please” I whisper in the blackness, staring towards the graves, “Let Kurt live in a world where he won’t be judged if he kills someone. Let my fantasies be praised by the masses who have had their eyes and minds opened to what is beautiful. Let them lift me above their heads and allow me to destroy, and kiss me when the world I have created is torn apart. Let Kurt be by my side, appreciating the bodies piling up around him, offered food on golden plates from dead beasts of afterlives envisioned. Their horns, rising several inches from their head and soaked with exploitation and evil will be lowered in a bow of respect. Kurt will be their master, they will be his slaves. Let my killings be condemned by the brainwashed and honoured by those I have saved”

We are standing over a grave now, freshly filled and with no tombstone. This is the newly dead, I can feel the struggle for life pulsing beneath my feet. I plunge the shovel into the ground, the dirt loose and flaky. Kurt’s mouth is hanging open in horror.

“Stop it” he gasps

He’s too young to understand, I’ll have to force it.

“Why?” I ask

His eyes are bulging, the dull wind bristling his uncombed hair. He’s been controlled by society, his young mind dependent on what he has been fed by it.

“It’s wrong” he is protesting feebly

Digging up graves in the dead of night, I’m wondering who sat down one day and decided “this is wrong, there should be an unspoken acceptance that it is unacceptable” Whoever they were, they were clearly not filled with the same aching desire that consumes me. I feel alive with a corpse in my arms.

“Say’s who” I challenge Kurt

“God” he whispers

I have to laugh at him. If he is allowing himself to be defined by falsity then he is one of the undeserving. The dead, the beautiful stench of the graves is wasted on his narrow mind. I’m telling myself that I still love him, that he is my brother and we have the same blood and I promised myself I would protect him. But I am a failure because he is controlled by expectations and dominated by false values. His comic has a price, the pictures contained within neat square boxes. Tears are beginning to slide down my face because I have lost my little brother to phoniness. I seize him by the back of the jumper, pulling him towards me in an attempt to snatch him back.

“Remember what Mum told you” I hiss, “About filling the world with beauty? Well this is beauty, so pay attention”

He’s too shocked to argue. I’ve never dragged him or pulled him around like that in my life. I don’t think I’ve ever even shouted at him before. He drops to his knees and begins to scrabble at the dirt, his claw like hands scratching against the cold surface. I’m continuing to dig, desperate for the inevitable thunk and my spade makes contact with the coffin.

I’m recalling stories printed in the local newspaper about a girl my age for dead in her bathroom. This is her grave, her funeral was held yesterday. I remember looking at her picture, delicate pronounced cheekbones and deathly pale skin and knowing she deserved the escape of death. They’d found her in the bathtub, Aunt Mary said. She’d known the girl’s parents, her father ran the liquor store.

When at last we’ve unearthed the coffin I’m knee deep in muck and Kurt is looking sceptically at me.
“They lock them” he says, leaning over the grave, “You can’t get them open”

He’s lain down on his stomach, arms dangling over the opening of the pit. I know he is tired and cold and scared. I know I should take him home, tuck him into bed and promise him that it’s over. But I can’t bear to, not when I’m so close to everything I’ve dreamed of. I’m striking the locks with the shovel, ramming it into the metal until a low, muffled groan reassures me that something perfect has not been destroyed by materialism. Kurt scoots backwards, a look of utmost terror on his face.

“Stop it” he screams, “It’s a zombie”

I want to hit him suddenly, I’m hoping she doesn’t hear what he’s called her because unlike everyone else, I know that the dead can think, and process, and drag others to the depths of their underworld. I’m sliding the coffin lid into the mud, leaning into the box structure and smiling at what has been contained within its wooden walls. There are white roses carefully laid on her chest, a deep gash in her throat which is matted with blood and swollen. Her eyes are swollen too from tears cried throughout her time as the living. I’m reaching into the coffin, winding my fingers into hers. She’s icy cold, yet she grips my hand tights.

Kurt is hysterical

“It’s moving” he’s crying, “”It’s moving. We’re going to jail, its a curse...it’s zombies! We’re dead!”

He wont stop crying, his screams becoming steadily more panicked. I’m ignoring him, holding out my other hand to help her out the coffin. She’s shaking, gripping me tightly and whimpering softly. And in a sudden burst of magic she is in my arms. My face feels distorted from smiling; I don’t think I’ve grinned like this in years. I brush worms from her dark hair, gently stroke away dirt from her face. She’s paler than I imagined, but just as beautiful.

“Come on” I whisper, hoisting her out of the ditch.

Kurt is cowering on the ground, hands over his face and whining quietly to himself. I’m begging him to understand, appreciate that what I have pulled from the ground is not evil or frightening but something he has to whiteness to ensure he is not one of the masses brainwashed by media perfection. I know him better than anyone, and I know the way his comic is written. Safely priced and with “The End” in bold capitals at the conclusion. But there is no end because even in death there are ways to challenge corruption which has engulfed you. I know Kurt wants to wake up in his own bed, our parents snoring softly in the next room. But nobody in the world seems to understand that I can only fade into that comforting peacefulness when I am holding the dead. I place a hand on Kurt’s shoulder, feeling him shiver violently.

“Let’s go” I whisper

He is scrambling to his feet, slipping his hand into mine. I have the girl on one side, Kurt on the other and feel more powerful than ever. My brother understands. And I have the most perfect corpse’s fingers entwined in mine, lacing us together in our shared loneliness. Th sweet stench of flesh beginning to rot fills my nostrils, and I feel I will burst with pleasure. But I am also filled with a deep sadness and swamping confusion that the world of the living is overwhelmed by ugliness and falsity while the world of the dead is soaked in delicate splendour.

We are making our way back to Aunt Mary’s farmhouse. I’ll take Kurt to bed, hug him tight and thank him for all he’s sacrificed. And then I can smile to myself in the darkness, holding the girl and knowing that I am truly and escapee of the world’s control. Her hand, despite being clasped in mine, is cold as though freshly dug. It’s reassuring, the coldness seeping into my skin. It’s giving me strength, filling me with the energy and determination required to allow darkness to flood the earth. I picture death as a mass of black water, seeping into every cranny of the uninfected. I see people, their houses slowly filling with the murky liquid as they cling desperately to the stools on which they are perched. They’re screaming, blackness licking at their toes and washing every trace of life into the underworld. And then there are the willing, the ones who throw themselves from cliffs and bridges into the dark liquid below. They call out as they fall that it is all for me, the earth and the underworld. The Dead and the Living.

I’m thanking then as I lay down in bed that night, the girl, a symbol of the radiance of death in my arms. I can feel the delicate notches of her spine pressing against me, making me shiver. Suddenly she whimpers softly, a quiet cry which makes me tighten my grip protectively.

“I want to go home” she says
She turns around, burying her face in my chest. When the dead cry, they cry tears of blood. I can feel the red liquid tricking across my stomach. It’s warm and fills me with a sense of peace. This cant be wrong, there cannot be any sin in bringing the dead into your bed and laying in comforting darkness. To leave the dead alone in a coffin to cry without comfort is what will cause an eruption. Thier tears will build up, bubbling underground until the earth can stand it no longer. I’m stroking the girls hair gently, aware of the bed becoming slowly soaked in blood.

“You can” I say, “One day we’ll all go home. One day I’ll create a perfect world, a collision of life and death”

She lifts her head to look at me, a smile shining through the tears. I wipe the worst of the blood from her face with the sheets and press my forehead against hers. I can taste the sweet metallic liquid trickle into my mouth as I kiss her.

“I always said I was doing it for my brother” I whisper, “But now I’m doing it for you”

It is the first time since moving to Aunt Mary’s that I have felt truly happy. My fantasies are beginning to infect the real world and I know it is only the beginning. I have a constant companion, a rotting corpse to kiss as I am crowned the king of the underworld. Something so beautiful and removed from a suffocating society will wrap it’s cold skinny arms around me as we watch the black liquid engulf the world.

But I can’t allow myself to imagine that now, not when Aunt Mary has a photograph from my old life clutched drunkenly in her hand. She’s downstairs, sobbing as she stares at that person, removed entirely from what I have become. I am upstairs with Kurt and the dead, yet I hear the frame smash as she drops it to the floor. Kurt sees the blood soaked bed and the girl curled up in it and starts to wail. I press my hand over his mouth and lift him onto my lap. She’s shaking furiously, wriggling and kicking against my grip.

“Kurt” I grunt, surprised at his strength, “Stop it, its okay”

“I’ve told them” he bursts out, jerking away, “I told them all at show and tell that you have a zombie in your room, in your bed. I said “my brother’s girlfriend’s a zombie” and everyone laughed, even the teacher. But it’s not funny, I want to go home”

I smile knowingly. He has no idea how similar he is to the dead. I’ve released my grip, yet he is still on my lap and glancing anxiously at the girl. I place one arm around her and hug Kurt with the other.

“This is what Mum meant” I say, “When she told you to fill the world with beauty”

He’s finally starting to process this and blinks nervously at the girl.

“Are you going to eat my brains” he asks innocently

“That’s TV Kurt” I say, “People with no concept of death and no imagination making stupid films. They’ll be the first to die when we take over”

He has reached across my knees and clasped the girl’s hand tight. I’m filled with pride in him for understanding. I can see it all, the house I’ll erect among the corpses and endless sea’s of blood. We can stay there, safe and rulers of the dead. My bride, my brother and me. I see bloody tears of joy fall down her cheeks in joy of Kurt’s acceptance. I draw my family closer, feeling my heart leap with satisfaction. This is the end of issue one of my comic, the conclusion to my origin story. The next chapter begins now I have found my sidekicks. I’ll be the superhero of the forgotten, a saviour of the brainwashed. I can’t fly or strike the corrupted with a bolt of lightning, but I can take then to a world where no one is defined by money or status.

“It’s not real” Kurt says suddenly, dropping her hand, “There’s no other world, there’s nowhere to go home to. There’s just us, here, in this house”

I intake breath sharply and push him off my knee. I’m desperately trying to cling to the fantasy, convince myself that Kurt is simply not old enough to understand. But his eyes show wisdom, he’s seen to much to be entirely childish. I look back at the girl, my bride, my love and my death. She is simply a corpse, stolen from a grave in the dead of night. She does not cry, or bleed, or love me. There is no life left in her body and I can’t bear it.

“No” I scream

I’m screaming until my throat burns and tears slide from my eyes. Kurt stares as I tear desperately at my own hair, ripping it out in clumps. It is tangled in my fingers in place of the girl’s hand as my heart thuds furiously. I didn’t know her in life but I feel I knew her in death. I cannot stand the idea that I am just another lunatic and I have taken her away from her final resting place. I won’t be a saviour, I won’t cause destruction or resurrect the beauty that has been suffocated and repressed for so long. I will be placed in a unit for the insane; I will be left to rot. I cannot allow myself to become a number, one of the thousands of people who have lost their minds in a world where the dead remain dead and the living are dying.

I find myself fumbling under the bed for Aunt Mary’s late husband’s gun. He was my Uncle George, and overweight balding man who had a bizarre obsession with shooting cans in the fields. He would disappear for hours, returning with cans riddled with holes like Swiss cheese and grinning like a maniac. I remember his beaming red face as he entered the house, the weekend I had been forced to spend with him as a young child. He died when I was eight.

I was at his bedside.

“You look after that brother of yours” he had croaked

I was clutching Kurt, only weeks old as I survey him carefully. He lay perfectly still, although every few seconds his hand twitched, almost as though he was reaching for his gun.

“Kiss your Uncle” Aunt Mary instructed

I’m thinking back now as I run my fingers over the gun. She looked so much younger, despite sobbing desperately. She hadn’t yet discovered the liquor store.

“I can’t” I protested, “He’ll get germs on Kurt”

Without warning I have the gun pressed into my brother’s forehead and my finger on the trigger.

“You want to be with Mum don’t you?” I say, “I’m doing this for you”

The colour drains from his face, leaving him milky pale and shaking. He closes his eyes tight, his face screwed up in terror and breathing rapidly. I am filled with an overwhelming love; I have to force myself to even imagine harming him.

“Please” he begs, “Please don’t”

I feel every urge to destroy melt away as I lower my weapon. His eyes shoot open and he darts towards me. Ignoring the corpse, his arms are around my neck and his fluffy hair brushing in my face. For the first time in months I feel a connection to something real. His heart is beating against mine as I gather him up in my arms and carry him downstairs. I have to confess, I have to explain, before the end of everything.

Aunt Mary is slumped in her armchair, eyes heavy with the drink and hair matted. She has more photographs scattered in her lap, some of Uncle George with me and the gun. He has his large hands on my bony shoulders and the gun tucked under one arm. I look terrified.

“I know where the body is” I blurt out

Kurt’s grip on me tightens as she struggles to her feet. Her eyes struggle to focus through intoxication as she reaches out to me.

“Where did I go wrong?” she slurs, “My favourite nephew, my boy”

“Shut up” I scream, “I have to tell you. The dead girl, the corpse. It’s in my room and I had her in my bed. And I won’t let you tell me that it’s wrong because I’ve never loved anyone so much in all my life”

I have the gun aimed now, but she’s too drunk to notice. Whispering to Kurt to close his eyes, I feel a surge throw me backwards onto the filthy carpet. I’m still cling to Kurt, his fingernails digging into my shoulder. His heart seems to have grinded to a halt and he’s gulping rapidly. I’m pulling myself into a sitting position and staring at Aunt Mary’s lifeless body on the floor. Smoke is rising from the bullet hole in her forehead. I’d forgotten how powerful the gun was. Her eyes are still open, but unfocused as though she has reached the end of another drinking binge. Yet I know this is not true because she is dead.

And dead means dead now that everything has changed.

“Do you hate me?” I whisper to Kurt

He shakes his head, still burrowed against me. I’m getting to my feet and stepping over the body, the gun clasped in my free hand. There are houses surrounding the farm, I could burst into each of them, murder the occupants and allow the town to be flooded by the blood they have spilled. Maybe I’ll leave behind a boy who will become insane and disturbed by what I have forced him to witness. Maybe he’ll feel his insides twist inside him and sob until he doesn’t even have the energy to eat. Maybe he’ll become like me, with the same visions and hopes and fantasies. Maybe we’ll meet one day in a unit for the insane when I am an old man. And I can shake him by the hand and say “I have made you what you are”

But his expression of hurt and betrayal is too real. He stares at me with hard, hating eyes and blames me for his destruction/. However much I want to kill the corrupted, I cannot bring myself to do it in a world without the fantasy I depend on. I cannot force someone else to tell their brother that he is alone and without comfort or security. I place Kurt gently on the ground.

“Listen to me” I say slowly, “I want you to listen carefully Kurt, because this is the last chance I’ll get”

His face looks defiant through tears, as though he really will raise the dead and be served food on golden plates by beasts. I shake me head and try to bring myself back to reality. He is a frightened little boy. He has witnessed his parent’s death, his aunt’s murder and his brother digging up a grave. He has known nothing but fear in his short life and in a final act of love I am going to rectify this.

“Run to the police station” I tell him, “Tell them Aunt Mary is dead and the girl’s in the bedroom. They’ll find you somewhere to stay”

We’re outside of the farmhouse now and I’m looking back at it. It has never felt like a home, especially not for Kurt. This way he’ll be somewhere safe, away from drunken relatives and painful memories. I want him to leave, run without a word so I don’t have to dwell on the fact that this is goodbye. But he throws himself at me, dragging me to the ground and onto sticky wet grass. I don’t attempt to resist, allowing the weight of his tiny body to pull me to my knees.

“You’ll see her again” he whispers

I feel tears choke in my throat as he gets to his feet, looking lost. I’m trying to internalise every detail of his face. I have protected him all his life, from Uncle George and local bullies and from the materialist, corrupt views of others. But he is the strong one, he is going to live. He’ll go out into the world and challenge the thing I’ve shielded him from but he won’t be like me. He won’t be sick or twisted, he’ll have the courage to find beauty in something other than death.

He’s running now, heading away from the house. Stumbling through slippery grass because his knees are shaking violently. I watch with pride as he runs into the sunlight.

The gun seems to be burning in my hand. I’m stroking it softly, recalling the way the cans shuddered as they were penetrated by solid, deadly bullets. My fantasies are begging to bubble and spill over as I am surrounded by ugly, blood soaked beasts. Their eyes bulge from their misshapen skulls, mouths stitched shut, silencing them forever. The largest clutches a golden plate, studded with jewels and containing a single human heart. It beats steadily, despite being severed from its owner. I reach forward, accepting their offering and snatching it from the plate. The beast attempts to smile, its mouth straining against the stitches causing more blood to spill down its face. I am not repulsed, clutching the beating heart in my hand and feeling its slippery texture against my skin. Without warning it is in my mouth and I am tearing shreds of flesh from its surface. The metallic taste reminds me of precious days spent with my bride, her tears filling my bed. The beasts are nodding in approval, some clapping their hands in crazed delight and celebration.

I’m thinking, “Is this death? Is this really what happens when you die? Will I really spend eternity under the control of beasts who show no love or affection?”

And within seconds I am on the ground, an intense fiery ain shuddering in my chest. I have caused myself irreparable damage, blood pumping steadily from a neat hole in my flesh. I place my hands over the wound, grunting and writhing on the ground. I’m begging the beasts, just one of them, to hold my hand pr kneel beside me.

“Please” I wail silently, “Just help me somehow. Stay with me; tell me lies like everything is going to be alright. Because this isn’t a beautiful death and I am too ugly and worthless to die. I am dying alone, please don’t leave me”

Suddenly I am aware of someone pulling me gently backwards. Cold hands stroke my sweat soaked hair out of my face. My bride has joined me again and my pleas have been answered. She is dragging me onto her lap, one hand supporting my neck as I lay lifeless in her arms. She leans over to kiss me, the scent of rot more prominent than ever. The silky material of her dress is comforting, and I am burrowing into her. I have lost every trace of greatness; I am another lunatic bleeding to death on the ground.

Another murderer, another victim.

She wrenches my hands from the bullet hole, causing me to tense and whimper desperately> Pain is erupting throughout my body and I want nothing more than death to swallow me. The girl is massaging me chest gently, carefully avoiding the hole. It is so soothing that I want to allow myself to drift into nothingness. But I cannot allow myself to die yet. I have to tell her something, I can’t close my eyes without saying it. I’m struggling to raise my head, feeling blood cascade over my ribs.

“I-I love you” I garble before collapsing onto her again.

I can barely think, my breath fading to a ragged wheeze. The girl smoothes my hair, brushing away tears that are beginning to slide down my face. I won’t carry out any atrocities, I wont be know by the world as something to be feared.

But maybe that’s okay, maybe there is a reason I am dying now. Maybe something can come out of this other than two new bodies in the cemetery. Maybe in removing myself from his life, I have given Kurt a future.

My lungs suddenly refuse to allow air to enter. I am dimly aware that tears of blood are splashing onto me from above, tricking over my face. I close my eyes, the girl holding me tighter as though attempting to keep me in the world I planned to destroy. I am going somewhere I will not be powerful, I will be a slave to those I have wronged. I can see myself serving the kings of death who sit on thrones I once dreamed of erecting from the corpses. But the girl is by my side and that is all that matters. When I return to my home in the after life after a day of serving the lords, she will be there. I can hold her close and whisper that this is what it’s going to be like for eternity. I will be an ordinary slave in a place where the evil are sent. I won’t stand out or be in any way exceptional. No one will turn and stare at me and whisper.

I will be dead, but with a beautiful wife and free of corruption

And I can’t fucking wait!