That wicked feeling, come the red queen

-

Poor man, Snively, age thirty-one, born to be a king, now looked down upon as a clown.

"Imbecile."

Join his play, practice and die, for the course of retribution, when the surface of the world twists itself into a frown.

"Stupid fool."

Come plenty, leave as a few, sing and dance, happiness and smiles.

"Some people don't even deserve this."

Poor man, Snively, age thirty-one, destined for gold, not content with sand.

"You know, you really were a true killer at one point."

Like birds and bees, upon the winds of denial.

"Just like they."

Silver threads and things to treasure.

"Just like he."

Heartbreak and scars.

"Just like she."

Poor man, Snively, age thirty-one, jaws, jars, key vain and stuck behind bars.

"Just like I."

Poor man, Snively, age thirty-one, moonlight shines, decisions must be made, wishes are offered, to once more see the day.

"Killers the lot of us."

Poor man, Snively, age thirty-one, all pale, all whine.

"Screaming, tearing, reveling, flailing."

Starry night, touched by the collapse of his isle, lonely man stirred to do the deeds of one.

"Always waiting for the right moment to strike; a moment that never arrived."

Poor man, Snively, age thirty-one, mind lost to the passing of time.

"Idiots."

Poor man, Snively, age thirty-one, body torn, rended down, hours of filth, the hard work that brings no shine.

"This is what you get for being you."

And look, there in the corner, one half of a carcass lies, red and black joined by blue, metal-to-metal, everyone knows it's true.
And look, there in the corner, yet another half of a carcass lies, blue and red and white, green and flesh, sprawled forever, never to rise again.
And look, there on the floor, two more bodies lie, brown and red and orange and white, scant pieces of blue, scattered for disbelieving with their eyes.

"Ask, and I'll deliver."

Poor man, Snively, age thirty-one, face smeared with blood.

"Idiotic killers."

And look, there, at the far end of the corridor, skull pierced by jagged shards of misdirected love, tongue and teeth lost to the beating and the cracks, the head of Miles Prower sleeps.

"No more."

-

"This isn't happening," this isn't happening. Shake my head, spin around on the spot slowly. "I couldn't have done this."

They're all dead.

Each of them, dead - vital fluids and organs splattered on the metal walls and floor. Did I do this?
"How?" no answer, because the dead don't speak. They prefer to listen, and rant in absolute silence. Yet, I'm still here, still alive, still holding a partially drained gun and an oversized knife.

It's all pretty sick, really, especially if you consider that I'm probably the one to blame.
"Impossible," I cry out to myself - a silly attempt to convince myself otherwise.

I even killed the one who dared to stare, and give lip on a regular basis. Silence was forbidden, laughed at.
The gaze never died, no matter how hard you hit. No matter the threats.
No matter the unspeakable acts committed.

"Well," it can't be helped. I can think only of those eyes. How did I lure everyone here? Why? When?
I should care, but I don't.

Blue, like the summer sea.

Coming here was the best choice ever made by the collective.
"Maybe, just," yeah. Just maybe.

Maybe this was for the best.

"I'll miss you," draw the hammer with my thumb, "bitch," then I place the barrel on my left temple. "We weren't so different, really, despite our supposed differences."

How it ends. The judging will be handed to the next generation, by our corpses.

-

VT2 - 2006