Oh mother, how glad am I to finally see fear in your eyes, hmm? 'Tis well over-due I think. I want you to know, when you take your final breath, and at last leave us alone, that you really are as lowly and pathetic as you fear you are. Just as pitiful as any human woman. As any dying human woman.
Will it hurt, I wonder? When I tear you apart limb from limb? When I steal your very breath and make it my own? What will it be that you see before your eyes before I close them for good? Will you realise your mistakes? Or will you be like all other elderly, pathetically claim that you did the right thing, even as your world falls apart? 'Tis your fault mother. Yours and no one else's. Will you still smile when I burn your lips away?
'Tis not that I want to kill you, mother. I do not exactly hate you. Whatever I am, you made me so. I may be many things, but I am not weak. I will not succumb to basic biological instincts, I will not weep for a mother who wants to possess me. I will not cry like a small child and clutch at your skirt, begging me to let you live. 'Tis is your turn to beg. I want you crying at my feet.
Of course I love you, mother! How can I do anything else but to wish I didn't have to kill you? I can control my actions but not my emotions. I am weak, mother. I am so weak. I know that you taught me to be strong, but how can I be strong when I have to kill the one who once rocked me and held me and dried my tears even as she caused them?
You only brought this on yourself, mother. I know that I may be your executioner, but I did not put myself in this position. I did not choose this. You did with your constant scheming. You wanted the world to burn at your feet. Congratulations mother, you got what you wanted. Now watch it burn while I scorch you.