How Ironic
How ironic.
He barges into my home, does my little moth. I felt him arrive long before that, however. My home is perfect, full of my art, all previous moths, before they betrayed me to that fiend Culpepper. My little moth sees these artistic wonderments of mine, but I can feel his sorrow, his hatred, his disgust. He walks into the living room. I sense his shock.
I have new moths. A beautiful woman and a handsome man. He, the perfect model that all women would faint for. She, a gorgeous ballerina, the likes of which Rapture has never seen. They still have their grace, their inner beauty, but splicing has made them vulgar on the outside. They are butterflies, or rather, moths, trapped in vile cocoons.
They dance, in my living room, they dance. My little moth sees them, hears the music they dance to. He looks furious, like no creature I have ever seen before. No, no he was not meant to discover this. Discover them.
I try to reason with him, my little moth, for I do not wish him another piece of plaster in my humble abode, but alas, he does not see the light. He pulls out a shotgun, does my little moth, and aims it at the others. I try once more to stop him with words, but to no avail. The beautiful woman falls first, blood pouring out of every inch of her body. The handsome man tries to escape, to teleport away, but he is not quick enough, and soon joins his fellow moth on the floor.
Suddenly, I feel something inside of me. Rage. Unparallel rage, as hot as the Hephaestus volcanoes. I try to calm myself, but I cannot. I simply cannot. I stand from my chair, knowing what must be done, and place a quick touch of makeup on my face.
Sander Cohen makes his big entrance.
I run down the stairs, to "greet" my little moth, but in all my fury, when I opened the door at the bottom, and ran out, I did not notice the mines on the floor. My little moth is smart indeed.
So now, here I lie, burnt, and in pain, looking up at my final muse, my little…no, he is not little anymore. I stare at him, silently willing him to end my pain, but he stands there, doing nothing. Next, he pulls something out of his pocket. A camera. He bends over to take my picture. FLASH!
The world goes white, and I am blinded, but only for a second. I knew he had taken a picture of what he thought was my corpse. He turns to leave, and in unimaginable agony, I rise. He turns, takes a Tommy gun strapped to his back, and opens fire.
Now, my life really is slipping away. I can feel it. As he bends to take my picture once more, I see a white flash, but it only slides into darkness.
How ironic.