Death
Death.
Such a wonderful word. So simple, so final. So powerful.
So…familiar.
I encounter death everywhere I turn. Everywhere I look, it leaves its mark. Its deep, enveloping stench, that permeates the soul of whoever comes across it. Its glorified, decaying remains, with sometimes a soft volcano of crimson stain. Fresh or ancient, death is always there. One can almost sense it; hear its soft, enticing whisper.
Death can never be stopped, so why shy away from it?
Perhaps that is why I look death in the eye so much: I am a bringer of death. And inversely, I bring death because I, unlike the maggots it claims, do not disdain it. I live in a pyramid of death. It surrounds me, breeds from my fingertips. And as such, it does not take me as its own. I have already given myself to its glorious service.
But one day, I know, it will come for me, and me alone. For I will die alone, in a spotlight of my accomplishments that outshine the rest of those pathetic slaves of this life.
My death…will be legendary.
Perhaps I will die in the midst of my great work, the army of death I send marching through Gotham taking me into its ranks in the din of battle. Or perhaps in the reaches of my great asylum, the homey little Arkham, where I will send my last laugh into their video cameras, as all who pass by my cell look on my pristine, still form in total awe and fear – whether a greater fear of its falsehood, or its truth, even they won't know. But it will result in more than just the ceasing of my faithful pulse, or the gradual halt of my brilliant synapses and nerve connections. Oh no, my demise will usher in a new era of Gotham, of the world even. It won't even know what to do with itself anymore, with the war against me ended so suddenly.
Who knows what chaos may ensue once I take my final bow!
But a death I wonder about, that intrigues me further, is the only death I can think of with equal significance to my own.
His death.
What will that be like? He must be alone, as equally exalted as I myself would be, just as equally feared and perversely respected. And he will be glorified in his final hour, of that I am sure. He wouldn't settle for anything less, knowing him.
…how terribly beautiful that would be to watch.
Death already brings a smile to my face; it warms my soul just like Christmas in July, or a cup of hot chocolate on a cold December night. The only thing more pleasurable than giving someone their last moments is…is seeing him, seeing his face as he witnesses the foul, sacred deed I just enacted, watching his mind resurge in his unbreakable hatred of me.
I can't even begin to fathom the beauty of joining those two acts together; uniting him in the death I bring to thousands of others.
His neck spurting that gorgeous scarlet nectar, or perhaps squirming with fierce brutality as a hand presses to his throat, muscles still moving with the raw power and grace that defines his being. He wouldn't stop fighting, of course. He'd keep up the struggle against me to the very end.
For when his moment comes, it must be me. And only me. Anything else would be sacrilege.
What his eyes must reveal right before he goes out.
Those crystalline blue depths speak volumes to me, in a voice and tongue only I can hear and understand. We keep up a silent conversation, him and me. Yet I've always felt there's more to it. More he has to tell me, but holds back at the last second, just when all is about to be revealed. There's more to this game, and I'm always so close to tasting its meaning, until it yanks itself away from me as he deals out the next punch.
Whatever it is he wants to tell me, it holds the key to it all. The final piece in this endless puzzle we've tangled ourselves in together. And when he dies, I will be there. And then I'll know.
And after?
…
…
…
…there is no after.
My mind hits pause whenever I try to continue my current work-in-progress, so I plunked this out of my fingertips to get the creative juices flowing. Hope you liked it.