At night, when I sleep, I dream.
I dream about you, the man sitting, crouching next to me, always there, always inside my head.
In the day, you are always one step ahead. It infuriates me.
But at night, yes, at night…
At night, you're mine.
There are no eyes, no chains, no banks of computer screens throwing my destiny back in my face. There are no underlings handing you tea and cookies.
At night, there is only you, me, and these fingernails.
These crisp, clipped fingernails grinding into your throat.
And I wonder: how does it feel? How does it feel to suffer, to choke on one's own breath?
How does it feel to die?
I want to know, and would have you tell me, but I can't.
I can't have your life and know the answer.
But I know how it feels to kill.
To see you writhe beneath me—shocked, staring, your eyes displaying such exciting emotions.
Such arousing emotions…
But of course, I wouldn't ever tell you that. No tiniest part of my being must ever display a sign of these thoughts.
But at night, in my dreams, your neck is mine.
I wonder what you would say if you knew?
If you only knew that every night, behind closed doors and closed eyes, I see you balk, then struggle, then finally, finally…
I see you slip away.
I wish it were more dramatic. You never jerk; you never show any sudden sign of change. When the moment comes, you just slip away.
It's disappointing, in a way.
I put every bit of energy into that act of violence, push my very soul through those crisp, clipped nails to make you feel the pain, to watch and observe your death over and over again.
And it's as if I'm looking for a sign that isn't there.
A sign that you were wrong, and that I—I am justice.
But it never comes.
You look at me with those betrayed eyes, and then you leave. Slip away.
And, if only for a moment, I'm almost sorry…