Dear Amy,
What can I say? I made a mistake. But it wasn't a simple mistake, and apologies can never work. I didn't simply kill- no, murder- Brandon because I thought he was the one who did it. I killed Brandon because he had you. I have always loved you, and I always will. When that bastard did what he did to you, I used it as an excuse to take my own twisted revenge on Brandon.
Nothing I can say or do will bring him back. I know now that what I did was wrong, and could never have been right. I can never ask for or accept your forgiveness. I have proven my worthlessness. But, please, if you would, remember me in your prayers, for maybe the Creator can find some forgiveness.
I will not be a burden on this world ever again. Tonight, I will begin to atone for my acts. My death will be the first part. The rest I will do in Hell. Be happy, my friend, and live a good life. And, please, don't let bitterness swallow your heart, like it did mine.
Stryker paused here. He read his letter, looking to see if anything else was needed. Deciding that this would be enough, he added the last part:
Your dear friend,
Stryker Roland
The trial was over. He was placed in the medium security wing of the Atheria Correctional Center, pending his release to psychological readjustment. He was seated on his thin bed, writing his last farewell. Even if Amy cursed his name for all eternity, he had to say goodbye.
The jury had spoken. An act of passion, a mistake of anger. Even though what he had done was wrong, he meant good, and shouldn't have to endure the death penalty, the standard penalty for murder. He would be psychologically altered, the ability to break laws or do harm completely erased from his mind.
Bullshit. Stryker knew why he had killed Brandon. It wasn't an act of passion. It was done in cold blood. Amy being raped was only an excuse. It was simply nothing more than a way to eliminate his rival for her affection.
And tonight, he would pay for his crimes. Stryker stood up, and reached under the bed. He pulled out the sheet that he had stolen from laundry. Except it wasn't simply a sheet anymore: Stryker had sliced it into ribbons, and then braided those ribbons for strength. He dragged the single chair in the cell to the middle of the room, underneath the light fixture. Climbing on the stool, Stryker fixed one end of the braided rope to the fixture. The other end, the one tied into a slipknot, he slipped over his head.
Stryker made a quick prayer to the Creator, and kicked the chair out from under him. As the bedsheet rope cut into his neck, an automatic instinct took over. He reached up, trying to yank the rope from around his neck, but it was too late. With each passing second, his vision dimmed, and his efforts slackened.
Eventually, he hung still.
**
The Creator was waiting. As Stryker's soul was freed, the Creator reached down and captured the soul. He sent a tiny bit of consciousness to interact with the soul, and built a world around it.
Stryker awoke in a bright room. He reached up to shield his eyes from the bright light, but then he discovered that he had no arms. Or legs. Or body. He was dead. He settled down, awaiting for his entrance to hell.
A noise from behind caught his attention. Turning his unbody in that direction, he caught sight of an old, wrinkled man sitting on a throne of solid gold.
Welcome, Stryker, the old man's voice boomed. I have been waiting on thee. Now, thou must listen, for I may have words that would interest thee…