Part 16: The Finale

For the longest time, Adrian Veidt stood in the middle of his kitchen, still holding his glass of wine, staring at the body on the floor. He watched the whole time, the entire process. She collapsed, dropping the glass, and shattering it on the tile floor, which sprayed red wine everywhere. Then she began to convulse as her major organs began to fail. Then she grew still, and slowly, it stopped.

He noticed with specific agonizing clarity when she took her final breath. He bit his cheek to stop himself from screaming. She had been so compassionate. She did so much for him. She had forsaken her own anguish after the attacks to care for him. And this was how he repaid her.

But it had to be done. He could see it in her eyes, her face; her lips when she spoke. She wasn't going to remain silent. She would tell, and the peace would be broken. Shattered that easily, in one moment, one sentence. "Adrian did it." That was all she had to say. The media would have hopped on it, and the world would have returned right into their pattern of hate, destroy, rebuild, hate. It was a vicious circle, and he'd be damned if he let it continue.

So he did what he knew was the only way. Why was he constantly forced to be the bad guy, make the hard decisions? Perhaps, if he existed, this was God's plan for him. He would make the difficult decisions, so society wouldn't have to. But it was just too hard to deal with. The pure hate he felt for himself was slowly killing him. He could feel it, like a demon eating it's way out from the inside. Gnawing and clawing, it would never stop until it rendered him unrecognizable. So he decided to make its job easier.

He sighed and set his glass on the center island of the kitchen. He stepped over to where Grace's body lay, twisted awkwardly from her fall. She appeared to be sleeping… so peacefully. He pushed back a strand of her beautiful auburn hair, and looked at her face. Twenty-seven was far too young to die. He had to bite his cheek again to avoid bursting into angry and sorrowful tears. He had to do it, to defend the prosperity of nations. It had to be done.

He slid his hands under her shoulders and knees, and lifted her easily. Her skin was still warm. She wasn't cold yet, and he half expected to be able to feel that vital pulse raging in her veins. But he knew it wouldn't come. He walked silently to his room, kicked open the balcony door, and carefully set her down on the floor against the railing. She didn't sit up straight like she always did. That perfect youthful posture. Gone.

It had to be done.

He turned and strode back into his room, flipping on the stereo by his dresser, which began playing a piano ballad. He instantly recognized it as Ferrante and Teicher's "Exodus," and almost laughed at the irony. It was a daunting tune, one that could inspire fear and curiosity into the listener all at once. He smiled, and grabbed his best suit from his closet and changed. He walked into his bathroom, combed his hair to perfection, and straightened his black tie and purple jacket. He sighed, staring at the face that murdered millions… murdered the Comedian… murdered Grace.

He finally let go of his restraint, screamed with all his might, and slammed his fist into the mirror. It shattered instantly, the little reflections of parts of his face showering around his now bloody fist to rest on the vanity. He panted as he tried to regain his composure, then grabbed one of the larger shards of the mirror and strode out to the balcony.

He stood right next to her as he leaned against the railing and looked at the city. The sun was just about to hit the horizon, and he could see it perfectly. It was creating brilliant shades of colors on the massive amounts of shattered glass and metal below.

"You know," he said. "In Egypt, the citizens would bury their pharaohs in a valley together, to honor them. The Valley of the Kings, it was called. Their tombs were grand pyramids, and the pharaoh was laid to rest at the top, to ease his ascent to heaven. And he brought someone with him to the afterlife. Sometimes it was his wife, sometimes it was a treasured pet, sometimes…" he paused, looking down at Grace, and then collapsing next to her and leaning against the railing, "it was a servant."

Now there was only one thing left. He leaned closer to her, whispered "I'm sorry," again, and dug the jagged piece of the mirror into his left wrist. He clenched his jaw, and dragged it up toward his elbow a few inches. He wanted to cry out, to scream, but that wasn't something pharaohs did. They looked forward to the afterlife, strived for it with every fiber of their being.

He shakily switched the mirror piece to his now extremely bloody left hand, which was weak and already starting to loose motor function. He gritted his teeth and repeated the process with his right wrist, severing the Radial artery. He sat back, resting his arms on the ground as he bled out. It took a long time. It wasn't quick, like they make it out to be in movies. But then again, he didn't want it to be quick. Otherwise he would have used the Arsenic, just like he'd done with Grace.

No, he needed to suffer. He needed to feel the pain of death, to feel what those millions of people felt, what Eddy Blake felt. Not just lull off to sleep. He hoped Grace hadn't suffered too much. He hoped that it was quick and relatively painless, like ripping off a band-aid.

He leaned his head back against the railing and tried to stay awake as long as possible. He stared up at the clouds above, whose silver lining was shining brightly in the dusk light above the glowing "V" shape of the Veidt building.

He continued to stare as he whispered, "What a tragedy, the fate of his majesty."

It had to be done.

I just want to say one thing: I know some of you really wanted a happy ending, but this is what I saw happening. That's why it's labeled under Drama and Tragedy.