A small black book, within untold pages of a journal, the first page written with an obvious care in blue ink from a fountain pen. Almost ceremonial in presentation.

I’m tired.

I’ve never been one for writing down my thoughts, committing them to the physical world, a pointless exercise, far too great a risk that eyes will fall upon them and there in ink or data all my secrets, thoughts and weaknesses- there to be consumed until I’m bled dry.

So you, yes you, the one who’s reading this now, if you know who I am, was, you’ll probably know I’m long gone, dead, maybe even passed on to better things.

And there is the reason for this commitment, when my rapture comes to level the debt there may just be a slight glimmer of hope in my final moments my final surrender to sentiments here might explain how my fait accompli came to be. I want to be remembered for more than my actions and to be seen beyond what these people think I am.

I’m not just a bitch or a bully, I’m so much worse than that.

So much has already passed, before now, too much, I can’t and won’t write that here. I can’t because most of it feels sealed and done, the rest, well, the rest is a blur, I’m not sure myself now if my memories are reliable, trauma, alcohol, denial, rabid justification, vicodin, all these things are machiavellian to my attempts at judging myself and my past. I won’t because there’s enough to judge me on now and what’s to come.

Suffice to say I’ve done some bad things, a lot of bad things, for good reasons, believe me always for good reasons, good fucking people died or worse were corrupted but if I could save those good people who were closest to me, I did just enough? Right? I don’t care what anyone else thinks, I know I always tried to do good. It never quite worked out.

And that’s where I’m at now, fuck the good. Jesus was wrong, the world isn’t to be inherited by the meek, nor by the gentle, blessed they might be but God is dead, best case scenario. I still do my bit, to protect people, Roslyn mostly, Rachell a little, where I can, no one else is worthy, I’m questioning whether they are worth it, I worry that the moment I realize they’re not then I’ll give in, to my demons, it’ll be at once cleansing and corrupting but I’ll finally lose the pain of watching my loved ones suffer.

I’m out for myself, for my own profit and pleasure, as much as I can get in as long a time as I can survive.

I can’t remember his name, but he pissed me off, so I killed him. Just another fuck up of a rookie, he tried to hurt Ros, to rob her of the medication that was helping her. I told him to shut up, he wouldn’t, he kept on talking, it didn’t even anger me, it just bored me. I took my gun, I put it at his chest and fired, I’m sure he died there and then, but I tapped the trigger once more, put a bullet through his brain, I executed him. I’ve killed before, in the line of duty, in self defence but this was something else, I killed him in cold blood and it felt good, he’ll be added to the nightmares, but I’ll enjoy that one.

I’m killing Ros too, I know I am, every now and then I take her fragile soul and break it just a little bit more, I hope she survives longer than me, no, I hope she survives me, I hope she can find the strength to see herself through me, I know I don’t have the strength to do the right thing and leave her.

As I write this I don’t know where and when this story ends but I do know, I’ve always known, it will end, it feels like this journal is me, recording those final chapters, I don’t know if I’m writing my own fate or if I’m simply commentating on it, I guess my last entry will be the judge of that.