Hello.
Yes, you.
The very person who wandered, perhaps by misfortune, into this forum, this website, this collection of my innermost thoughts.
How does it feel to look into the mind of a delusional sociopath?
It matters very little however to me, what you think or what you may think.
I’m afraid I’m well past the point where I am entangled by the ripples of human lives, the cacophony that all living things leave in their wake. I am well past comprehension by the living and I’m at crossroads, with one side awaiting my wake whereas the other extending its bony fingers towards me, with cold acceptance.
The dead harbor no grudges and my deeds or my name matter naught when the shadow beckons.
I am dying.
Not my physical body though. My body is quite hale and healthy and as the God of time walks on, it seems to be filling with new vigor, a new sense of power. Arts I learnt long ago are finding their way back to my flesh and the body remembers what the mind cast into oblivion. Slowly, the muscles of my legs strain to regain their former composure and I find myself giving into my body’s furious demand of both exercise and food. I am no glutton, yet I eat as if it were the first meal I have eaten in a long long time. In its own way, it shows me how my soul is fast dying, as it hungers to replenish itself. For it cannot partake the feast of affection, it turns to drive me to consume what men have to offer. Soon, I shall reach the point when I transcend hunger, eating merely for the sake of nutrition, not being able to distinguish between tastes. That shall be the death of my desire, of my hunger and thus I would have slain the Third Horseman, Famine.
His brother, first to be beckoned by the Lamb, was the first to be mercilessly consumed by my hungering and warping soul. I was near death then and the rage of finding out that the delusion of my immortality was just that, a delusion empowered me with the cunning I required to deceive. And so fell Conquest, he who was War, and he was obliterated, devoured. The people surrounding me suddenly found me more charming, more righteous, more aligned to their ideals of the perfect me. Some saw a warrior finally laying his burden down, some saw me as the boy who finally grew up. It was irrelevant. From the talons of a vulture, I had delivered sprigs of olive. All was well, if being well meant that I was slowly decaying, ruptured from the chains of fate.

But deception has its setbacks, and human instinct reminds humanity of what they refuse to see. When humanity refused to see the monster I had become, their instincts sent them over the precipice. Slowly, like animals who knew that the predator was amongst them, they crashed against each other, in hopes to weed out the intruder, the one who was no longer human. But no one could see past my facade. No one dared. Everyone is too afraid, that in my eyes, blanched with pain and horror, they would see their own part, their own part in the creation of something that was no longer humane, let alone human. And thus, I was Pestilence, slowly corrupting humanity from the inside, making them capable of becoming what they always were. Lost lambs, lost in the sea of hatred and burnt by the fires of Vengeance they lit themselves.
But the last to come is Death, the one ever patient, who hides in every shadow, awaiting the return of his prodigal children, who dared live. it does not matter to him. He is patient and just, perhaps cold. He waits unnerved, on his throne of bones. Awaiting.
But this death of mine is no ordinary death. It is a form of soul death, the death of an errant idea, an idea that a monster could be anything more than just that. The death of an entity perhaps, but only the sliver, an aspect of a greater and far more terrible one. It died because I had no hope left, I had no reason left for its existence to continue. It died of blindness, alone, stabbed by the daggers of errors and betrayals. My aspect dies because of the illness and wounds that neglect leaves, it dies of weariness and witherings.
What matters now, of course, is that he is dead.
What matters now, of course, is that in his fall, in his descent, in his transformation into me, the vilest of all aspects, but perhaps the safest, he suffers another death, the death of oblivion.
There are none to hold his Vigil, to light a candle in his name, or to safely remember his true name till the time he lives again.
All he has left is me, his worst nightmare, holding his wake, a wake of letters and no memories.
A wake that you unfortunately have attended.
With this, I bid you farewell and leave you with this question. what happens when the boy dies and only an abyss is left?