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Esther Macisaac 2020

His silky smooth fingers grasp towards me, begging me slowly to stop. As if his touch could prevent the ticking of my watch, the one gifted to me all those years ago. A gift from death will never stop its ticking, and I, burdened with the knowledge of pain, must commit these crimes forever more. Though I believe I am in control, I am a prisoner of time, of chance, of change. Held to this mortal world, I can only give others what I wish I could give myself. Death doesn’t want this job; lucky I am better suited. I don’t need the glory, don’t need the recognition. No one needs to know it is I who pulls the trigger. They can blame the victim; they can sympathise with the pain they never felt. Comforted by the knowledge their loved one is happy. Yet I know they are not. This is not what they wanted, this was not their choice. He doesn’t want this. He is telling me yet no matter how much he protested, his hand in mine continued to rise, to point the weapon to his head. Tears were spilling from his eyes, a river of fear. I am glad I bring that. Bring that fear. If only it could fill the jagged hole that rips my chest, tearing ever so slightly with passing days. But feelings are not physical, they are replaceable and pointless. Why succumb to something that you can’t see, something that is not real. And so I raise the gun in his hand, like maybe, this time, it will kill me too. He holds the gun, so he will be blamed, he pulls the trigger, so he commits the crime, the crime against himself. Yet I am responsible, I pull the strings. I dance with this beautiful puppet; I sacrifice the noble pawn. God, I love him, so I will give him the gift I crave. Yet my hurt won’t end until I end. And I will never end. 

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