Behind Closed Doors

Why me.

She'd learnt to keep her lips stitched together as her demons slit her throat,
Each day her wounds grew deeper, to a point where she rarely fought.
________________________

R.e.d.

my thoughts. my conscience. my vision.

All blurred with a deadly shade of crimson

They say those who seek revenge should first dig a grave for themselves, that their initials should be carved upon their gravestones and their death should be carried in their pockets

And that's exactly what I had done, that's exactly what's brought me to what I've done today, every single event, each and every decision I've taken has brought me to where I stand today

I shouldn't be here

I know I should've left a while back but I can't

Every cell present in my body refuses to move, enforcing me to stay put, almost as if I were paralysed

It's frightening how killing takes so much out of you; as if a part of you is buried along with your victim

An indescribable feeling washes over me, not guilt or any sort of remorse

But instead "uncertainty"

I force my eyes shut as my heart clenched at the sight, yet again uncertain if I could look away

but looking away won't bring back time

looking away won't revive the dead

I wanted this.

I reassured myself repeatedly; hoping that my conscience wouldn't be able to detect the lies I was forcing upon it.

But if that were the case, then why was it that my emotions claimed otherwise?

However, I of all people knew better than to let my emotions cloud my judgment.

Italys icy breeze tore past me, underlying a deadly warmth that kept my insides warm, maybe it was a sense of victory

I was used to it by now, I was accustomed to the chilling atmosphere

I was accustomed to pulling the trigger and I was more than accustomed to the dead bodies

The breeze didn't seem to bother me since my heart had already taken precautions, iron shields guarded it from every direction, ready to haunt down anyone who dared to come too close

I wonder if god ever felt remorse for murdering millions everyday

If a part of him dies along with each person he kills

Sometimes, I ponder if he regrets creating the universe, I bet he wouldn't have if he knew what was yet to come

But doesn't he already know what's held for each one of us in the future?

He moulds and crafts us, every tiny detail spectacularly drawn, not a single hair out of its place

He creates us so pure and pious than lowers us into a world of pride, hatred, envy and sin