It's pathetic. Pointless. Useless, disgusting, It is nothing! It doesn't deserve what It has, all that It's been given. Someone needs to take It away, and that someone will be me.
Everyone told me to love It, to accept It as It is, but how can they expect me to do that when Its every action strikes me deep in my core. Everything about It is shameful. Disappointing.
It brought everything onto Itself. It is making it happen, I know this much. Every choice It made created and furthered the tangled sickening web entrapping It. It begs everyone outside to help in an escape but It doesn't realize everyone has their own mess of cords, and are busy keeping them safe, keeping them separate. It yowls and moans and makes a thousand pleads, but It doesn't deserve the one thing It craves!
It deserves pain. I want to beat It, to hurt It, to hear those pathetic noises It makes and then I want It dead. I want It gone. I want it all to be over...
But that hardly matters. Not at the moment at least. Right now, I have to plan. How, how, how... what a terrible question. I used to ask "why". I'm afraid of the answer in this situation.
Access will never be an issue. I can guarantee It won't fight back. The method, this could be difficult. It deserves to suffer - not for my enjoyment, but because It has earned the pain.
I know killing It'll hurt me. I don't care.
The way it happens, I have to be careful. This shouldn't leave a mess. I couldn't imagine the pain of cleaning that up, I don't wanna leave that behind in my path. But still, it has to be something slow. I wanna watch the life leave.
I know how to tie a noose. A long time ago - scouts. To be hanged - not too messy in a cleanup. It would struggle. Purple and red, it'll struggle, gasping for breath, every plea in its dying as pathetic as all of its pleas in living. It'll be slow.
I'd have to watch.
I'll have to watch.
I look down where my hands should be. Instead, I see Its hands. Where I should be, I see It.
It is everywhere, so where am I? Am I anywhere. Of course, I am, I must be. The self, what a concept. I am - a simple truth, the only truth that I know. But It is too. If I must cease to be in order for It to, I will.
I look to the rope. A sickening tool to one of weaker mind, but I cannot afford weakness. It is the weak one. It reaches for the knotted instrument, following my every command, and thus begins the symphony of death. I run every action through my mind, and It complies.
Its hands shake and tears run out of its eyes. The damn thing ruins my vision, but I persist. I cannot allow it to stop me, not when I am this close to success!
Success... it is success, right? It must be. What else can I do, what else can I be? What, with It in the way?
No. No doubts. Doubts give It power. It's too weak for any power.
Finally, It puts the rope around its neck.
The rope... it's rough.
The stool is gone in three... two...
