I Am Empty

I am empty.
It just stares. No eyes, no face. Always watching, yet it never takes action. I have waited for days, just for it to strike, yet it never does, and seems as if it never will. The silent assassin; it watches me for eternity. I can’t escape it, no matter how far I run. I have no one to go to, nothing to pray to. Even if there is a God, he certainly would never answer my prayers. Not after what I have done. Not after that.
It is catching up to me. One day, you commit a horrible deed, the next day it catches up to you. It just appears, out of the blue. It has no manifestation, thank God. No voice. It only goes by one name. Guilt. 
I murdered that little girl, in cold blood. I snatched her up one day from the side of the road, as she was walking home from school. I raped her. I killed her and buried her body up in the mountains. I did it. The investigation went cold months ago, and I realized that I might actually get away with it. All the cards were in my favor, except for one. My mind. It turned against me, and I pay for it every day. As of late, I have no energy to do anything. I have no motivation for anything. I can’t even get out of bed most mornings. My life has been relatively normal for the past few months, and I even talk to some of my family. I had been planning to move out of country for the last couple of months, but the plan fell through when I became self-aware of what had really happened.
I had killed a person. I had taken a life, the life of a little child who hadn’t seen the world yet. I had completely erased the evidence, and for a while I felt proud of myself for accomplishing this deed. Guilt caught up to me, and now I am paying for it. The silent assassin waits for me to play the cards, the very cards that had been drawn in my favor, the very cards that had won me my last game; my last game with the law. That was physical. That was another story, one that I very carefully wrote over the course of nearly a year. That was a story that took very little thought to write, and lacked a conscience. This one was written with a guilty conscience. This one was harder to write, and lacked any sort of physicality.
This one was possibly the story that may never see an ending, or a story that may receive a very quick and abrupt ending. I have been contemplating this for nearly a month now, and I have played the last of my cards in this game. This story is coming to an end, and my dance with the devil is drawing to a close. I can’t take the pain, the struggle anymore. It has become all too much. I have realized my sin, and now come to repent for it. The only way to repent for it is to wipe myself from this world.
My body will die, and my soul will rot in Hell for all of eternity. But that’s OK, because I deserve it. I deserve every last bit of burning, torture, or whatever awaits me in the depths of Hell. I hope they chain me in the darkest part, the part where the deadliest of minds lie. The part where pain is inevitable, and torture is a constant, non-stop force that eats away at your very essence. I should be laid to rest with souls that even Satan was disgusted with.
The rope is hung, and the chair is sitting under it, oh so inviting, drawing me in, seducing me to finish the job. So that is exactly what I am about to do. I step on the chair, fitting the rope around my neck. I take one final breath, and exhale. It is almost a sigh.
A sigh of relief.
Category:Mental Illness